Trading Up Read Online Free PDF Page B

cock sucked and pushed into vaginas and anuses, been tied up and held down, had his nipples squeezed and his balls shaved and suffered the perpetual worry about getting (and keeping) a hard-on—then, and only then, was he introduced to Mimi Kilroy.
    Mimi wasn’t the sort of “gal” George Paxton ever thought he’d end up marrying—she was like a high-strung racehorse, and George was a basic kind of guy—
    but after two years of feeling like a publicly traded stock, Mimi was, as he put it, “a breath of fresh air.” She didn’t take any of “it” too seriously, and besides, George had always prided himself on his ability to recognize a “good deal.” Not that George was the kind of man people imagined Mimi would marry. They’d expected a brilliant 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 21
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    marriage—to a movie star or a handsome politician or even to one of the lesser English princes—and George was as nondescript as they came. Still, it was terribly clever to land a billionaire, and a middle-aged paunch could always be disguised under an expensive Italian suit. And if anyone knew how to spend George’s money it was Mimi, and that would be fun for everyone.
    One of the very first things Mimi had done was to organize the purchase of the old Wannamaker estate in East Hampton. For years, this sandstone house, considered a white elephant with its fifteen bedrooms, indoor pool, and imported Italian frescoes, had stood vacant, the folly of Chester Wannamaker, who had built up a fortune in department stores in the early and middle part of the 1900s, and then had lost it all in the late 1970s when he tried to expand. The bank foreclosed on the house and the price was $8 million, but time, sand, and salt water had ravaged the mansion, and it was estimated that restoring the house would cost twice the purchasing price. It was exactly the sort of project Mimi loved, and in April, the restoration was finished, complete with a landing pad for George’s helicopter.
    And now, all afternoon and into the early evening of the Memorial Day bash, this helicopter had been busily employed in ferrying high-profile guests from Manhattan to the house. At 7 p.m., as Janey turned the Porsche onto Georgica Pond Lane, the Sikorsky Black Hawk VH60 swooped out of the sky and disappeared behind the hedges next to the house. Janey wondered whom it contained and what kind of status was required to score not only an invitation to Mimi’s party but a lift on the helicopter as well, and she vowed that next year, she would be on that helicopter.
    Nevertheless, it was still a thrill to present her invitation to the very nice man who stood at the foot of the polished granite stairs leading up to the house. “Your card, please,” he asked, and Janey opened her purse, which was small and beaded and all the rage because the designer had made only ten and had given one to her, and handed him her invitation.
    “Welcome, Miss Wilcox,” the man said. “I’m sorry. I should have recognized you.”
    “No problem,” Janey said graciously. She lifted the hem of her long yellow Oscar de la Renta dress that she’d borrowed for the occasion and tripped lightly up the stairs, noting the flowering apple trees and inhaling the sweet fragrance of the blossoms. There were jugglers in between the trees, tossing golden apples, and at the top of the steps, a string quartet. The heavy wooden doors to the house were thrown open, and Janey entered breathlessly to the sweeping wail of a violin.
    Mimi stood resplendent in a white Tuleh gown at the end of a marble foyer, and, with a jolt of pleasure, Janey saw that she was talking to Rupert Jackson, the 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 22
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    English movie star. Mimi turned and waved, and Janey approached, unable to prevent herself from thinking about what a great couple she and Rupert Jackson would make.
    “Janey, darling,” Mimi said, coming forward to