his own trade on the streets, selling stolen cut-price jewellery to travelling businessmen. One such businessman, an unhappily married tycoon who had recently lost a son Reuben’s age, took him under his wing, trained him and served up a job in one of his fledgling telecommunications companies. With the Soweto sprawl in the seventies came massive investment in the suburbs—Reuben was in the thick of it and, as each year passed, his flair for business grew. Aged twenty, he launched VDM Communications. Soon he was rivalling the man who had taught him everything and, as his business swelled, so did his fortune, his reputation, and his ambition. Today, VDM was the most lucrative company in the world.
Reuben van der Meyde was not a man prepared to be taken down.
He paced the terrace, pausing occasionally to put his hands on the balustrade and glare darkly at the water. He checked his chunky silver watch, grimaced when the links caught the reddish hairs on his arms. Four hours. It wasn’t enough.
‘I’m telling you, JB, the damn thing’s got me in a sweat. I’m like a pig in shitting heat.’ He removed his cap and swiped at a persistent fly.
Jean-Baptiste Moreau loosened the knot on his tie and didn’t respond. He was facing the ocean, concentrated on calmer waters. Emerald palms rustled in the salty breeze.
‘I hope to fuck you’re coming up with a solution,’ said Reuben. ‘Because it’s not just me being threatened, boy, it’s you as well.’
JB remained where he was, on one of the high-backed wicker chairs that peppered the rugged veranda of his white-stone villa. Despite the sun, he did not perspire. His dark-blond hair was immaculate, neat at the neck, and his expression still. The only betrayal that he was deep in thought was the slight twitch to the scar across his top lip, a giveaway since he was a boy.
‘Shit!’ Reuben slammed down his fist. ‘After all the work I’ve put into this—’
‘It might not be what you think.’
‘What else could it be, hey? A fucking strip-o-gram birthday cake?’
Finally JB turned. The strength of his gaze compelled an already struggling Reuben to sit down. His eyes really were extraordinary, an untarnished blue with flecks of silver, uncannily light.
‘Nothing in that message suggests this person knows anything about what we’re trying to protect,’ JB told him. ‘Keep it together.’
Reuben laughed bitterly. ‘You don’t think I’m one of them has a certain ring to it?’ He ground his teeth. ‘I spent all night trying to look at it a different way. Bottom line is I’ve got a bad feeling. This person got into my private mail. When was the last time that happened?’ JB didn’t answer. Reuben sprang to his feet. ‘Let me tell you. Never.’
The Frenchman’s gaze slid back to the ocean. ‘You worry too much. We’re in control.’
‘It’s OK for you, isn’t it?’ Reuben blasted. ‘Swanning around Hollywood, scouting for pretty girls, while one of us is trying to run a business!’ JB didn’t react. ‘Damn! It’s my reputation on the line here, not yours.’
‘Are you insinuating I don’t have my own problems to deal with?’
Reuben caught the menace in his words. ‘It’s not my fault you’re hard up for the Spanish broad,’ he said. ‘I knew that girl was trouble from the start. Ones like her always are. Too wild for what we had in mind. Young, dumb and desperate—remember?’
‘You know nothing about her.’
Reuben grimaced. ‘I know she was meant to be a job, for Crissakes. Try tying your dick in a knot next time—it helps.’
JB stood. Instantly the shorter man, despite his wealth and power, took a step back. He’d regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. Moreau was not a man he wanted to piss off.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he said quietly. ‘Rebecca is inside. And stop cowering like a dog. Fear achieves nothing.’
Reuben matched the younger man’s glare until eventually he was forced to look away. ‘I’ll assume you’re right.’
‘I’m always right.’
One of JB’s assistants emerged from the villa. Reuben was about to explode at her for interrupting a private conversation but stopped when it became clear JB was expecting her.
‘The caterers have arrived, Mr Moreau,’ she said, smoothing her skirt down, chosen because she’d been told it made her ass look good. Ridiculous. One night was all it had been. She knew JB Moreau took women to bed like he ate hot meals, and didn’t know whether to curse herself for having allowed it or to thank everything good in the world for those hours.
‘Thank you, Sara.’
‘What do you want to know about the caterers for?’ Reuben frowned once she’d gone.
‘I’ve requested updates on all arrivals.’
‘Yeah, but I got people looking after that.’
JB ran a hand across his jaw. ‘Let’s stick to business, shall we?’
Reuben leaned in. ‘Fine,’ he said impatiently, ‘but I’ve got enough else to think about without this … inconvenience. The organisers are climbing up my arse and the captain hasn’t bloody showed up yet. It’s all very well decking the place out like a pair of frilly knickers but if the thing doesn’t sail I might as well have a floating turd out there, hey! What am I going to do, give them a swimming lesson?’ He scowled. ‘Believe me: soon as I find out who sent that message I swear I’ll rip their fucking throat out.’
JB had neither the time nor inclincation to watch Reuben fall spectacularly to pieces. He headed inside. ‘I have to make a phone call.’
‘Make it quick. We’ll rendezvous in an hour. This party’s going to be one hell of a stunt to pull, my friend.’
The Frenchman turned at the open door. ‘As long as it’s the only stunt getting pulled, I’ll be happy.’
Margaret Jensen did not like other people being in her kitchen. She worked in this place three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and yet, on these occasions, it counted for nothing. It was like allowing strangers into her home and letting them touch things, move them, put them back in the wrong places. She found it easier to stand apart and let the caterers get on with it. The company hired for tonight’s event ran with a military precision that rivalled even her own.
Hovering at the threshold, she observed the food being prepared. The fastidious detail of the champagne caviar, the pink lobster mousse, the gold-leaf mint and basil tarts, the seven-tiered miniature cakes, belied the chaos: white-aproned staff running back and forth, wanting to get everything perfect. It would never be enough. Mr V would find something to complain about, whatever the standard.
This afternoon, however, Margaret Jensen had more pressing things on her mind.
She wiped her hands on her skirt. She could feel her pulse, fluid behind her clavicle.
The plan she would execute in just a few hours’ time was years in the making. Eight, to be exact. Oh, she hadn’t settled on Mr V’s gruesome fate until more recently—not till she’d met the man
