by Marie Astor
“Sure it is. It’s internal undercover work,” Dennis retorted.
“I just thought it might be nice to have Laskin on board, but suit yourself.”
“I’m not saying that it’s a bad idea, but I think it’s too early for that, that’s all.”
Chapter 7
David Muller motioned to the waitress for another round of drinks. A few moments later, a pretty blonde brought two dirty martinis to the table. The service at Delmonico’s was top-notch. David was a frequent patron, and the waiters practically fell over themselves in order to please him.
“To fortuitous outcomes,” said David as he raised his drink, smiling at his lunch companion, Tom Wyman.
“Cheers.” Wyman took a long swallow of his drink. “I must admit that I thought it was going to be touch and go for a while,” Wyman added, popping an olive into his mouth.
“For a while,” David conceded, “but not for long.” Wyman deserved much of the credit for the happy outcome, but that did not give him the right to rub it in. Had Wyman not introduced David Muller to Aileen Finnegan, David would not be celebrating his exoneration, but that was where Wyman’s contribution ended. David did the rest of the work himself and would have to continue doing it for the foreseeable future. The authorities had built what seemed like a bulletproof case against David Muller and his hedge fund, Emperial; the broker David conducted his dealings through; and Bostoff Securities, along with its owner, Jonathan Bostoff. Fortunately, however, there was no such thing as bulletproof evidence—not when one was dating the daughter of New York’s attorney general. Aileen Finnegan was far from being a beauty, but her father’s political clout more than made up for her physical shortcomings.
“Aileen sure has fallen for you. But then you were always quite the ladies’ man.”
David downed the rest of his drink, refusing to dignify Wyman’s remark with an answer. Wyman had been in just as much hot water as David. The services that Wyman had performed for Jon Bostoff and Bostoff Securities were egregious enough for Wyman to lose his law license and would have cost him a huge fine and possible jail time. David had been the one to take the bullet for both of them. It just so happened that Aileen Finnegan fancied David’s British charm. Despite his last name, David Muller had little to do with Germany except for his ancestors who had left their homeland for Great Britain somewhere in late eighteen hundreds. Not that David cared: his was not a pedigree worthy of a family crest. But while his Essex accent placed him solidly in the middle-class in his homeland, to Americans he was bona fide English nobility.
“You are aware that Cornelius Finnegan is expecting you to propose marriage to his daughter, right? He already thinks of you as his son-in-law.” Wyman would not relent.
David flinched at the reminder of the hefty price he had agreed to pay for his and Wyman’s freedom.
“They hung all the blame on that dope Jon Bostoff, but the decision could easily be reversed if additional evidence were discovered,” Wyman added.
As if David needed reminding just how much additional evidence could come to light. He had devised the scheme himself, and he had hired Tom Wyman to help him execute it. Bostoff Securities was struggling financially, and Jonathan Bostoff, who had just taken over the company management after his father, was the perfect mark. Hungry for profits, he was dumb enough to go along with David’s plan. David sent stock prices plummeting while reaping ginormous profits from his scheme, but legally Bostoff was on the hook. All of David’s orders had been sent through Impala Group, a Cayman Island-based company that Wyman had registered in Bostoff’s name. The scheme seemed impenetrable until an undercover Treasury investigator managed to get Wyman drunk and steal company documents from him, exposing David’s elaborate cover-up. Cornelius Finnegan’s mighty hand had made the evidence inadmissible, but David understood that his fortune could easily change if he lost Finnegan’s protection. “I wonder what the statute of limitations is on the case …” David mused.
Wyman placed his glass on the table and stared at David. “Listen to me, David, and listen well: Cornelius Finnegan is not a man to cross. He takes his family matters close to heart. If you were to so much as harm a hair on his daughter’s head, the man would make sure that you never saw the light of day again.”
“Yeah, you’re not the one banging her, Tom.” Now that the deal had been struck, David felt that he had exchanged the threat of physical prison for a figurative one. The prospect of years of making love to a woman one abhorred seemed a sentence too wicked even for the most inventive prosecutor to assign.
“I would gladly do the honors, but she picked you. Get some Viagra for crying out loud!”
Normally, David would have been insulted by Wyman’s words, but as the image of Aileen’s fleshy thighs and udder-like breasts materialized in his mind, Viagra started to sound like a very good idea.
“Get off your high horse, David,” Wyman continued. “Let’s look at the facts: yes, you’ve made good money, but as far as the big timers are concerned, it’s small change. With Cornelius Finnegan backing you, you could play in the big leagues and no one would as much as dare lay a finger on you.”
“Fine, you’ve convinced me. Now, let’s order,” David snapped. A good steak was just what he needed to lift his spirits.
An hour later, David Muller exited Delmonico’s in a much better state of mind. He declined Wyman’s offer to split a cab under the pretext of wanting to walk off the heavy dinner.
Once he saw Wyman drive away in the cab, David signaled for another taxi. He might be required to deliver sexual pleasure to Aileen Finnegan for the foreseeable future, but that did not mean that Aileen would be the only woman receiving his attention.
David checked his watch: he was right on time. In a few minutes, Mila Brabec would be in his arms. A look of longing came over David’s face as he thought of Mila’s long, slinky legs and the way she wrapped them around his shoulders when the two of them united in all-consuming passion. Mila’s blue eyes were like deep pools of water, not tiny slits like Aileen’s, and Mila’s breasts fit gracefully into the palms of David’s hands instead of sloppily spilling over like Aileen’s. Mila’s skin was unblemished ivory, as opposed to Aileen’s never-ending freckles that were splattered over her face and her forearms, and Mila’s long hair was as dark and smooth as onyx, not at all like Aileen’s frizzy red mop. Until he had met Mila Brabec, David Muller had been proud to say that he had never really been attached to a woman. But now he knew that all those years of idle sex were meaningless. At the age of thirty-nine, he had fallen in love for the first time.
He had started seeing Mila when his scheme with Bostoff Securities had been in full swing. At the time, David’s world had seemed complete: he was rolling in dough and bound to make more of it. David bit his knuckles. Just when things seemed to be going your way, life turned the tables on you and spat you right in the face. He dreaded the thought of Aileen and the many nights and days he would have to spend with her. In a way he felt sorry for the girl: a twenty-nine-year-old virgin! The idea seemed ridiculous but in Aileen’s case it had been true. Had a different woman been involved, David might have been flattered, but with Aileen he was merely reminded of how dire his circumstances had been. Apparently, no man had considered Aileen to be a worthy conquest. Still, as much as he griped, he knew that being sentenced to Aileen was better than being sentenced to jail. He had bartered his freedom to achieve his aims before.
David’s father was a shopkeeper, but he had wanted more for his son. He made David a deal: David did not have to work in the shop after school as long as his grades were good enough for him to make it into top colleges; if he failed, he would have to work off his allowances retroactively, with interest. David did not need a greater encouragement and was accepted into Cambridge. With a Cambridge degree in hand, David had been able to secure a position in London working for a U.S. investment bank. A few years later, he had convinced his supervisor to send him on an assignment to New York.
F
rom the moment that he had arrived in New York, he knew that he wanted to make this splendid country his home, and not just in any of its cities but the city: New York. There were none of the stuffy class distinctions of his homeland; the air felt freer, lighter, with opportunities lurking behind every corner. There was, however, just one problem: unless David found a means of obtaining legal documentation to stay in the U.S., his presence in New York would be at the mercy of his employer. He had been in his mid-twenties at the time, which was far too young for marriage, but David knew what had to be done. Girls fell all over him, but he was careful in his choice. He was not marrying for love but for a purpose.
He picked the most easygoing of the contenders for his affections: Linda Johnson was an accountant at a major accounting firm and was as bland as her name. The two of them led a fairly happy marital existence, which was helped by the fact that both worked long hours. Of course, David’s late “work” hours included activities other than work, but Linda either remained blissfully oblivious to the fact or simply did not feel the need to object. Five years later, David became a citizen of the United States. A month later he moved out of his and Linda’s apartment and filed for divorce.
He had come a long way from a hopeful wannabe to his current station in life, and he was certain that a man as enterprising as himself would not be currying Cornelius Finnegan’s favors forever. Yes, most likely he would have to marry Aileen, but that did not mean that he would have to stay married to her forever. Despite Tom Wyman’s cautionary words, David knew for a fact that no human being remained powerful indefinitely—politicians especially so.
***
In her ground-floor, Lower East Side studio apartment, Mila Brabec was busy finishing her makeup. After applying the last coat of mascara, Mila examined her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing David’s latest gift to her, a black lace teddy with black lace stockings, both from La Perla. The man sure loved giving her lingerie, but as far as Mila was concerned these gifts were for David: she could just as easily bang him in a T-shirt. They had been seeing each other for a while now. It was high time for more generous gifts; jewelry would be a good start. But what she really wanted was a better place to live. She was sick and tired of this dump. The windows of her sunless apartment—if a two-hundred-fifty-square-foot hole could be called an apartment—were facing the pavement, and the bathroom was out in the hallway and had to be shared with three other tenants on her floor. At least she did not have to walk up the rickety stairs, which made the ground-level location of her apartment a major plus. It was not the Upper East Side, but it was far better than the apartment Mila shared with her parents and grandfather in Prague.
She had dreamed of becoming a model, thinking of the women from her country who had made it big: Petra Nemcova, Daniela Pestova. These glamazons too had been hopeful girls once, vying for their place in the limelight. There was no reason why Mila Brabec should not find her own spot under the sun. Boys and men had been lavishing her with their attention ever since Mila turned twelve. In Prague, men threw wistful glances at her every time she walked down the street, but in New York beautiful women were an everyday occurrence. It had taken a little over three months to rid her of her illusions. After canvassing every modeling agency in town, Mila learned that at twenty-two she was considered too old as she was competing against nymphets of fifteen, and her perfectly normal weight of one hundred twenty pounds on a five-nine frame was deemed to be borderline elephantine. So, no modeling contract for her but she kept her spirits up. The way she saw it, she had a year in New York: that’s how long her visa was for, and she might as well use it. Who knew? She might meet an American prince tomorrow and have her fairy-tale ending. After all, her cousin Ania had managed to find her prince charming, and Ania was not nearly as good-looking as Mila.
It was because of Ania that Mila found herself in New York. Cousins through their fathers, Ania and Mila had never been close back in Prague. The five-year age difference between them was partly to blame, but more so was the difference in their temperaments: Ania had always thought Mila to be too wild, and in exchange Mila was irked by Ania’s timidity. But when Ania had snagged her American documentary producer husband and established herself in their Upper East Side penthouse residence, she was compelled to boast her new lavish lifestyle to her relations, which led to her extending an invitation to Mila. Mila did not have to be asked twice. There was nothing holding her back in Prague. She had just received her degree in Finance and was slated to start work as a teller in the local bank. The day after she received Ania’s invitation, Mila informed her future employer that she would not be commencing her employment. The way she saw it, there would always be time enough to go back to Prague and get a job as a bank teller or a secretary, which was all one could hope for even with an A average from the best university in Prague, at least not without influential connections paving one’s way. And with her mother working as a secretary and her father employed as a factory worker, Mila did not have anyone to help her but herself.
A month after Mila’s arrival, Ania started asking questions about Mila’s plans. Determined to milk her stay at Ania’s luxurious digs for as long as possible, Mila avoided concrete answers until Ania started dropping forceful hints about Mila moving out. Sure, she was happy about Mila extending her visa, but newlyweds Ania and Daniel needed their privacy. As if a six-bedroom penthouse lacked privacy. But Mila had no choice but to start looking for a place to live. When the ground-floor apartment in the crappy Lower East Side building became available, Mila moved right in. At least, no matter how small the place was, she did not have to share it with clothes-and-food-stealing roommates. Ania had been kind enough to co-sign the lease for her, and Mila had just enough savings from her college summer jobs to pay the first month’s rent and one month’s deposit. Then, she got a job as a waitress.
Six months ago Mila’s luck finally changed. She met David Muller at one of those late-night fashionable lounge bashes the girls at her job were always fluttering to, and things started to look up. When she first heard David’s British accent, Mila had been wary. What use would dating another foreigner be to her? But once she learned that David had lived in New York for almost twenty years and had his citizenship, she relaxed: as far as she was concerned, David was as American as Washington. Still, she had to play her cards right. Her U.S. visa was only good for another five months. If she did not get David to commit, off she would go, back to the motherland.
Not that Mila’s attention was committed exclusively to David. With his busy work schedule, David saw her no more than three times a week, which left her plenty of time to fish, but so far David had been the most attractive catch Mila had secured.
The sound of the ringing doorbell brought Mila back to reality. It was time to go and rock David Muller’s world.
Chapter 8
“I will see you later, honey pie,” David Muller whispered into Mila’s ear.
“Do you really have to leave now?” Mila pouted.
As David’s eyes traveled along Mila’s long, shapely legs, graceful arms, the valley of her abdomen, and her lovely breasts, he was tempted to stay. But he knew that he was in no position to cancel his dinner with Aileen. At least for now, Cornelius Finnegan held way too much clout over him.
“Yes, baby, I do,” David whispered, tracing the outline of Mila’s long neck with his lips.
“If you’re not in too much of a rush …” Mila’s hand slid down his stomach.
David glanced at the clock on the nightstand: it was a quarter after seven, and he had to make it to Long Island by eight p.m. to pick up Aileen. “No can do, baby. Sorry, I’ve got to run. But I will take a rain check.” David nibbled Mila’s breast.
“Ouch!” Mila squealed with mocked hurt. David knew that she loved him using his teeth on her when they made love. “I’ll hold you to it.”
“You won’t have to. I’ll be here to collect.”
David rose from the bed and wondered if he should shower before
leaving, but decided against it: there simply was not enough time. Besides, it was not as though he planned to take Aileen back to his place tonight. After making love to Mila it would be simply impossible.
“Honey bear?” Mila pouted.
“Yes, baby?” David felt himself melt with tenderness toward her. He loved it when she called him honey bear. It was a nickname Mila had invented especially for him.
“Oh, nothing,” she murmured, lowering her eyes. “I know you’re in a hurry. We’ll talk later.”
He rushed toward her. “What is it, Mila? You know you can tell me anything.”
She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “It’s just that I was thinking of renting a different apartment, and I was wondering if you could help me find one. Would you know of a good real estate agent?”
David understood the hint at once. How could he have been so pigheaded? He had been seeing Mila for months, and aside from a rich assortment of lingerie, she was none the better for it. Sure, he wanted her to love him for himself, which was why he had been cautious. But now that she had stuck by him, he could become more generous. Besides, it would be nice to be able to see Mila in surroundings that matched her looks.
“Say no more, baby. I’ll have my agent find a nice place for you.” David kissed Mila’s hand. “I’ve got big plans for us, baby. You just wait and see.”
With that, David put on his jacket and headed for the door. With any luck he would make it to Aileen’s on time.
***
Aileen Finnegan sat down at her vanity table and took out her makeup kit. There had been many times in the past when she would feel discouraged to go on with the process, confronted with her pasty white, freckle-splotched skin, thin lips and small eyes ringed by short, pale eyelashes, and stringy red hair. Even as a girl she had always known that she would never be beautiful. Why was it that some women were beautiful and some not at all? Shouldn’t there be some fairness when it came to divvying up good looks? Aileen often wondered. But when it came to good looks, genes and luck determined the outcome.
