was now a trainee nursery school teacher—although looking at her brassy hair and short black skirt it came as no surprise to Lucas to learn that her previous occupation was “exotic dancer.” It was in this incarnation that she’d met and become involved with the millionaire hotelier and hedge fund guru, Anton Tisch. The same Anton Tisch whose office Lucas was currently on his way to, for the third time in as many days.
“He makes himself out to be this kind, charitable man, like some sort of saint,” Heidi goes on damningly, “yet he won’t even provide basic medical care for his own kid. It’s disgusting.”
If the story was accurate, Lucas was inclined to agree. Apparently, having fathered a daughter by this cretinous-looking young woman, Tisch had only agreed to pay basic maintenancefor the child when forced to do so by court order. This, despite having, conservatively, nine hundred million–odd dollars in the bank. Like so many of the Eastern European and Russian superrich who’d washed up in London in recent years, the original source of Tisch’s vast wealth remained an open question. Certainly he was known to have close links with Ilham Aliyev, president of Azerbaijan and ultimate controller of the Baku-Ceyhan pipeline responsible for piping a million gallons of oil a day into Western markets. Though no longer in the energy business—his passport described him as a fund manager and investor—Tisch’s money still reeked of Caspian crude.
When doctors had diagnosed his illegitimate daughter with severe autism a year ago, Heidi had gone back to her erstwhile lover asking for more money to pay for a nurse and to help fund a place for the little girl at a special school. But Tisch had told her to take a running jump. Unable to raise the legal fees to fight him a second time, Heidi had sold her story to the tabloids instead.
Of course, it might not be true. To be honest, Lucas wanted to believe it wasn’t; not least because it was depressing to learn that the man he hoped would soon be his employer was tighter than a mosquito’s asshole and had about as much compassion as a Nazi concentration camp commandant. But something about bubbly Heidi’s face told him she was telling the truth. She might be a tart, but she didn’t look like a liar.
“Embankment. This is Embankment.” The oddly soothing automated woman’s voice rang out through the speakers. “Next stop, Westminster. Change here for Charing Cross and other mainline stations.”
Only one more stop, thank God. There were lots of things Lucas hated about London: the weather, the prices, the way strangers kept calling him “mate.” But he reserved an especially vehement dislike for the filthy, overcrowded underground system. Normally he’d have walked the four-odd miles from the Cadogan, where he was staying, to Tisch’s office overlooking theThames. But despite the fact that it was August, the rain today was torrential, and he couldn’t afford to show up looking like a drowned rat.
He’d been to London before, to visit Ben, but never for more than a few days, and he’d spent most of those trips too drunk to know his left from his right, never mind what city he was in. But having lived here now for nearly two months, he was having serious second thoughts. Why couldn’t he have set his heart on a job somewhere warm and civilized, like Madrid or Rome? With his languages and starred MBA, he could have gone just about anywhere in Western Europe. Did he really have to pick this grayest, wettest, most astronomically expensive of cities and surround himself with a nation of people he had long ago learned to loathe?
Unfortunately, the answer to that was yes. Lucas had made a decision years ago never to aim for anything less than the best. And in the world of luxury boutique hotels, the Tischen Cadogan was the best. No question.
Two weeks ago he’d moved out of the squalid apartment he’d been renting in Tooting and checked himself in to
“He makes himself out to be this kind, charitable man, like some sort of saint,” Heidi goes on damningly, “yet he won’t even provide basic medical care for his own kid. It’s disgusting.”
If the story was accurate, Lucas was inclined to agree. Apparently, having fathered a daughter by this cretinous-looking young woman, Tisch had only agreed to pay basic maintenancefor the child when forced to do so by court order. This, despite having, conservatively, nine hundred million–odd dollars in the bank. Like so many of the Eastern European and Russian superrich who’d washed up in London in recent years, the original source of Tisch’s vast wealth remained an open question. Certainly he was known to have close links with Ilham Aliyev, president of Azerbaijan and ultimate controller of the Baku-Ceyhan pipeline responsible for piping a million gallons of oil a day into Western markets. Though no longer in the energy business—his passport described him as a fund manager and investor—Tisch’s money still reeked of Caspian crude.
When doctors had diagnosed his illegitimate daughter with severe autism a year ago, Heidi had gone back to her erstwhile lover asking for more money to pay for a nurse and to help fund a place for the little girl at a special school. But Tisch had told her to take a running jump. Unable to raise the legal fees to fight him a second time, Heidi had sold her story to the tabloids instead.
Of course, it might not be true. To be honest, Lucas wanted to believe it wasn’t; not least because it was depressing to learn that the man he hoped would soon be his employer was tighter than a mosquito’s asshole and had about as much compassion as a Nazi concentration camp commandant. But something about bubbly Heidi’s face told him she was telling the truth. She might be a tart, but she didn’t look like a liar.
“Embankment. This is Embankment.” The oddly soothing automated woman’s voice rang out through the speakers. “Next stop, Westminster. Change here for Charing Cross and other mainline stations.”
Only one more stop, thank God. There were lots of things Lucas hated about London: the weather, the prices, the way strangers kept calling him “mate.” But he reserved an especially vehement dislike for the filthy, overcrowded underground system. Normally he’d have walked the four-odd miles from the Cadogan, where he was staying, to Tisch’s office overlooking theThames. But despite the fact that it was August, the rain today was torrential, and he couldn’t afford to show up looking like a drowned rat.
He’d been to London before, to visit Ben, but never for more than a few days, and he’d spent most of those trips too drunk to know his left from his right, never mind what city he was in. But having lived here now for nearly two months, he was having serious second thoughts. Why couldn’t he have set his heart on a job somewhere warm and civilized, like Madrid or Rome? With his languages and starred MBA, he could have gone just about anywhere in Western Europe. Did he really have to pick this grayest, wettest, most astronomically expensive of cities and surround himself with a nation of people he had long ago learned to loathe?
Unfortunately, the answer to that was yes. Lucas had made a decision years ago never to aim for anything less than the best. And in the world of luxury boutique hotels, the Tischen Cadogan was the best. No question.
Two weeks ago he’d moved out of the squalid apartment he’d been renting in Tooting and checked himself in to
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