acquisition. As good as her word, the countess had couriered over copies of the deeds to her property along with building permits the very next morning. Pierpont had wired the six million reals to her Swiss account within an hour, and the land was his. Go to hell, Monsignor Cheapskate! But he hadn’t had a chance to drive out and see it until today.
Six acres of prime cliff-side property – six acres! – with its own private beach, easily accessible from both the city and from Paraty, Rio’s answer to East Hampton. Maximilian Pierpont could hardly believe his luck. Better still, he fully intended to nail the lovely Countess Valentina tonight, once he returned to the city. She’d invited him over to her apartment for dinner, always a good sign. The address was on one of the finest streets in Leblon, the most exclusive neighbourhood in the whole of South America. Clearly neither ‘Papa’ nor ‘poor Marco’ had left the lady short of funds. The prospect of swindling the sexy young heiress out of still more millions, while availing himself of her smoking-hot body in bed, was giving Maximilian Pierpont the biggest hard-on he’d had in a decade.
He reached the property just before noon. There were a few houses along this stretch of road, but no real standouts. Pierpont’s plot stood in splendid isolation at the very top of the bluffs. Valentina wasn’t kidding about the views. They were spectacular. On one side the ocean blurred into the cloudless sky, a symphony in limitless blue. On the other, mountains smothered by vivid green rainforest sparkled like vast heaps of newly polished emeralds. It’s even prettier than I imagined. Maximilian Pierpont congratulated himself again that he hadn’t lost out on this deal by listening to his dumb-ass lawyer.
‘It’s the first rule of real estate, Max,’ Ari Steinberg had warned him. ‘Don’t buy a pig in a poke. You taught me that, remember?’
‘The problem is, some stupid monsignor’s already poking my pig. He’s got this chick wrapped around his little finger, Ari. I need to make a move before he does.’
The lawyer was insistent. ‘You haven’t seen the land. You gotta see the land.’
‘I’ve seen the deeds. I’ve seen the building permits. And I know where it is. Prime coast, Ari, the best. We’re talking a Brazilian Malibu.’
‘But, Max…’
‘If we were talking about a ten percent profit, or twenty, or even fifty, I’d agree with you. But I can get this for peanuts! A fraction of what it’s worth. Wire her the money.’
‘I strongly urge you to reconsider.’
‘And I strongly urge you to do what the hell I tell you, Ari.’
Maximilian Pierpont hung up.
Stepping out of his Bentley, he ducked under the orange construction tape that marked the entry to the Di Sorrenti property. Make that the Pierpont property, he thought gleefully. A team of surveyors were already on-site. Pierpont walked up to the chief surveyor, smiling broadly.
‘Whaddaya think? Quite a view, huh?’ He couldn’t help boasting.
The chief surveyor looked at him steadily. ‘You can’t build a house here.’
Maximilian Pierpont laughed. ‘What do you mean I can’t build a house here? I can do whatever I want. It’s my land.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Sure it’s the point.’ Pierpont stopped laughing. This idiot was starting to annoy him. ‘I got legal permits, set in stone.’
‘I’m afraid that’s all that’s set in stone,’ said the surveyor. ‘The ground you’re standing on?’ He tapped at the grass beneath their feet with a stick. ‘This time next year it won’t be here.’
A chill ran down Maximilian Pierpont’s spine. ‘What?’
‘This is some of the worst erosion I’ve seen. Ever. It’s an ecological tragedy. Anything you build here will be down there before the walls are dry.’ The surveyor pointed at the beach below. Reached by a charming set of winding wooden steps, its soft white sand looked mockingly perfect.
‘But this area, this stretch of the coast…prices are sky-high,’ Pierpont spluttered.
‘Halfway up the mountain, sure,’ said the surveyor. ‘You got this knockout view. But here?’ He shrugged. ‘Here you are the view. Didn’t anyone say anything to you when you applied for these permits?’
‘I didn’t apply for them. The previous owner did.’
The surveyor frowned, confused. ‘Really? That’s odd. Because they’re only a week old.’
Behind Maximilian Pierpont, the leaves of the rainforest rustling softly in the breeze sounded uncannily like Ari Steinberg’s laughter.
THE APARTMENT IN LEBLON TOOK UP the entire top floor of a grand Victorian mansion. The door was opened by a British butler in full uniform.
‘I want to see the Countess Di Sorrenti.’ Maximilian Pierpont’s jowly face looked uglier than ever, like a bulldog chewing a wasp. That bitch is giving me my money back if I have to beat it out of her with a crowbar. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Valentina was so stupid, she probably didn’t realize herself that the land was worthless. It should be a simple enough thing to convince her to go back to the monsignor.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Who?’
Maximilian Pierpont glared at the butler.
‘Now listen to me, Jeeves. I’ve had a bad day as it is. I don’t need any more aggravation. You go and tell Valentina that Maximilian Pierpont is here.’
‘Sir, this apartment is owned by Mr and Mrs Miguel Rodriguez. The Rodriguezes have lived here for over twenty years. I can assure you, there is no “Valentina” at this address.’
Maximilian Pierpont opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, like a toad gaping uselessly at a fly.
There is no Valentina at this address.
There is no Valentina…
Racing back to his car, he called his accountant. ‘The money we wired on Tuesday, to that Swiss account? Make some calls. Find out who opened the account and where the funds are now.’
‘Mr Pierpont, no Swiss bank is going to reveal that sort of information. It’s proprietary, and—’
‘DO IT!’
A vein began to throb in Maximilian Pierpont’s temple. It was still throbbing forty minutes later when the accountant called back.
‘I don’t have a name, sir. I’m sorry. But I can tell you the account was closed down yesterday and all funds were withdrawn. That money is gone.’
GUNTHER HARTOG DROVE THE WEDDING CAR, a vintage 1957 Daimler Conquest, with Tracy and Jeff cuddled up in the back.
‘So, Mr and Mrs Stevens. Where to?’
‘The Marina da Glória,’ said Tracy. ‘We have a small yacht waiting there to take us to Barra da Tijuca. I packed us some clothes,’ she added to Jeff.
Jeff squeezed his wife’s thigh. ‘I can’t think why. You won’t be needing any for the next week at least.’
Tracy giggled. ‘Tomorrow morning we’re on a private plane to São Paulo, then on to Tunisia for the honeymoon. It’s too dangerous to fly direct from Rio. Pierpont or his goons might be waiting at the airport.’
Jeff looked at her lovingly. ‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, darling?’
‘I try.’
Tracy leaned into him. She tried to remember if she had ever felt quite this happy before but nothing came to mind. I’m Mrs Stevens. Mrs Jeff Stevens! she told herself, over and over. The scam she’d run on Pierpont had gone perfectly. Now she and Jeff really would go straight and leave this crazy life behind them. Jeff could