Power Games Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    ‘I’m taking this moment to announce my retirement ,’ Donald had proclaimed at the FNYC launch. ‘As of tonight I plan to step back from the front line and apportion duty between my two gifted sons, Orlando and Gianluca …’
    Two weeks after the event Angela still couldn’t believe it.
    Never mind the fact that her father had stolen her thunder—this had been her night, her project, her triumph , and instead of crediting her as he should have done he had snatched the attention right back onto the boys—his words had shaken her to her core. The injustice was breathtaking.
    My two gifted sons? It had to be a joke. But as Orlando and Luca had paced proudly up to claim the prize, the grim reality had become clear.
    All the while Angela had worn a rigid smile of congratulations, bitten her way through countless toasts and declarations of, ‘Yes, they will be wonderful, won’t they?’ and crushed wave after wave of hot, irrepressible anger.
    In the days that followed, Angela had turned Donald’s decision over in her mind. Forget about it being unfair, it was simply illogical to give the reins to her brothers. She had stepped up time and time again to work alongside her father, drawing up proposals, putting forward solutions, re-organising budgets, but none of it came to any use: she was, and always would be, at a disadvantage because of her sex.
    She would stand for it no longer—and her father wouldn’t know what hit him.
    The pilot’s voice came on the PA system. They had begun their descent.
    She braced herself for impact.
    Logan International was packed. Angela was escorted through Arrivals, her head bowed against the burst of attention her appearance sparked, and was relieved when they emerged into fresh air. Paparazzi surged as she approached the BMW. In black Ray-Bans, skinny jeans and a coral blazer, her spike heels punching the tarmac, it was clear this was no pleasure trip. Angela Silvers had landed on business.
    Eternally the paps fished for a bout of reckless behaviour that would give them the money shot and cement her role as spoiled heiress—a bad attitude, a crabby pooch or, best of all, a wardrobe malfunction, anything to prove she had succumbed to type. But with Angela it never came. She understood her position and carried it with grace, stopping to sign autographs for fans, which she delivered with a flourish and a smile. If the press weren’t so desperate to capture the first fall—for surely at some point it would come, it did for the best of them—they would have given up long ago.
    As her car joined the Mass Pike, she tried calling Noah. He was on location, shooting a romantic comedy whose script they had giggled over in bed.
    ‘Hey,’ he’d kissed her tenderly, ‘so when are you gonna be my leading lady?’
    She wished it were that simple. Noah was Hollywood royalty, the industry’s most sought-after bachelor. Every project he took he was ambushed by female co-stars, and while it wasn’t Angela’s style to be jealous it couldn’t help but sting.
    ‘I only want you,’ he told her every time, and while she wanted to trust him, she was no idiot. Noah had been a player from the moment they’d met.
    She was scared of getting hurt again. Giving herself to him totally, risking it all. At the same time, he wouldn’t wait for ever.
    After her father’s revelation, she wondered why she bothered concealing it from him at all. Donald had no intention of empowering his daughter with muscle in the business, now or ever. What difference did it make who she dated?
    But the itch remained: Tell him this and it’s over for good.
    Donald hated Noah. He hated everything Noah stood for. He hated Noah’s past. He hated Noah’s family, where he had come from and where he had wound up. Countless times Angela had promised her father that the friendship was at an end.
    To confess the betrayal would be kamikaze.
    Noah’s cell went to his machine. She listened, just to hear him; her heart