Switch. Charlie Brooks
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dressing gown. She may have got away with it that morning, but not now.
Max pushed aside her long hair and kissed the back of her neck. He felt a familiar response as her body shivered. Though he’d learnt most of his foreplay tips from the sex column in GQ magazine, over the years Gemma had taught him how to turn her on. Today, though, Max was in a rush. He was bursting.
As he pulled her closer to him, she could feel him rubbing against her La Perla-clad bottom.
Max had bought her the underwear a week before, after they’d shared a few glasses of champagne at the Harrods caviar bar. He’d tried not to show his shock when the shop assistant asked him for the best part of three hundred pounds in return for the small swatch of black lace. Now, as he pulled off her dressing gown, he could see it was money well spent.
‘Someone’s come back horny,’ Gemma whispered. ‘Who did you meet, again?’
His response was muffled as he carried on kissing and nibbling at her neck. His left hand reached round and unclipped her bra. She stopped asking questions and knelt on the bed in front of him.
Max just wanted to lose himself in an old-fashioned quickie.
‘My God. Something’s woken you up.’ Gemma was totally in his grip. Max was squeezing her bum as hard as he could. He was feeling uncontrollably selfish.
‘That wasn’t very gentlemanly,’ Gemma teased as Max collapsed on the bed next to her. ‘You don’t deserve it, but there’s a present for you under your pillow,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘Now that you’ve finished.’
He ran his hand underneath the crisp linen pillowcase and felt a small box. He flipped it open and found himself looking at the Vacheron Constantin watch. He was now wide awake.
‘Gemma! How did you know? This is …’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Like it?’ He kissed her on the nose. ‘I love it. But how …?’
‘Oh, a little bird told me. Rather a sexy little bird, actually. If you hadn’t flirted so much with her, she might not have remembered.’
‘You shouldn’t have. You spoil me.’
Gemma stroked Max’s arm and put her head on his shoulder, looking away from him.
‘I wish you had swept me up and given me security, Max,’ Gemma said, surprising Max with such sudden intensity.
Having been given such an expensive gift, Max felt guilty as his brain rapidly calculated what giving Gemma security would cost. And then wondered if Casper would find the watch on Gemma’s credit-card bill. Probably not. It would get lost amongst everything else.
‘You wish I were Casper?’
‘No, of course not. But you do understand why I married him, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ Max said as he looked at the watch.
‘You know I love Casper. In a way. We should probably have had children. That was my fault. I wasn’t sure at the time and it’s probably too late now. In more ways than one. But I can’t bear the thought of having nothing again, Max. Does that make me a bitch? Being here with you?’
‘No. Of course it doesn’t. If you don’t hurt Casper, how could it?’
Gemma didn’t really register his answer. Her mind was doing what it always did when the present was threatened by the past: desperately trying to rationalize the status quo.
‘Max, you wouldn’t marry me even if I wanted you to. If I left Casper. Would you?’
‘I’m not the marrying type, Gemma. The stay-at-home reliable husband …’
‘Not all women are like your mother,’ Gemma interrupted. ‘You don’t have to run away from all of us.’
Gemma had no idea how cruel her remark was. Max had never told her how or why his father died. So he couldn’t be angry with her now. He stood up from the bed and poured himself a large glass of Scotch.
‘Enough of this,’ he said lightly. ‘I want to take you out wearing my beautiful watch. At least if I run away from you tonight, I’ll be able to time myself.’
Amsterdam, six months earlier
Paul Wielart was a man of strict routine. Six days a week he arrived at his offices near the flower market at seven o’clock sharp. The bells of the local clock tower could have been timed to him turning the key in the door.
To the unknowing eye, his offices reflected the image of a dour accountant. It was well ordered, old fashioned and immaculately clean. You could straighten your tie in the reflection of the brass plate outside the front door. The black-and-white-squared marble floor gleamed in the hallway; as did the internal glass windows, which gave the offices a semi-open-plan feel.
Wielart’s private office, however, was a lair shut away behind a heavy oak door. With the exception of his long-serving battleaxe of an assistant, none of the staff ever set foot in there. And not many of the firm’s clients were permitted to grace the stiff brown leather chairs or the nineteenth-century velvet-upholstered chaise longue.
Wielart was a small, unimposing man. He wore a suit and tie every day of his life and a black homburg whenever he set foot outdoors. In his early twenties, he had married a cousin, who was glad to have a prosperous husband and knew her place. They had one daughter, Josebe, who’d never done anything wrong, but hadn’t done much right either.
Having inherited the company from his father, together with a steady stream of respectable but mundane clients, Wielart quickly learnt that there were people who would pay extremely good money to have their accounts ‘organized’ and certified by a respectable accountancy firm.
Wielart bought his clients businesses on whose balance sheets cash could appear. Hotels, clubs and restaurants were initially his stock in trade. And then Wielart was introduced to Jorgan Stam.
Stam dealt in pretty well anything that was illegal. He’d started by trafficking prostitutes from Eastern Europe and then got into ‘hard’ drugs. The casino that he now owned – the Dice Club – had a rigged roulette table and only catered for losers. Any half-serious player was thrown out. Whatever Stam touched threw off cash.
It hadn’t taken Stam long to persuade Wielart that it would be in both their interests to team up. Wielart would keep the façade of his accountancy business going but devote his skill and energy to legitimizing Stam’s money trail. A fifty-fifty partnership, which Stam assumed would bind them inextricably together.
Wielart added a whole layer of supply companies to their operation. One of them, a vegetable retail business, turned over in excess of a million euros per annum. And yet it never so much as handled a sprig of broccoli.
The hotels and restaurants that bought these fictitious vegetables marked them up three hundred per cent, as the taxman expected, and sold them on to their customers – the vast majority of whom happened to be cash buyers.
The profits that all of these businesses made appeared to be legitimate. As did the money the vegetable farms made at the end of the chain. And their profits were constantly expanding.
There was some tax to be paid, but the bulk of the proceeds Wielart converted into more land or fresh businesses before the taxman got his hands on any liquid profits. And all the while he maintained the image of the dour accountant.
Wielart was the epitome of the respectable husband, though he cared little about his wife or daughter. He spent as little time at home as possible, and the rest of his hours behind his desk. His wife was plain, dull, excelled at nothing and appealed to few. Josebe took after her.
However, Francisca Deetman – Josebe’s