‘I thought you said provenance was everything.’
‘Let’s just say I won’t be compromising our reputation.’
Adam met her gaze. ‘What do you want, Karin? My investment? You know Midas is about to float. I’m not sure now is the right time for me.’
‘This is pocket money for you, Adam,’ she said flatly. ‘I want to issue non-voting B shares in the company in return for a five-million-pound cash injection.’
‘Non-voting?’ queried Adam.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ she replied, her voice steely. ‘Do you want to make money or not? In two years’ time, you’ll be bought out for ninety million dollars minimum.’
‘You drive a hard bargain, Karin Cavendish,’ smiled Adam, his eyes pooling with lust.
‘It’s what you love about me,’ she smiled, running the tip of her toe up his leg.
‘Just promise me you didn’t fuck Chen,’ he said, motioning the waiter for the bill.
‘I didn’t have sex with him,’ Karin whispered in the quiet, rarefied atmosphere of the restaurant.
‘Come on. Let’s get out of here,’ she smiled wolfishly, as they both got up from the table. ‘There’s something we should do.’
32
As Summer had no idea of where Ricardo Lantis was taking her for dinner, she had dressed neutrally in a pair of black pants and a dark green silk vest. It was conservative for her and she felt a little old, but she didn’t want to be too sexy either. On the dot of eight, a black Bentley convertible came to pick her up. The driver introduced himself as Samuel and politely asked, as it was a warm night, if Summer would like the top of the car down. Summer had grinned but declined the offer, preferring to sit in darkened anonymity as they wound through the streets of London, finally gliding to a stop in a grand residential street in Belgravia.
‘This is Mr Lantis’s house,’ said Samuel, indicating an impressive Georgian house as he opened her door. Rather apprehensive, Summer walked up to the polished black front door and knocked.
An olive-skinned woman of about forty answered. She was too smartly dressed for a housekeeper, thought Summer. She was polished and haughty and a little frightening.
‘I am Dita. Good evening,’ she said, stepping back to allow Summer to enter. The cream walls of the hall were lined with framed photographs of Ricardo in all sorts of exotic locations – on the ski slopes, on a yacht, driving a sports car – and in each, his arms were around all sorts of glamorous blondes, brunettes and redheads.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Dita. She beckoned to a butler who was already pouring a glass of champagne.
‘You must think I am terribly rude,’ smiled Dita, pressing the glass into her hand. ‘I haven’t introduced myself. I am Ricardo’s cousin. I am afraid Ricardo has just called to say he is going to be a little late. Work is his life,’ she sighed. ‘If something needs doing he will not stop until it’s done. Why don’t you go through and meet the others?’
Others? thought Summer, following Dita into a magnificent drawing room. Beautiful tapestries and art lined the walls and at one end was a walnut bar stocked with expensive-looking liqueurs in decanters. Stretched across the plump ivory sofa were two slim, beautiful girls, who were chatting and drinking from crystal tumblers. A third girl, with waist-length black hair and a backless dress was giggling as she tried to play the black grand piano. They all looked up as Summer entered, but none of the girls seemed surprised to see Summer.
‘Hi. I’m Tasha,’ smiled the prettiest of the three, ‘that’s Rachel and Becki.’ Tasha was about Summer’s age. She had long wavy chestnut hair swept up into a high glossy ponytail and a body that could carry off skin-tight black leather trousers and a fitted white T-shirt that had a diamanté palm tree on the front. For a second Summer wondered if they were Ricardo’s sisters. Or even daughters.
‘Are you coming out with us tonight?’ asked Tasha brightly.
‘With Ricardo?’ said Summer cautiously.
‘Sure,’ laughed Tasha. ‘Actually he’s just called, did Dita tell you? We’re meeting him at the club now. There’s no point leaving here for an hour or so, so make yourself comfy and we can all get to know one another.’
Summer was beginning to wonder what she had got herself into.
Sitting in a VIP booth of the Athenaeum, a cavernous basement club made to look like a nineteenth-century opium den, Summer wondered when it would be polite to make a getaway. It was almost midnight. They hadn’t left Ricardo’s house until 10 p.m. and Ricardo himself had only showed up an hour later, when he’d given her ten minutes of chitchat about working late and how fantastic she looked before he had begun to circulate around the rest of the VIP area. Summer wondered how she had managed to get the wrong end of the stick. Suddenly, the loud Euro-pop stopped and the DJ played a cheesy fanfare. A waitress walked towards their table with a jeroboam of Cristal, putting the huge, £5000 bottle of champagne in front of them with a flourish. Summer cringed. She had seen this ritual before at Les Caves du Roy in St Tropez, but on home turf it seemed an even more vulgar display of wealth. Tasha, however, seemed delighted, clapping her hands and holding out her glass as the waitress struggled to open the huge bottle.
‘Are you coming back to the house later?’ she asked Summer, her eyes sparkling.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Summer. ‘Will Ricardo’s cousin be there?’
‘Who?’ asked Tasha.
‘Dita.’
‘Oh, Dita’s not his fucking cousin!’ laughed Tasha, running her hands through her ponytail. ‘She’s his … hmm …’ Tasha paused and frowned, putting her finger to her lips. ‘She’s his fixer.’