Читать книгу Gold Diggers - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 15

Karin stood by the fountain in the garden of Knightsbridge Heights waiting for Adam. The night had turned chilly and most of the guests were inside drinking and dancing. She knew he would seek her out eventually, quietly confident that she had made a lasting impression at Strawberry Hill House. Of course, Karin did not need to meet Adam Gold at the launch to get to know him better; she was a woman who liked to be prepared. No sooner had she received her invitation to the Knightsbridge launch than she was trawling the Internet for every story, interview and news piece on the Midas Corporation in Forbes, Fortune and the New York Times. Knowledge was a power that she was prepared to use every bit as ruthlessly as her sexuality.

The headlines she found spoke for themselves:

GOLD DEVELOPMENT THE BIGGEST IN SE ASIA

MIDAS SHARE RISE BREAKS HANG SENG RECORD

ADAM GOLD MAKES ANOTHER KILLING

The more she read about Adam, the more she felt they were kindred spirits. She recognized a drive, ambition and entrepreneurial spirit in Adam that she felt in herself. His background was one of wealth: his grandfather Aaron Grogovitz, a Hungarian emigrant who had settled in New Jersey in the 1930s and changed the family name to Gold, had made a fortune developing property in the post-war years. A devout Jew, the only thing he priced above family was his religion. So when his son David, a handsome college graduate on whose shoulders Aaron pinned the entire hopes of his empire, declared that he was to marry pretty classmate – and gentile – Julia Johnson, Aaron cut him off without a penny.

According to most accounts, David didn’t seem entirely distraught, happy to raise his family running a small real-estate agency in Yonkers. His son Adam, however, was a different animal altogether, having inherited every ounce of his grandfather’s drive and ambition, he won a full scholarship to Yale, but dropped out in the first year – why waste time in a library, he reasoned, when there were fortunes being made on Wall Street? Luther and Katz, Adam’s first employers, were a small New York investment house muscling in on the junk bond market championed by Michael Milken, and their traders were making a lot of money very, very quickly. After Milken’s arrest in 1987, Adam got out while the going was good, sinking his $10-million fortune into the business that was in his blood – real estate. He bought buildings in Tribeca for cash, converted them into designer lofts and sold them at a premium to wealthy traders. But his business really took off in 1992, when he bought landmark Manhattan buildings for peanuts out of the rubble of the property crash.

Suddenly Adam Gold was richer than the bankers, businessmen and celebrities to whom he sold £20-million apartments, richer than the CEOs who occupied his office blocks. His Manhattan home was one of the most talked-about townhouses in ‘The Grid’, the name given to the most exclusive blocks in the Upper East Side, as well as properties in Nassau, Lake Como and Dark Harbor in Maine. At forty-five, Adam Gold was eligible with a capital ‘E’ and speculating who would get him down the aisle had become a sport in the American society pages.

Karin was still lost in thought, turning all this information around in her head, when she heard a whisper in her ear.

‘Earth calling Karin …’

‘Adam,’ she smiled, turning to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Literally, I hear. I thought you were in Paris for the collections.’

She nodded. ‘For work not pleasure. My label shows there, plus I have to attend a trade fair to look at new fabrics for next season.’

‘Premiere Vision?’ asked Adam, gently taking her arm to steer her further down the garden.

‘You know it?’ asked Karin surprised. ‘I don’t meet many men who know so much about the fashion industry.’

‘I spend half my life with interior designers,’ he shrugged. ‘The gap between fashion and interiors is shrinking all the time.’

‘Umm, I guess we’re both selling a lifestyle to the same sort of people.’

Now he had led Karin to a quieter part of the Winter Garden where the background noise of the party had faded to a hum. She wondered what he was thinking. Was he sensing the same crackle of chemistry between them? Was he thinking about how long they could wait before they should end up in bed? She looked at him shrewdly. His face certainly wasn’t giving anything away; it was impassive and thoughtful, like a chess grand master waiting for her to make the next move.

‘Well, I think the apartments are incredible,’ said Karin quickly. ‘I heard a rumour that you’ve kept the best apartment for yourself.’

He nodded. ‘I could show you if you like, then you can make up your own mind.’

Karin felt as if they were in some elaborate Regency dance, both skirting around one another, slowly observing and sizing each other up, each trying to stay three moves ahead of the other.

‘I should really go and find my friend,’ said Karin with some reluctance. ‘She’s a little depressed and I’m worried she might throw herself into the fountain if I don’t stop her.’

Karin was scanning his face, willing him to look crestfallen at her refusal, but he merely nodded. ‘Maybe some other time, then.’

Karin returned the nod, determined not to show her own disappointment. Finally Adam smiled. ‘You know, you’re still the only woman I’ve had a decent conversation with in London,’ he said, as if it was a private joke between the two of them.

‘I didn’t know you were keeping count,’ smiled Karin, feeling a small flame of triumph.

‘So would you like to go for dinner?’ he asked.

It was Karin’s turn to make her chess move. ‘I’m very busy for the next week or two,’ she said.

‘Yes, so am I,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m in Venice for the carnival and Miami for business, but I’m sure we can find a window.’

‘How odd. I’m going to the carnival too,’ she replied as casually as she could.

‘Oh, that’s excellent. I was hoping you would give me the grand tour of London, but perhaps I can show you around Venice instead.’

‘Perhaps. I do know Venice very well,’ smiled Karin.

Adam was shaking his head and smiling. ‘Are you always this difficult?’

She grinned. ‘Only when I’m having fun.’

‘Molly Sinclair. You don’t look as if you’re having a good time.’ Molly turned round to see Marcus standing behind her. She had been leaning against the glass doors of the winter garden listening to a trickle of water falling into the circular pool. She was still fuming from her brief encounter with Adam Gold; that cocky shit had barely looked at her and he was constantly in an impenetrable throng of businessmen. To make matters worse, she’d spotted him cosying up to Karin Cavendish in the garden. She’d taken it out on Harry, ordering him to fetch her jacket from the Ferrari.

‘Well, I’m having a much better time now,’ she said, turning on the charm.

‘Where’s Harry?’ asked Marcus, looking around. ‘I’ve hardly had a chance to say a word to him all night.’

‘He’s off talking to people,’ she said with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘I’m sure he’s found someone more interesting to chat to.’

‘Well, I find that hard to believe,’ said Marcus. Molly examined his expression, trying to decide if his last comment was flirtatious or merely polite. Marcus Blackwell could be useful, she thought.

Marrying well was never just a case of two star-crossed lovers meeting by chance – not in the real world, anyway. It involved a lot of careful planning and manoeuvring. It was an art, thought Molly, an art she had studied for a long, long time.

‘You never did show me that apartment you promised,’ said Molly, touching Marcus’s arm.

‘It’s all locked up for the night.’

‘Oh, come on. You’re the boss around here. Surely you have a key?’

Marcus nodded and patted his pocket. ‘The reason I know the show apartment is locked is because I locked it myself.’

He put his hand lightly on her waist to steer her through the crowd to a private lift. Marcus slotted a card into the wall and the doors hissed open. They stood silently as the lift took them up to the fifteenth floor.

‘Wow,’ whistled Molly as she stepped out onto carpet so thick it almost covered her shoe. It was really was quite impressive what £10 million bought you in real estate.

Molly made her way slowly through the flat, Marcus silently following behind, lapping up her effusive compliments. And there was much to admire: floor-to-ceiling ‘his-and-hers’ plasma screens in the master bedroom, a walnut kitchen with white resin walls, climate-controlled closets and a polished bamboo floor in the bathroom. The look was cool minimalist with luxurious flourishes. Each apartment even came completely fitted out with bespoke cutting-edge Italian furniture. And then there was that view, high over Hyde Park.

‘You’ll see best from the balcony in the master bedroom,’ said Marcus slowly. Molly looked at him, then kicked off her heels and walked across to open the doors. She didn’t go out onto the balcony, just stood in the doorway, letting the cool night air ruffle her hair.

‘Is it embarrassing to admit I had your calendar on my wall at college?’ said Marcus behind her. Molly smiled; she knew she had him. Marcus was your typical Master of the Universe in the boardroom, but his devotion to work had starved him of passion. No regular girlfriend, possibly a few hookers. He was ripe for the picking.

‘Come over here,’ she said, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, ‘The breeze is lovely.’

Marcus walked over hesitantly. His eyes were hungry but nervous.

Molly gently took his hand and placed it on her breastbone, sliding it down her dress until his fingers brushed her hard, erect nipple. ‘Look what you did to me,’ she whispered, leaning so close that her bottom lip brushed his ear lobe.

‘Molly, Harry is my friend,’ said Marcus, the words catching in his throat.

‘I don’t want Harry,’ she purred, brushing her lips across his neck as she spoke. Her fingers traced down the line of his shirt buttons until she found his zip. ‘I want you,’ she whispered, ‘I’ve wanted you from the second I saw you.’

Suddenly their mouths were together, Marcus hurriedly undoing his trousers and pulling his boxer shorts off as they shuffled towards the bed. Pushing Molly back onto the expensive linen, Marcus hiked up her dress and roughly pulled down her panties, dipping two fingers into her wetness.

‘Now, don’t wait,’ she said, her voice shuddering. She wrapped her legs around him and guided him into her inch by inch, slowing him, taunting him, until he was fully inside her. Marcus was groaning in pleasure, reaching down to spread her legs wider, lifting her buttocks off the sheets so his cock could reach deeper and deeper.

‘Oh God, yes, harder,’ she begged, arching her back as Marcus thrust faster and faster into her, before he erupted, crying out, his face twisting, his nostrils flared.

He held on to her for one moment, then rolled to the side; they were both gasping.

‘Can I call you tomorrow?’ asked Marcus finally, as Molly sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling her panties back on.

‘I’ll call you,’ she said with a dirty smile, before smoothing down her short gold dress and moving towards the door. Three minutes later, she was back at the party, where Harry was frantically searching for her, clutching her jacket.

‘There you are darling,’ she said, kissing Harry on the lips. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’