Antiques were Elena and her husband’s passion in a time when even analog was passé.
She never liked Helmut especially given the fact that he was her father’s first born by a woman other than her mother, but because her father’s estate had just grown by a third she was giddy with excitement. Let’s face it; Helmut had almost surely died intestate given that he was such a sap and always told his siblings that he trusted them explicitly with his money.
Oh, Helmut. An intestate sap.
Even if their half-brother left a will, that exercise would have been for not
Oh, you're totally inheriting his money...NOT!
Michael’s convoluted mission was getting better and better and he waited patiently for the other Jimmy Choo to drop for his wife.
Elena’s beloved husband without her knowledge was indeed the covert community’s biggest weapon and perhaps the old man died of fear when he realized who the soft spoken Frenchman wearing Mission Gear really was.
Not to bore you with the details of how Nikita gained consciousness after hitting the wall of windows when the house blew up or how she took the news that she was a young widow. Nor describe at nauseam how she learned she was the sole heir to a vast yet morally reprehensibly-obtained fortune. Neither tell you how the Vulkner children dealt with the news of the dangling-participle that was Nikita and Helmut’s marriage, or irk you with their plans to exterminate our heroin. I’ll get instead to the meaty part of this story and let you know what happened when the lovers met again – sigh!
You know, I think we're all tempted to skip over plot sometimes, but usually, we don't draw our readers' attention to it by listing all of the things we're skipping because they're boring and don't involve sex.
George smiled, having heard the young woman’s concern, “Nikita, I will repeat that the law is like riding a bike… you don’t forget. I have read up on the applicable section of the Napoleonic Code and can assure you, we are good to go."
The pompous surroundings of the Vulkner barristers’ office resonated with haughty arrogance. There were photographs of dead lawyers in ornate frames hanging dustily from expensive wood paneled walls. There were plush oriental rugs that adorned the floors and almost indiscernible music piped in through hideously ugly rococo objets d’art. There were seriously attired men and Victorian-looking women who worked in the heavy tone of the out-of-date environment. And in contrast, there was the lovely young beauty of Nikita Wirth Vulkner adorning an uncomfortable couch in the reception.