They went up through the big granite lobby of the Midas Corporation and took the lift to Molly’s tiny office. The floor was quiet. Just a solitary cleaner sweeping a vacuum over the floor.
‘Nice offices,’ whispered Jasper respectfully.
‘Well, this is what we do. Chic offices, smart apartments.’
Molly handed a sheaf of brochures to Jasper and they walked back into the darkened corridor. The hum of the Hoover had now gone, leaving just the crackle of sexual chemistry between them.
‘And what’s in here?’ asked Jasper, opening the door to one of the meeting rooms. The blinds were open, the room shadowy-black, with the cityscape sparkling below them.
‘You’re very forward, aren’t you?’ said Molly quietly, as Jasper shut the office door behind them.
‘Forward? You ain’t seen nothing yet, sweetheart,’ he murmured, coming up behind her so she could feel his soft breath on her neck. Molly knew that she often had a strong effect on men, projecting raw sex appeal in a way that could catch men off balance. It was rare for her to meet a man who had the same effect on her, but Jasper Goodman was one. Their mutual desire was palpable in the air as she relaxed into his body and felt his hands on her. Oh, how she wanted him; she felt dizzy with lust. She was sick of tired, balding, middle-aged men. She wanted someone young and hot and hungry, and Jasper was all those things.
She turned to face him and he immediately pushed her back onto the long walnut table.
‘I don’t usually do business like this,’ he mumbled, his firm hands riding up her thighs. ‘But I guess you could call this fringe benefits,’ he said as he spread her legs, peeled down her panties and gave her his very special service.
29
‘Bonjour madam, c’est bien de vous voir.’
Karin air-kissed yet another guest at the launch of her St Tropez store and silently congratulated herself on the evening’s success. She had decided against a big, extravagant party on the grounds of both cost and space, and instead had invited a small, carefully selected crowd for cocktails. So milling around the new Karenza outlet on the harbour were the wealthiest villa owners from the hills beyond St Tropez, visiting celebrities and high-rollers currently staying at the Byblos, and the fashion editors from The Times, Elle, Le Figaro and French Vogue. It was an eclectic mix, but everybody seemed to be having fun. As numbers were small, she had served the best vintage champagne and fine canapés prepared by the head chef of the Artemis.
Karin had never doubted her ability to throw a good party; what had surprised her was pulling off the Herculean task of opening her first international store in the space of two months. She was exhausted, but exhilarated. She had been working ninety-hour weeks to be in time for the start of the Riviera’s summer season, and it had been worth every minute. It was only a small boutique, 500 square feet, but its location was perfect and it had been fitted in cool pale oak floorboards, cream walls and lots of glass and mirrors to create a pared-down luxurious space. As a concession to the Riviera’s jet-set traditions she had framed blown-up black-and-white prints of Gianni Agnelli on his yacht and Bardot waving from Pampelonne Beach. The stock was presented like works of art on polished brass racks, which only served to make the swimsuits seem more exclusive. Karin had created a jewel of glamour right at the heart of Europe’s most glittering destination.
‘I can’t bloody believe you’ve pulled it off,’ said Diana, who had come over from London for the grand opening. Karin had insisted: Diana was constantly quarrelling with Martin and badly needed some glitz in her life.
‘It’s amazing,’ said Diana, wide-eyed. ‘You’ve had about two weeks to organize all this and look, everyone’s here.’
‘Everyone except Adam,’ said Karin tartly.
She had been furious when Adam had called her at the shop earlier that day to say that he couldn’t make it. He had apologized profusely, muttering about some urgent meeting with a contractor. After three months of dating, Karin was used to Adam cancelling their arrangements at the last minute, but this was one date she wanted him to be at. The fact that Christina had also bailed out of flying to the Côte d’Azur had definitely unsettled her, but Karin was trying to pass it off as coincidence. She had no real reason to suspect that her best friend was sleeping with her boyfriend, except that Karin saw signs of Adam’s infidelity everywhere. Every cancelled supper was a secret assignation with a model or society girl. Every urgent phone call to his mobile was a rival trying to steal her man. That Saturday night of the grand prix weekend, when he had turned up drunk in their cabin at 5 a.m., she hadn’t believed him when he said he’d been at the casino all night. Karin was jumping at shadows, and she barely recognized herself. It wasn’t that she had never trusted a man before, but this was the first time she really cared.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ said a soft voice behind her. Karin turned to find a slight, olive-skinned man with dark slanted eyes looking at her.
‘Victor Chen,’ he said. ‘I think we might have business to discuss.’
The car that had been sent to collect her from the shop wound its way up into the hills behind St Tropez, around hairpin bends, until the port was just a shimmering crescent of blue water studded with yachts the size of white dots. Karin felt elated. It had been the first day of trading at the Karenza St Tropez outlet and it had been a fabulous start. The wife of a multimillionaire Russian restaurateur had bought one of each type of swimsuit in a size thirty-six. The fashion editor of Le Figaro had rung to say she was doing a major piece for their Saturday magazine, and there had been a flood of customers walking out with the crisp, white Karenza cardboard bag tied with a forest of green ribbon. Best of all, they had all been exactly the righ
t sort of customer: slim, beautiful and rich.
It had been a good day, but Karin could not help feeling a little apprehensive about this evening’s meeting. Victor Chen was spoken about in hushed tones in the business community, a mysterious semi-recluse who had grown a large family inheritance into a huge global conglomerate that included department stores in the Far East, an American discount chain and an Asian cosmetics line. Karin had recently read that he was one of the Far East’s richest men and, rumour had it, was currently expanding into China where he was almost certain to become even richer. But what did he want with Karin, and why had he come to the launch of a small boutique?
Finally their destination came into view. A magnificent whitewashed villa hanging on the side of a hillside, large, sprawling and impeccably kept. The car stopped in front of a large underlit fountain and a uniformed servant opened the door for Karin as she sucked in the jasmine-scented air.
‘This way Mrs Cavendish, if you please,’ said a tall elderly man in an impeccable butler’s uniform, leading the way into the villa.
Victor was from Hong Kong but owed his Western features to an English grandfather. Only his pale olive skin and narrow black eyes hinted at his Asian roots. His build was slight, almost effeminate, and he was wearing a black silk turtleneck and a pair of cream slacks. Karin thought he looked a little like a Bond villain.
‘I am so glad that you have decided to come,’ said Victor, his voice soft and precise. ‘I am sure it has been a very hectic day for you. I have had word that you have done very brisk business indeed; congratulations are in order.’
Victor led Karin into an enormous drawing room, which was even more impressive than anything in Christina and Ariel’s portfolio of homes. The walls were covered in the softest sand-coloured silk, high ceilings were painted with frescos, and a dramatic oil painting, which Karin recognized as a Caravaggio, hung over the medieval fireplace.
‘Would you like a drink and we can go out onto the terrace?’ asked Victor, gesturing to the open French windows. Karin took a seat at a round marble table at the end of the terrace, with a view of the dark sea and a clustered wooded hillside, and sipped her wine. A cool breeze cut through the balmy air and made the flares around the garden flicker. They made a little small talk, and Karin discovered that Victor was divorced with two children, a fourteen-year-old boy at Eton and a sixteen year-old daughter at school in Switzerland. His age, however, was hard to decipher. She would guess that he was around fifty, but his supple, unlined skin suggested younger.
Two white-uniformed waiters came to serve supper, a plate of finely slicely buffalo mozzarella with asparagus and juicy plum tomatoes glistening with drizzled balsamic vinegar.
‘I hope you had a good time at the cocktail party last night,’ said Karin. ‘What did you think of the range?’