Elements of Chance
A woman of desire, a legacy of deceit, a fortune worth killing for. An opulent intricate, sizzling novel, Elements of Chance fulfils ever woman’s fantasy.Hauntingly beautiful, talented pianist Valerie Penn is one of the world’s wealthiest women, the pampered wife of banker Victor Penn, and the mother of their two children. Her life is a whirl of private jets; charity balls; mansions in London, New York, Paris and Beverly Hills; priceless antiques; endless passionate love; and gifts beyond imagining … a stunning diamond necklace “just because it’s Tuesday and I love you.”But the mystery of her past continues to haunt Valerie. who is she and who are her real parents? A shy, silver-haired child, she was lovingly raised by a couple in Hollywood. But her real mother, the beautiful starlet, remains a mystery. Why did she leave Valerie, and is she still alive?Anything Valerie wants is hers for the asking until Victor disappears in a mysterious plane crash. Suddenly torn from her privileged world, Valerie faces the hostility of the Penn family and finds herself caught in a web of rivalries, betrayal and murder. Alone for the first time, she brilliantly creates her own business and, once again, is part of the glittering world of the influential and famous, this time on her own terms … through her own effort. Finally believing Victor to be dead, Valerie is about to remarry when her fiancé is murdered and her son is kidnapped, driving her to find the answers to the mysteries still clouding her life.As she unravels the intrigues of the powerful Penn family, Valerie’s search brings her to the steaming jungles of South America, where she faces her past and opens the door to a new future.
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ELEMENTSof CHANCE
A Novel by Barbara Wilkins
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Copyright © 1989 by Barbara Wilkins.
First published by Contemporary Books, Inc. 1989
Published simultaneously in Canada by Beaverbooks, Ltd.
Barbara Wilkins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780006472773
Ebook Edition © APRIL 2017 ISBN: 9780008258030
Version: 2017-04-19
Contents
The traffic on the San Diego Freeway was backed up as far as Valerie could see in the rearview mirror of her red Ferrari. Five miles ahead, maybe more, the private planes landed at the southernmost part of Los Angeles International Airport. She turned up the classical music station. Vladimir Horowitz was playing Rachmaninoff.
Sitting, stalled in traffic, she watched the temperature gauge on the dashboard quiver upward. Her gauzy white dress clung to the leather of the seat. The engine was making strange popping noises, as if it were about to die.
Valerie glanced at the dashboard clock and checked it against her Piaget watch. The timepiece, with its loose, wide band and tiny diamonds at each number, had been a present from Victor when he returned from Paris several weeks ago. It was nearly three o’clock now, and the company’s 727 jet would be landing. Valerie felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of being late. She was never late when it came to Victor. She was always there, waiting.
“I’m flattered,” she remembered Victor saying on the phone that morning when Valerie insisted on picking him up. “How long have I been gone? Two days? It must be love.”
“It is love,” she whispered, holding the receiver close to her lips as she pictured the living room of their penthouse in New York City. She visualized the signed antiques, the magnificent Sarouk carpet, the new Renoir already in its ornately carved gilt frame over the mantelpiece, the view of Central Park below. “I start to miss you when I even think you’re going to be out of my sight.”
“After twelve years of marriage?” he gently mocked in his soft, English-accented voice. “That’s quite a testimonial from a former child bride. I miss you, too. So much, darling.”
“We have that benefit tonight at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.”
“I know, I know,” he laughed. “We always have a benefit at the Beverly Wilshire. What’s the disease of the evening?”
“Cystic fibrosis,” she said, “and I have a new dress.”
“I can’t wait to see you in it. I can’t wait to touch you. What time is this thing?”
“The usual. Seven o’clock for cocktails.”
“That will give us a few hours alone, darling. I can’t wait to have you in my arms, to be inside you. I’m barely alive when I’m not with you, Valerie. You know that. I love you.”
A thrill went through her the way it always did when Victor, so proper, so formal, talked about making love to her. Even over the phone he could make her nipples harden, make her ready for him. Newspapers and magazines called theirs a great love affair; they were the perfect couple. Both were tall and slim; elegant and proud. Their colorings complemented each other perfectly. Victor’s hair was dark brown with just a bit of gray at the temples, his eyes a pale blue. Valerie’s hair was so blond it was almost white, cut to perfection like a cap on her small, well-shaped head. Her long, dark lashes framed large eyes that changed from hazel to green, following her moods or the clothes she wore.
