Chapter Three

      THE HOME OF COUNT ANTON Simonov and his lovely, Brooklyn-born wife, Sylvia, was a stately twelve-room penthouse with soaring painted ceilings, a bank of windows overlooking Central Park and frame after gilt frame of stony-faced Old Masters. In the count’s private offices was a set of ornate cabinets that displayed his most treasured possessions—glass shelves full of Imperial eggs, handcrafted by Fabergé.

      Every morning, a truckload of fresh flowers was brought in, all in white, because Sylvia adored white. As Sylvia’s personal assistant, it was Rose’s job to ensure that the flowers were properly placed, dead petals properly plucked, and that there were no nasty chrysanthemum’s in the bunch. According to Sylvia, “Mums look cheap, and if I wanted cheap, I’d have Anton spring for 36 double Ds and dye my hair platinum.”

      To Rose, Sylvia was a living, breathing, teetering, stiletto-wearing hero. Nearly thirty years ago, Sylvia had risen from the ranks, trading in on her beauty and her wildly successful fund-raising abilities to snag one of New York’s wealthiest bachelors—who happened to be a Russian count to boot.

      Rose had been doing a fine job working at a shipping insurance office in Pittsburgh, but there were always whispers that trailed after her. What the heck was she doing in an insurance office? Oh, her name wasn’t famous and her face wasn’t one they’d seen before, but her profile was too striking, her posture too straight, her walk a little too prissy for the shipping business. The curse of expectations never met.

      When she spotted the profile on Countess Sylvia Simonov, a plan emerged. For two weeks, she had taken the 4:37 a.m. bus from Pittsburgh to Manhattan to volunteer at the Simonov food pantry. Not only was she helping feed the hungry, but in less than ten days, she had convinced Countess Sylvia Simonov that Rose was a charity organizer extraordinaire.

      For the past three years, Rose had been in the Simonov employ, where the smell of peace and prosperity filled the air. It’d taken her twenty-seven years, but she had finally found a place where she fit. Here, under Sylvia’s nurturing eye, she was given on-the-job training on how to belong in the upper echelon, as well as steady exposure to Manhattan’s most desirable bachelors. Best of all, Sylvia and Anton were the poster people for how affluence can positively affect your life.

      With Sylvia’s energetic influence, Rose had watched and learned how to achieve the life she wanted.

      Today, January 1 in the Simonov household, Rose’s happy gaze touched on polished wood, perfumed satin and, most appealing of all, contentment. Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Attention World: Dorothy is now arriving at the Plaza.

      A stack of engraved envelopes landed on Dorothy’s desk, reminding her that Rose was actually paid to do more than daydream. Impatiently, Sylvia tapped a scarlet nail on the blotter.

      “Rose. Thank-you notes for the Christmas gifts. Be a darling. Linda kept a running list with three categories: mine, Anton’s, ours. Here’s what I need. For mine and ours, write a personal, funny message, and let your gushing know no bounds. Sound like me if at all possible, preferably without the accent. For Anton’s list, especially the blue bloods, be impersonal, cold and stodgy. They really seem to go for that.”

      At fifty-five, Sylvia was an odd contradiction of humility and beauty in an approachable, yet elegant package. Her dark hair never looked meticulously coiffed, but Rose knew the truth. The stylist was there every morning before Anton woke up in order to make the “high-glossed, natural softness” a fait accompli. Anton affectionately called it Sylvia’s bedroom hair. Sylvia would then shoot a conspiratorial wink at Rose. Rose never winked back, but sometimes she wanted to.

      Daintily Sylvia stroked a black brow back into place. “Do you know the best cure for hot flashes? Believe it or not, Cristal. Seriously. But the next morning, oh, my God, the hangover is killer. Speaking of hot flashes, how’d the date go with Dr. Sinclair? Do I need the caterers and printers on speed dial, eagerly awaiting my call?”

      Four dates and Sylvia was ready to post the banns. Unfortunately, Rose moved tortoiselike to Sylvia’s hare, not wanting to go too fast, not wanting to go too slow, which usually stalled things to not going anywhere at all.

      “It was nice,” Rose answered vaguely.

      “Yessss?” prompted Sylvia, who braced her hands on the fili-greed wood, causing fingerprints aplenty. “Tell. Spill.”

      Spilling wasn’t easy for Rose. She wasn’t impulsive or impromptu, she was meticulous and well rehearsed. Being around Sylvia, though, she had learned to relax. Sylvia was…a friend. “I froze. I shouldn’t have clammed up. I should have been forthright, open. Instead, I’m with world’s most perfect man, and I find flaws. I think my standards are wonky.” She ended the whine with a perky smile, which never seemed to fool Sylvia.

      “You’re too hard on yourself, Rose. A woman like you? Your poise, your face, those boobs. If I weren’t on the Forbes list, I’d have to hate you. Lighten up. It’s early yet. Give yourself a little time. Not everyone can move at light speed like moi.”

      And in case life affirmations were required, Sylvia waltzed to the piano, her sheer leopard print caftan billowing around her. Delicately she plucked a white magnolia from the crystal vase and inhaled, beaming at Rose with a “yes, your life could be this grand,” gleam.

      Then she squinted, stared.

      “Why are you