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  Praise for the novels of Judith Gould

  ". . . A sizzling novel. . . "---Liz Smith

  Judith Gould needs no botox or restalyne -- her wildly successful Sins is as fresh today as it was 25 years ago! A whole new generation now has the opportunity to savor her with this new release." Nance K. Austin, co-author of The Assertive Woman

  "Sins . . . could be a primer on how to write a commercial novel/miniseries. Not one slick trick has been omitted . . ." ---Lawrence Eisenberg, TV GUIDE

  "As always, Gould not only offers love (with some sex) but also insight into an unusual environment." LIBRARY JOURNAL

  SINS

  A Novel of Romantic Suspense

  By Judith Gould

  Copyright 1982, 2008 by Judith Gould.

  Published by Vesuvius Media, LLC at Smashwords

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Novels by Judith Gould

  Sins*

  LOVEMAKERS - The Complete Unabridged Saga:

  Texas Born

  LoveMakers

  Second Love

  Meltemi (Greek Winds of Fury)*

  DAZZLE- The Complete Unabridged Trilogy *:

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. I: Senda

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. II: Tamara

  Dazzle The Trilogy Vol. III: Daliah

  Never Too Rich*

  Forever*

  Too Damn Rich

  Second Love

  Till the End of Time

  Rhapsody*

  Time to Say Good-Bye

  A Moment in Time*

  The Best Is Yet to Come

  The Greek Villa

  The Parisian Affair*

  Dreamboat*

  The Secret Heiress*

  *(Available as an e-book)

  www.judithgould.com

  Cover design by Judy Bullard at [email protected]

  Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?

  Sin their conception, their birth, their weeping:

  Their life a general mist of error,

  Their death, a hideous storm of terror.

  —John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi, Act IV

  TODAY

  Tuesday, January 9

  1

  Through the porthole of the jet she could see the double strands of lights shimmering through the swirling mist as the plane touched down on the solitary runway. She was seated alone in the small passenger section, anxious for her signal to disembark.

  The man was waiting for her at the end of the runway. For as long as he could remember, there was only one thing he had ever wanted that had eluded him, and that was the woman who was stepping off the jet. She could be as soft as creamery butter, as fragrant as wildflowers, yet as hard as nails. For years he had waited patiently for her. She had called him less than an hour earlier.

  And now she was at the bottom of the stairs, her lithe body bathed in the lights. She broke into a run and headed toward him, her high heels clicking on the concrete. He ran forward to meet her, and halfway, they suddenly collided into each other's arms. Closing his eyes as she fiercely gripped him, he felt her shift slightly as she pulled away from him.

  'Darling,' he said softly. 'I jumped in the car as soon as you called. How long do we have?'

  'I've already lost an hour with this detour. Another hour and I've got to be off again.'

  'It's that bad?'

  She nodded slowly.

  Together they walked toward the car. When they reached it, he held the passenger door open for her and she slid inside, carefully smoothing her skirt over her knees. He walked to the driver's side and slipped in beside her, while he wordlessly reached into his breast pocket and took out a folded slip of paper. It was a cashier's check for eleven million dollars.

  A veil seemed to drop over her eyes. 'No,' she said under her breath. 'This isn't why I interrupted the flight.'

  'Please let someone help you for once. Take it,' he gently urged.

  Apologetically she smiled. 'I'm sorry, I can't.' She turned away and stared out the windshield, her eyes focused in the distance on something only she could see.

  'If you change your mind. . .' He pursed his lips, sighed, and put the check on the dashboard within her reach. Fifteen yards away, the wing- and taillights of the jet blinked on and off, and the round portholes were ghostly circles of yellow light.

  An hour later, he sat in the car alone, hearing the high-pitched whine of jet engines as the plane swept up off the ground and was once again lost to the black night.

  Long after the runway lights clicked off, he still sat there staring up into the dark. Even in the hour of her greatest need, all she had wanted was to be near him.

  The check was still on the dashboard.

  2

  In his luxurious apartment at the Hotel Pierre, Karl von Eiderfeld glanced at his seven-thousand-dollar Piaget wristwatch. One minute past eight, the thin gold-and-lapis dial read. A little less than five hours to go, he thought grimly. He sat in a French chair, tapping his fingers up and down its graceful arms. It was very unlike him to be nervous. Everyone who knew him said that Karl von Eiderfeld was always in control of his own destiny, as well as the destinies of others.

  Emaciated and tall, von Eiderfeld carried his air of haughty aristocracy to perfection: people almost tended to forget that he was an albino. His flesh was cadaverous, and his head, crowned with thinning white hair, was narrow and skull-like in shape. His eerie pink eyes and strange coloring could not detract from his imperious posture, his aquiline nose with its long, thin nostrils, or his arched white eyebrows. But then, neither could his steel mills, his fleet of oil tankers, his refineries, and his many millions.

  Karl von Eiderfeld had founded and forged his industrial empire out of the ashes of postwar Germany. The Reich that was to rule for a thousand years had collapsed. The spirit of his country had been spent. Tank treads crisscrossed the land once walked by a proud Barbarossa. The cities were smoldering. Germany was one vast ruin.

  But von Eiderfeld had not been unhappy. He didn't believe in the bitter taste of defeat. Besides, vast sums of money were pouring in from America under the Marshall Plan. . .Yes, he recognized it as a golden opportunity for those who would have a hand in rebuilding the vanquished Fatherland. And it was an even greater opportunity for those with foresight, imagination, and daring—for those who knew things. Little things. Little things such as where certain desperately needed items could be obtained. Items people were willing to pay for. Dearly.

  Yes, he had known where forgotten stockpiles of much-needed propane gas were stored. By cover of night he quietly dug up the cylinders from their secret depots and transported them in horse-drawn wagons to a deserted winery on the Moselle River. It took him two months, but that winter it paid off. Natur
e was on his side and brought the coldest winter in ten years. Fuel was in short supply. He sold the propane, found his fortune, and financed his first steel mill.

  In 1946 Karl von Eiderfeld emerged as one of the architects of the postwar industrial boom. In no time at all, his steel mills were helping rebuild the burned cities and bombed railroad tracks by pouring girders and rails. His refineries processed the oil that was needed to keep the railroad and construction machinery running. And his ships brought that oil to Hamburg, Bremen, and Bremerhaven. Soon nothing was beyond his reach. And he was making a most pleasant discovery. The more he accumulated, the quicker everything seemed to multiply. It was magic. Money indeed made money.

  By 1949 he was a millionaire. By 1960 his companies had reached out and expanded into an enviable worldwide network with seventeen foreign branches. And now? Now his position as one of the three wealthiest and most powerful men in the entire Ruhr Gebiet was secure.

  His piercing gaze swept around the dim, luxuriously furnished living room. It was on the fifteenth floor of the Hotel Pierre and had six windows facing Fifth Avenue. The view of Central Park was spectacular, but he never saw it. The heavy damask draperies were always kept drawn. Without the natural protection of pigmentation, his delicate eyes were painfully sensitive to light.

  There was nothing remotely Germanic about von Eiderfeld's New York apartment. In style it looked as if it had been transplanted from Versailles. The walls of the living room were covered with authentic Regence paneling that had been carefully dismantled from a chateau in France and shipped to New York. It had been installed under the fastidious eyes of both a decorator and an art historian. From the ceiling hung a splendid pair of Venetian-glass chandeliers; over the marble mantel, a Venetian mirror flashed silvery. Scattered all about were Louis XVI settees and chairs, all genuine and upholstered in ancient blue damask. Like the chairs, the fabric was genuine eighteenth- century: worn thin, faded, and tattered. On the walls hung three gilt-framed Monets, two Goyas, and a small Fragonard.

  His inspection over, von Eiderfeld rose from the chair with a thoughtful expression on his face and slowly paced the length of the room. Today was the day for which he had waited all these years.

  By all rights I should be feeling triumphant, he was thinking, just like all those other times when I exacted my revenge. But this time was different. Vengeance somehow has a way of tasting bitter when you have to wait too long.

  He sighed and shook his head. He had always destroyed his enemies as neatly and swiftly as an avenging angel. With the power of the mighty Von Eiderfeld Industrien G.m.b.H. behind him, that never posed any sort of problem. But to every rule there is an exception. His exception was Hélène Junot. Opposing her, he was as powerless as Goliath against David. Her weapon was, however, one he could well appreciate: she knew things. Just as he had once known things. But her knowledge had not become obsolete over the years. Instead, it seemed to increase in importance as time went by It had brought her control—over people. And she had used him. He had been coerced into becoming one of the shareholders in her publishing firm. He had wanted no part of it. But he had given in. It was either that or. . .No, he still didn't want to consider the alternative. She had made that only too clear. It still loomed over his head like Damocles' sword. And he knew she wasn't bluffing. He knew it only too well.

  Yes, he thought, Hélène Junot, founder of Hélène Junot International, Inc., and publisher of Les Modes, the world's most successful fashion magazine, was more than just a woman. Far from it. She was a beautiful, iron- willed, erotic, blackmailing monster. In short, dangerous. She had the power to destroy him. She had almost used it once, and he could remember it only too well. It had been a far-too-close shave.

  He had no illusions. It could happen again.

  The familiar hatred prickled hotly behind his ears. Gott im Himmel! How he despised her!

  But today he and the others were finally prepared to wage war. Her time had finally come.

  It was forty minutes past eight EST and Marcello d'Itri picked at his first-class, yet still bland Alitalia breakfast. Leaning back in his seat, he held out his empty champagne glass to the stewardess for a refill.

  'Right away, sir,' she said with a smile.

  He smiled back at her as she filled his glass with more Piper Heidsieck. An extraordinarily lovely girl, he thought. He took an appreciative sip of his champagne. Ah, yes, everything was lovely today. The muted, steady roar of the Boeing engines coming from the rear pleased him. He couldn't remember when the thick sea of clouds far below had seemed more beautiful, and for once he didn't mind the blinding sunlight that poured in through the little square window. He wasn't going to pull the shade down. Not today, he wouldn't. Even the tasteless eggs he decried on every flight were a special joy.

  Because in two hours he would land at Kennedy Airport and then, finally, all the little wheels he had so meticulously arranged would be set into motion.

  A warm glow of satisfaction spread through his body.

  Marcello d'Itri was forty-two years old, olive-complexioned, and of medium height. His hair was graying black, thick, and looked perpetually— almost calculatedly—unkempt. His cheeks had a constant blue-green tint from his thick beard that no amount of shaving could erase. He was dressed in a stylish gray velvet jacket, pleated gray trousers, a red-plaid shirt, and a thin gray tie. Other than his disheveled hair, he was superbly groomed; his fingernails were manicured, his hand-sewn loafers gleamed, and the thin belt around his small waist was fashioned from cobra skin and fastened with an eighteen-carat gold buckle. The gray leather briefcase beneath his seat sported a pattern of continuous diagonal initials—Md'I. . .Md'I. . .Md'I. He was quite content carrying the same 'signature' luggage as thousands of other travelers. Especially since the initials were his.

  Although he was now accepted as the leading Italian fashion designer of the past decade, d'Itri's chances of even moderate success had in the beginning been very slim. His fantastic, sometimes outlandish designs, as well as his humble peasant origins, had horrified both the industry and customers alike. In an age of aristocratic couturiers—when the titles Prince, Princess, Count, and Countess were expected on every fashion label—his simple 'Marcello d'Itri' was enough to send customers scurrying.

  But a fairy godmother had come to his aid. Hélène Junot had seen his designs and liked his potential. Enough overexposure in her fashion magazines had single-handedly put him firmly on the fashion map, even ahead of that other darling of society women, Valentino. But the setup, d'Itri discovered much later, was costly. Hélène had infiltrated his business like an elegant octopus whose tentacles were everywhere. She ended up controlling not only Marcello d'Itri fashions but also Marcello d'Itri himself.

  He sighed, thinking back. Ah, well, it could have been worse. At least the success she had created for him had one wonderful compensation. Money.

  And so, little by little and very quietly, under the cover of various dummy corporations, Marcello had used his growing fortune to buy into Hélène Junot International, Inc. Before Hélène knew what was happening he was sitting on the board.

  Now, after all these years of suffering at Hélène's beautiful hands, it would come to an end.

  Her creation was going to help destroy her.

  In the exclusive enclave of Manhattan's Sutton Place, Z.Z. Bavier gloated as she looked thoughtfully out at the East River through the giant beveled-glass French doors of her seventeenth-floor penthouse apartment. Outside, the icicle-draped yew bushes sat in their frozen, sun-drenched tubs on the terrace. Below, traffic on both levels of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge looked miniaturized, and sunlight flashed off chrome.

  Z.Z. stood there, her Dunhill cigarette curling acrid smoke upward past the violet moir6 draperies. She had just replaced the receiver of her ivory telephone after a short but highly satisfactory conversation. Hélène Junot was already back in town, ahead of schedule, the caller had informed her. Hélène Junot, that beautiful, ill-bred, hig
h-fashion whore was smelling trouble through those pretty nostrils of hers, no doubt. Probably running scared, Z.Z. thought with sadistic pleasure. Oh, that was so delicious. And what a reception she'd get! After nearly ten years, the showdown was at hand at last.

  Simply delicious!

  Z.Z. Bavier was thirty-eight years old, spiteful, bone-thin, and deceptively short. She wore a puce-and-violet Pucci caftan, a gold necklace fashioned from ancient Byzantine coins, and gold sandals. Her hair was honey-colored and starched stiff from too much spray, her predatory nose had a sharp upward tilt, and her lynx eyes were small, green, and alert. She breathed the very elegance she had dedicated years to achieve. Of all her far-flung social contacts, none knew what her first name actually was, nor even what the letters Z.Z. stood for. Z.Z. delighted in the speculation.

  She turned around from the window and stalked the length of the generously scaled living room, the Byzantine coins around her neck clunking softly against one another.

  She snorted as she thought back to how it had all begun almost ten years ago. Ten long years ago when she had been Mrs. Siegfried Bavier, the lovely wife of the legendary financier who had had a celebrated nose for sniffing out sound investments and whose effortless wealth seemed to grow in leaps and bounds.

  Then, in 1965, everything fell apart. Her darling Sigi had forced her into divorce. He didn't seem to care that she was pregnant at the time. His only concern was for Hélène Junot. Well, Z.Z. had let him have her, believing that it wouldn't be long before he'd come crawling back on his knees, begging for forgiveness. She was as certain of that as she was of receiving an invitation to Earl Blackwell's next party, being listed in the Celebrity Register, or having her latest wardrobe described by Suzie. And when Sigi came crawling back, what then? Well, she would punish him for a suitable time and then finally relent. It had happened before, but not to the point of divorce. She would simply wait patiently until this fling was over. And of course she had received a handsome settlement by any standards. Seven million dollars, the co-op apartment on Sutton Place and the house in Easthampton, two Picassos and one Braque, a collection of Georgia O'Keeffes, and a trust fund for the unborn baby.