When blue blood turns bad...Illegitimacy scandal rocks Balfour legacy. Last night there was only one place to see and be seen at - the Balfour Charity Ball. But despite the glitz and the glamour, all was not as it seemed. Behind the scenes, Olivia Balfour and her scandalous twin Bella were locked in a battle over a shocking discovery - their late mother, socialite Alexandra Balfour, had conceived their sister Zoe during an illicit affair!
The beautiful Balfour twins were witnessed in the midst of a cat-fight...Were they ever going to tell their little sister, girl-about-town Zoe, the devastating revelation...? There is no Balfour blood running through Zoe Balfour's veins! The Balfour name might be synonymous with glamour and style. But this is the second illegitimate family member to be outed in as many months. It seems this dynasty is rotten to its core. Now Balfour is just a by-word for disgrace and scandal! Such behaviour at this commemorative ball can only lead us to conclude that the Balfour twins are following in their mother's distinctly uncertain footsteps. Is it too late to stop the rot? We challenge Oscar Balfour, the proud patriarch of this crumbling family: wake up and smell the scandal!
The beautiful Balfour twins were witnessed in the midst of a cat-fight...Were they ever going to tell their little sister, girl-about-town Zoe, the devastating revelation...? There is no Balfour blood running through Zoe Balfour's veins! The Balfour name might be synonymous with glamour and style. But this is the second illegitimate family member to be outed in as many months. It seems this dynasty is rotten to its core. Now Balfour is just a by-word for disgrace and scandal! Such behaviour at this commemorative ball can only lead us to conclude that the Balfour twins are following in their mother's distinctly uncertain footsteps. Is it too late to stop the rot? We challenge Oscar Balfour, the proud patriarch of this crumbling family: wake up and smell the scandal!
Read Excerpt :
For the first time in three long hard-travelled months, Nikos Theakis strode in through the doors belonging to his London offices and instantly claimed the full attention of every person present in the slick modern granite-and-glass foyer.
Tall and dark, blessed with the kind of lean, hard, powerful body of a peak trained athlete, the air around him positively vibrated with excess energy as he moved, bringing forth a flurry of, ‘Good morning, Nikos,’ that sounded breathless and charged.
That he had the same effect everywhere he went said a lot about the man’s personality. He was sharp, smooth, determined and driven. Working for him was like catching a ride on a rocket ship to the stars. Exciting, breathtaking, teeth-chatteringly scary sometimes because he took major risks others shied right away from. He was committed and focused and famously never, ever wrong.
Today he was frowning, the two straight black bars of his eyebrows drawn together across the bridge of his arrogantly straight nose. The lean golden cut of his classical Greek features locked in concentration on the conversation he was involved in via his mobile telephone. His acknowledgement to the greetings therefore consisted of a series of distracted nods of his glossy dark head as his long stride took him across the foyer and into one of the waiting lifts.
‘In the name of Theos, Oscar,’ he swore softly, ‘What kind of game are you trying to set me up with here?’
‘No game,’ Oscar Balfour insisted. ‘I’ve thought this through carefully, now I am asking you for your support.’
‘Asking?’ Nikos pounced on the word with lethal satire.
‘Unless you’re too big and important now to help out an old friend…’
Stabbing a long finger at the top-floor button, Nikos shrugged back the brilliant white shirt cuff so he could check the time on his wafer-thin multifunction platinum watch, then bit back the desire to curse. He had been back in the country for less than an hour after spending weeks flying around the world like a damn satellite, putting together a rescue package for a crisis-embattled multiconglomerate which did not deserve to go under because its international investors had turned chicken and pulled the plug on their loans. He was tired, hungry and seriously jet-lagged but upstairs in his boardroom awaited a group of anxious people desperate to hear the final results of his toils.
‘Stop trying to pull my strings,’ he flicked out impatiently.
‘I’m flattered that you think I still can,’ Oscar drawled.
‘And stick to the point,’ he added, well aware that Oscar was the ruthless, cunning cut-throat king of manipulation so using that kind of invert flattery on him was wasted. ‘Instead, tell me what in hell’s name you expect me to do with one of your spoiled-to-death daughters?’
‘Not bed her anyway.’
About to stride out of the lift into the hushed luxury of the top-floor corridor, that short cool evenly delivered statement froze Nikos to the spot for a second, the acid-bite affront hoisting up his proud dark head.
‘That was not even remotely funny,’ he denounced with icy cold dignity. ‘I have never rested so much as a suggestive finger on any one of your daughters. It would be—’
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