The Sisters Read online

  THE SISTERS

  Kate Forster

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About The Sisters

  Wealth and privilege can’t buy you love… or keep your secrets safe.

  The de Santoval sisters are heiresses to a glamorous fashion house, and the darlings of LA society. Violetta is the hottest reality TV star of the moment. Carlotta is an exclusive horse trainer, as wild as the stallions she breaks in. Fine-arts consultant Grace is hiding a dark secret she must keep hidden at all costs. Their mother, wealthy fashion maven Birdie de Santoval, lies unconscious following a mysterious accident. Blame soon falls on their powerful but ruthless tycoon father, the missing Leon de Santoval.

  Beneath the ritzy façade of the de Santoval family lies a web of deceit and betrayal that hides a secret that threatens to destroy them all…

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About The Sisters

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  About Kate Forster

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  For my sister, Emma

  No hay dos sin tres.

  There is no two without three.

  Spanish Proverb

  1

  Leon – March 1980

  Leon de Santoval sat in his economy seat on the plane, his long legs pressing against the seat in front of him. He ignored the woman next to him who seemed to be looking for conversation to distract herself from flying. She had crossed her body in a dramatic fashion as the plane took off and said a loud prayer, looking at him for reassurance. Leon had no time for conversation or religion and it certainly wasn’t his job to make the silly old woman feel better about being in a plane. God didn’t pay the bills, he thought, although many Padre’s would disagree, and the only conversation he wanted to have was with himself, about his future.

  Looking ahead, he imagined when he would fly up the front in the first class cabin. However, the reality right now was that he had to pawn his grandfather’s gold cufflinks and pocket watch to scrape together enough money to fly to Paris for the couture shows. The cash flow in his father’s tailoring shop was lacking to say the least. It was fortunate that his family owned the building otherwise they would be out on the streets, he thought, as he watched the curtain open in first class and saw a hand holding out a champagne glass for a refill.

  Leon held back an urge to push into the cabin and demand a seat. That was the problem with Leon, his grandmother always said – he would never wait for things to happen naturally. Things happen in their own time, she would tell him. But he believed no one. He knew where he wanted to go and that was to the top of the fashion world. He knew he could turn his father’s failing business around and create fascinating Spanish couture for the royals and high-class women of Spain, if only people would invest in him.

  Leon leaned his head against the side of the plane and allowed himself to dream of dressing the finest women in Europe. By the time he woke the plane had landed in Paris. Reaching into the overhead cabin, he pulled down his suit bag carrying his one and only good suit – courtesy of his father’s shop – and his carry-on luggage. Ignoring the woman next to him who was smiling, hoping he would lift down her bag for her, he stood impatiently in the aisle waiting for the plane doors to open.

  Leon had a plan; he would take inspiration and ideas from the Paris shows, return to Spain to take over his father’s shop, and turn it into a must-visit-and-buy atelier. He was sick of reading about the successes of Chanel and Chloe and Yves Saint Laurent. He wanted Spain to be on the fashion map and the House of de Santoval to be at the top.

  Leon left the airport and took the bus to his low budget hotel in Montparnasse. He had to be careful with money; he could afford to eat only once a day and was hoping that he could charm his way into parties and soirees that were on for Fashion Week for contacts and finger food. Paris was still the home of fashion, no matter how hard London and New York screamed from the back of the ranks. Careers were made and reputations ruined by one bad showing.

  Leon knew the 1980s were going to be unlike any other decade, there was money around and much of the snobbery had fallen away when new money began to make its mark on society. The fashion houses could not afford to be selective any more about who they dressed. The pop stars and movie stars were becoming the new royalty and Leon instinctively knew celebrity was where fashion was heading.

  Arriving at the hotel, Leon went straight to his small room and undid his suit bag. He took out the fine grey wool suit with its purple silk lining and checked his bespoke John Lobb black leather dress shoes for shine. Leon was not afraid of colour; he was not afraid of anything for that matter. Unpacking his meagre collection of toiletries, he placed his Floid aftershave lotion on the bathroom counter and surveyed himself in the mirror. Tall and thin, with his slightly receding hair combed back, a hooked nose and black eyes. He was not handsome but it didn’t bother him. He would rather be smart and rich. People were always more attractive when they had money, he thought.

  Leon was planning to visit as many fashion shows as possible, having managed to get tickets from some of the fabric companies his father still used. The tickets would mean that he would be standing at the back of the shows but he would be there, scanning the buyers from the big stores to see what items they noted on the runway.

  First came YSL, then Lanvin, then Dior, then Chanel. And he would try to visit some of the new Japanese designers he was hearing about, although he was sceptical as to what the Japanese would show; no one would wear a kimono out of the house, he thought to himself.

  Heading out into the streets of Paris, Leon was happy to be a part of the well-dressed crowds. Paris was like a second home to him, coming to the city as a boy with his father on buying trips for the shop. Leon would see the way some of the suppliers of the accessories and fabrics would dismiss his father and his modest shop, thinking it too small to offer the best and latest materials that they gave the couture houses.

  Leon wanted respect, something his father had never sought, instead worrying about the fit of a suit or the collar of a dress shirt. Leon had no time for such details. He wanted to expand into women’s wear. Women were the ones with the money, they held the purse strings, no matter how much men protested. Leon had watched them in the shop, pushing their husbands and fathers around, cajoling or berating them into decisions. Yes, women were his focus.

  Leon was not particularly fond of women in his personal life though. With a strong mother and grandmother, he had been pushed throughout his childhood until his own persona emerged, and he beg
an to answer back to both of them. He never wanted to be like his father, cuckolded and scorned for trying and failing. Now at 32, Leon used women for sex, the way they used men for money – and he was happy to keep it that way, with no time for love in his head or his heart.

  Leon hoped to get laid while he was in Paris; there were models galore and all he had to do was talk up his fashion house, promise an exclusive modelling contract and he would be in bed with some glamorous idiot from California or one of the new Czechoslovakian girls who were starting to model.

  Walking towards a café, he spotted a redhead sitting outside, drinking a coffee and smoking a cigarette. No doubt a model, he thought, looking at her long legs and jutting collarbones. He sat down at the table beside her and waved at the waiter to bring him a coffee also. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and left the lighter there.

  ‘Est-ce que, je m'excuse peux emprunter votre allumeur?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I am sorry, I don’t speak French,’ came back an apologetic southern American accent.

  ‘Ah, you are American?’ said Leon in his charming Spanish lilt.

  ‘Yes, I’m from Georgia. Do you know it?’ the redhead said.

  ‘Only for its peaches.’

  The girl laughed. She was quite stunning, Leon thought. Auburn hair, wide green eyes, a slight smattering of freckles on her nose, American teeth, white skin and long bones. Yes, definitely a model. Maybe no more than 20 years old.

  ‘I am Leon de Santoval,’ he said smoothly with not a hint of suggestiveness.

  ‘Hi, I am Birdie Blackwood,’ she replied, extending her hand to him.

  He shook it and noticed her handshake was firm and strong. Good, he thought, imagining it on his cock later.

  ‘Birdie Blackwood? Is that your real name or are you playing with me?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘It’s a family name.’ She shrugged, clearly used to explaining her unusual moniker.

  Leon laughed. ‘Well, Birdie Blackwood, I think it’s lovely.’

  ‘I don’t. My full name is Cordella Birdie Blackwood. All the first-born women in my family are called that… since forever, I guess.’

  She drew back on her cigarette and Leon noticed her long neck and defined jaw line. She really was quite stunning, he thought.

  ‘Are you here for the fashion shows?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Which ones are you doing?’ he asked, hoping he might be able to get into a few more shows and perhaps a little closer to the runway, away from the pushing crowds.

  ‘All of them,’ she answered innocently.

  ‘All of them? How can that be? You will be very tired.’

  ‘I’m OK, I don’t have to do much really,’ she said, picking up her coffee and putting it on his table. ‘Can I join you?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gestured magnanimously. ‘Doesn’t it get chaotic out the back, with all the dressers and makeup?’ Leon was fascinated by this girl who treated the fashion shows with such little respect.

  Birdie laughed. ‘Oh, I am not a model. Is that what you thought I was?’

  Leon nodded. ‘Yes I did. How can a woman as beautiful as you not be on the runway?’

  Birdie kept laughing in a musical tone. ‘I am a reporter, for Women’s Wear Daily. I cover the shows. I don’t walk in them.’

  Leon nodded, more interested. Birdie Blackwood could prove to be helpful for him later on, he decided, making a mental note to not piss her off by fucking and then forgetting her.

  ‘Are you in fashion?’ she asked Leon.

  ‘Yes, I have an atelier in Barcelona. We create menswear but I would like to move into high-end womenswear. Beautiful things for beautiful women,’ Leon told her, without any trace of sarcasm.

  Birdie looked unimpressed. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away. ‘Well, good luck with that.’

  Leon frowned. Why was she being so dismissive of his dream? Women never gave men any credit for their dreams. It was always about them, he thought, remembering his mother screaming at his father over the dinner table.

  ‘Does it not seem a good idea to you?’ he asked, more than a little tersely.

  Birdie looked back at him, her eyebrows raised. ‘Honestly? You want my opinion? You don’t know me at all.’

  Leon suddenly realised he did want her opinion although he was not sure why. Always self-assured and confident about his dreams for his father’s shop, he was so sure this was what he was meant to do, until this girl blew off his aspirations.

  ‘Yes, I want to know,’ he answered honestly, putting his ego on check for a moment.

  ‘Well, OK then. Here’s what I think. I think we need less high fashion and more affordable fashion. Women are working now, they have their own money, they want fashion and they want it faster. Everyone wants to look great and look like they have money but not everyone does. These labels, these shows are for such a small part of the population and the outfits get worn once, maybe twice at best. Unless you are a couture collector or royalty or from oil money then these clothes are not for you. Not even the movie stars and pop stars can afford them. My best friend back in Georgia makes all her own clothes, she gets the magazines and then copies the styles. She now gets orders from our other friends. These are girls whose mothers grew up getting couture made twice a year in Paris. None of their daughters or granddaughters can be bothered now. All that standing and pinning, no thank,’ Birdie said passionately.

  Leon read between the lines of her soliloquy on fashion. Birdie was from money, there was no doubt about it. The way she held herself, the way she held her cigarette and coffee cup, the fine cut of her green wool jacket and the Christian Dior bag that hung off the back of the chair – all indicated money to Leon. Suddenly he was more interested in her than for just her long legs.

  ‘But you have a Dior bag! How is it that you have that and yet you say these designers are not for you?’

  Birdie looked him in the eye. ‘I may have a Dior bag but you try and name one other label I am wearing. You can’t. And you know why? Because my friend and I made these clothes. We are going to start our own fashion label back in America. I took this job reporting so I could understand the industry, but as soon as I am done then Dina and I are heading to New York to create fashion that women can afford and fit into. Then they will have cash left over for the Dior bag,’ she said, enthused by her plan.

  Leon looked at her, his eyes narrowed. ‘But fashion is very expensive. How will you fund this? The workshops, the fabrics, the shows?’

  Birdie spoke confidently, and took a cigarette from his packet on the table and waited for him to light it. He waved the waiter over who quickly lit it as she began to talk.

  ‘I am from money and so is Dina. Combined, our families own most of the South. We will be fine, don’t you worry,’ she said, staring ahead at the passing foot traffic. She seemed upset with him and he didn’t want to cause waves when she had pedigree and money, both which could be of use for his plans.

  Leon thought for a moment and then turned on the charm, the one that always got him out a spanking from his grandmother. ‘Of course! Women know fashion better than men. I am sure you will be a great success. I look forward to seeing you on the front of the magazine you write for.’

  Birdie seemed to unruffle her feathers and turned to look at him.

  Leon smiled at her. His smile was his best feature – wide, straight teeth and it turned up the corners of his eyes. ‘Let me buy you dinner and then we can talk more about your plans.’

  *

  The next evening, over dinner at A La Petite Chaise, for which Leon used his entire week’s food allowance, she told him her idea. To create good quality fashion, inspired by the latest trends on the runways, and turning it over quickly so the shopper would always come back for more. Leon was enthralled; it was an excellent idea. Still, she would need an enormous amount of cash to start her business and making it in America would add a lot more cost.

&nbs
p; Leon in turn fabricated his life, telling her he was from a noble family, his father a fashion designer in Spain, and he due to inherit the family business. He didn’t need to work but he chose to, he said, as a creative outlet.

  Birdie seemed enthralled. She was naïve about many things and he wondered if she was still a virgin. He would be pleased to find out but he knew not to rush her.

  Leon knew everything there was to know about fashion and wine and he spoke English, French, Italian and Spanish, which Birdie told him personified her idea of a European gentleman. Dinner turned into lunches and coffees after the shows which Birdie insisted on paying for to prove her independence, he thought. Leon never sought her out, instead he let her set the pace, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was interested in him. Not revealing his hotel to her, as that would alert her to his modest budget, Leon always conveniently bumped into her after the shows or before. Or he would pick her up from her hotel and they would walk the streets of Paris, commenting on the passing street fashion that Birdie was so passionate about.

  Towards the end of the week, Leon had not even held Birdie’s hand. The attraction was strong between them. Leon was fascinated about her upbringing; the way she spoke of her family and the houses they had, her horses and her reticence to marry the man her parents had picked for her, from another Georgia family. Her ease with her wealth, her kindness to everyone – including rude French waiters – only proved her innocence.

  On the last evening in Paris, Leon had promised Birdie he would take her out on the town again. Down to his last $50, he was panicking about how he would pay for the meal. He’d decided to complain of stomach illness before they set off for the restaurant. When he arrived at the Hotel Athenée, the concierge rang Birdie’s room.

  ‘Mademoiselle Blackwood would like you to go up to her room, Monsieur de Santoval. The prestige suite on the fifth floor,’ said the concierge with a knowing look in his eye.