Predictable
All Danielle Steele's books are predictable, but this one is dull. The cast of characters include Paul, a raconteur, who married Veronique, an uber wealthy woman, and the daughters they had prior to divorcing. In Steele style, the story begins with a tragedy. Usually her tragedies are more dramatic, a plane crash, for example, but Steele begins her saga with Paul's death and the reading of his will.
The contents of the will surprise the beneficiaries, but they do not surprise me because the will launches the story. Veronique inherits a painting, and his daughters inherit varying sums of money with instructions about its use. A hands-off father for years, Paul takes a paternal interest from the grave.
Veronique immediately flies to Rome. Another calamity ensues when she is nearly hit by a Ferrari, only to be saved by a young Englishman. In the standard Steele storyline, she meets the Ferrari driver, a Russian richer than Croesus, and Adrian, her savior, who is proud to be poorer than a church mouse. She lets the Russian wine and dine her, but her heart belongs to Adrian, who not only eschews money, but is jealous and controlling.
Veronique and Adrian gallivant around Europe, and she almost loses him when she takes him to her Paris home, which Steele describes as one of the grandest homes in Paris. Poor Adrian (literally and figuratively). He is sickened by the opulence, especially because he realizes that Veronique, not her husband, brought wealth into the marriage. Almost in tears, he cannot reconcile her bundles of cash with his determination to remain a starving photographer, who specializes in taking pictures only of the most downtrodden. Veronique successfully convinces him that rich people can be nice, and thus their journey to the South of France continues.
The daughters are making their dreams come true almost immediately. They are horrified at the thought of their beautiful mother having a life outside of catering to them.
Veronique returns to her fancy digs in Manhattan, where she is run over by a bike messenger. By now I have concluded that she stay away from moving vehicles. The prodigal daughters become even more unlikable, Adrian is the White Knight, and the silly story ultimately comes to a merciful end.
I always wonder if Steele is paid by the word. If she had written War and Peace, it would be 3000 pages long. Her writing is atrocious, as usual, with its run on sentences, constant repetition and split infinitives. And yet I and her ardent fans overlook her foibles to read an adult fairytale. Precious Gifts is not her best, but I bet it is on the bestseller list.