these tiresome Americans would get a move on. The explosive sexual chemistry between Jeff Stevens and Tracy Whitney made Father Alfonso deeply uncomfortable. As if he were committing a sin just by standing next to them. On the other hand, they had tipped him very handsomely for the use of the chapel at such short notice.
‘So did you get it?’ Jeff asked, not taking his grey eyes from Tracy’s.
‘Get what?’
‘My present, of course.’
‘Oh yes.’ Tracy grinned. ‘I got it all right.’
Jeff Stevens kissed her passionately on the mouth.
Father Alfonso coughed loudly. ‘Please, Mr Stevens. Restrain yourself! Estão na casa de Deus. This is a place of worship. You are not yet married.’
‘Sorry.’ Jeff grinned, looking anything but.
She did it. Tracy did it. She outwitted the great Maximilian Pierpont. After all these years.
Jeff Stevens gazed at his wife-to-be adoringly.
He had never loved her more.
TEN DAYS EARLIER…
SCHIPHOL AIRPORT, AMSTERDAM.
TRACY WHITNEY LEANED BACK IN HER first-class seat, number 4B, and sighed with contentment. In a few hours she would be reunited with Jeff. They would be married, in Brazil. No more capers, Tracy thought, but I won’t miss them. Life will be thrilling enough just being Mrs Jeff Stevens.
Their last con, stealing the priceless Lucullan Diamond from the Netherlands diamond-cutting factory in Amsterdam, had been a fitting swansong. Together, Tracy and Jeff had outwitted both the Dutch police and Daniel Cooper, the dogged insurance agent who had tracked them all across Europe, in a daring and dramatic heist. We’ll never top that, thought Tracy. And we certainly don’t need any more money. It was the perfect time to retire.
‘Excuse me.’
A puffy, dissipated-looking middle-aged man was standing over her. He indicated the window seat. ‘That’s my seat, honey. Great day for a flight, huh?’ There was a leer in his voice as he squeezed past her.
Tracy turned away. She had no interest in making conversation, especially with this creep.
Sitting down, her companion nudged her. ‘Since we’re going to be seatmates on this flight, little lady, why don’t you and I get acquainted? My name is Maximilian Pierpont.’
Tracy’s mental Rolodex whirred into action, but she displayed no visible sign of emotion.
Maximilian Pierpont. Legendary corporate raider. Buys up companies and strips them. Ruthless. Three times divorced. Owner of most valuable Fabergé egg collection outside the Hermitage in Leningrad.
‘Countess Valentina Di Sorrenti.’ She offered him her hand.
‘A countess, eh? Charmed.’ Maximilian Pierpont pressed his lips to Tracy’s wrist. They were wet and slimy, like a toad. She forced herself to smile.
Tracy had first heard the name ‘Maximilian Pierpont’ on board the QE2, many years before, when she and Jeff Stevens found themselves passengers on the same voyage bound for London. Jeff had been planning to rob the famously unscrupulous Pierpont, but had ended up pulling an ingenious betting scam with Tracy instead, tricking two chess grand masters into playing each other in a rigged game.
Later, Gunther Hartog had commissioned Tracy to rob Pierpont on the Orient Express train to Venice, but he never turned up.
Tracy’s beloved mother, Doris Whitney, had killed herself after a local mafioso in her native New Orleans, Joe Romano, tricked her out of her family business. Tracy’s father had spent his life building up the Whitney Automotive Parts Company. After his death, Romano raided the company, firing everybody and leaving Doris penniless.
Tracy had long since taken her revenge on Joe Romano. But her hatred of corporate raiders never left her. As far as she was concerned, there was a special corner of hell reserved for the Maximilian Pierponts of this world.
You won’t get away this time, you bastard.
THE FLIGHT WAS LONG. TRACY CHATTED amiably with Pierpont for almost two hours before he fell asleep, snoring loudly like a beached walrus. It was enough time for her to embellish her alter ego a little. Tracy had played the Countess Valentina Di Sorrenti before and knew her history well. (She’d written the countess’s Wikipedia page, after all.) Valentina was a widow (Poor Marco! He died so young and so needlessly. A jet ski accident in Sardinia. Valentina witnessed it all from the upper deck of their yacht, El Paradiso) and came from an ancient, aristocratic family. She had recently lost her father and hinted at a large inheritance, without being drawn into details. Details were best avoided, in Tracy’s experience, especially while a con was still being formulated. She also made sure to display a charmingly feminine lack of understanding about financial matters and the ways of the world that made Maximilian Pierpont’s greedy eyes shine almost as much as they did when he looked at her breasts, something he did frequently and with no hint of embarrassment. By the end of the conversation, Countess Valentina had agreed to meet him for dinner the following evening at one of Rio’s finest restaurants.
Relieved that the odious Pierpont was finally asleep, Tracy picked up an in-flight magazine. The first article she read was about the soaring value of beachside property in Brazil. One featured estate boasted an Olympic-size infinity pool and formal gardens that could have rivalled those at the Palace of Versailles. Tracy ran a finger over the pictures in awe. Jeff and I could be happy in a place like that. Our children could swim in the pool. They’ll all be amazing swimmers. And one day our daughter could get married in the gardens, with a line of flower girls in front of her, carpeting the lawn with rose petals…
She laughed at herself. Perhaps they should get married themselves first. One fantasy at a time.
The second article was about the environment, and the devastating effects of erosion on communities south of Rio. Tracy read about farmers who’d lost everything, of entire villages that had been abandoned, reclaimed by the sea. She read about terrible accidents, in which slum dwellers by the coast had drowned, and those inland had been buried alive under rivers of wet mud. What a terrible way to die, thought Tracy. In Brazil, more than anywhere else in the world, there was one country for the rich and another for the poor.
It wasn’t until the seat-belt signs were switched back on and the plane began its descent into Rio that it came to her. As the images rolled through her consciousness one by one – of her and Jeff at an altar, getting married; of infinity pools and mansions and slums and mudslides; of Maximilian Pierpont pressing his revolting wet lips to her skin; of her mother, eyes shut tight, holding the revolver up to her temple – she suddenly murmured the word ‘Yes!’
‘You all right, little lady?’
Pierpont, awake again now, leaned in closer. His breath smelled of stale
