Deceptions by Judith Michael Page A

eyes, clear and shining, met hers without envy. Sabrina felt like singing. So much love to make up. 'I'd come tomorrow if I could. I'll see what E>enton has scheduled. He's full of plans to show me all his favorite places. But as soon as I can ... * She held out her hands. Stephanie took them in hers and they held each other close, for a long moment, as they had in the far-off days when they were all the family they had. 'As soon as I can,' Sabrina whispered. 'I'll be there. I promise.'
    Denton Longworth worked now and then in his family's shipping company, where he was vice president of finance and a member of the board of directors. To a point, he had done what his father expected of him, graduating from the university and immediately joining the company. But he had no intention of spending the decade between his twenty-fifth and thirty-fifth birthdays at a desk. Later he would settle in, but first there was a large world to enjoy. So he devoted one year to the office, building a dedicated staff capable of carrying on efficiently in his absence, and then he took off for the playgrounds of the world.
    He worked when he felt like it. Rounding the comer of his thirtieth birthday, he discovered in himself a talent for reorganizing small, struggling companies his father acquired at bargain prices, and since that gave him pleasure - the yardstick by which he measured all his pursuits - he spent a few days a month at it.
    Now, halfway through his thirtieth year, he assigned himself the happier chore of introducing his bride to his playgrounds and put his considerable energies to work on a grand tour. Within a few months, at Biarritz and Cannes, Wimbledon and Buenos Aires, Minorca and Zermatt, jaded members of the international set were falling over themselves to entertain Sabrina Longworth and bask in her

    inesistible combination of beauty, sophistication, open delight in new discoveries and warm gratitude. For when had anyone in their circles last expressed the simple emotions of delight and gratitude? No one could remember.
    Wherever they went, invitations awaited them, sent on by Denton's secretary in London. Denton would fan through them, letting some drop to the floor and handing the rest to Sabrina. 'Pick out the ones that appeal to you, sweets. And toss out the rest.* But he would watch her. 'You're not throwing out Cora's invitation, are you? Wonderful hostess; no one misses her parties. And why did you— 7'
    So by the time they reached Monaco in May, almost a year after their wedding, Sabrina simply glanced at the invitations and handed them back to Denton. 'You decide. I still don't know everyone.'
    He spread them on the coffee table in their suite, arranging them like a poker hand to fill the afternoons and evenings when they were not gambling in the Casino or watching the Grand Prix. 'Well done,' he told himself, having fit everyone in. 'We'll even have time for Max.'
    'Who?'
    'Max Stuyvesant. Amazing you haven't met him yet; he's all over the place. Pleasant fellow, something of a mystery, you'll like him. He wants us for a cruise on his yacht, four days, just after the race. Good idea; totally new experience for you.'
    'Why is he a mystery?'
    'Because no one knows how he makes his money.'
    It was not that everyone hadn't tried to find out; they had. But no one got beyond Maxim Stuyvesant's own answer: he was 'in art,* which could mean anything. Some guessed he owned galleries in Latin America and Europe; others that he was an agent for wealthy clients. There was a rumor that he supported young artists, hiring people to bid on their paintings at auction to drive up the price and create excitement, then pocketing most of the inflated prices collectors paid for them. Cynics said he was a grave robber in the tombs of Egyptian kings.
    However he made it, he spent his wealth lavishly, flying guests in his priviate piane high above Monte Carlo's

    fireworks displays, taking thirty friends for week-long African safaris,