up at her as she sat down, a smile flashing momentarily across his handsome face. Damn! The bartender was too boyish-looking for her tastes, but this fellow was quite the piece of beefcake, with dark hair, blue eyes and the kind of jawline you didn’t see outside old Hollywood movies anymore. He was certainly a lot better looking than Maarten.
Maarten. Bloody Maarten. Where-the-fuck-are-you-now Maarten. Why-do-I-bloody-care Maarten. She answered the last with a sigh. In one sense, it would be the easiest thing in the world to dump Mister Kropp—after all, she had what she wanted in a safe box at Heathrow. The danger was that Maarten was a squealer. As soon as she left him, he’d be straight to the police and things would heat up on her trail. Better for the moment to stick to the plan: get Coilin to fence the Wallenstein, fly out to South America and get rid of him there. Then she could lose this identity and enjoy the proceeds of her latest crime.
For a moment she wondered whether she’d be able to do all this and not have sex with him. That almost made her feel guilty: almost , but not quite. He’d done an awful lot for her, and she’d strung him along nicely so far, but the truth was that Maarten Kropp was a slimy little man and not the sort of person she’d fuck for pleasure—and Karla took pride in the fact that she only ever fucked for pleasure. Perhaps, if worst came to the worst, she could get away with a blowjob, just to keep him quiet. After all, as Bill Clinton had so famously observed, oral wasn’t really sex.
She was dressed as nondescriptly as possible, in jeans and a sweater, clothes that nonetheless showed off the fact that this was a woman with a very nice figure indeed. (Damn it, she wasn’t the type of woman to dress like a bag lady, and this was a Mantaray! A bit last season, but still enough to make her feel a part of the several million dollars she was now worth.) As she ordered a gin, she realised that her phone was making a buzzing sound and she pulled it out. There was a text message from Maarten, offering his apologies and telling her that he’d meet her in the morning.
Cursing under her breath, she phoned him back. Funny, she thought. The message had only come through a few moments before but it was switched off. What the hell was Maarten doing? She’d visited his room and banged on the door but there was no answer. In frustration, she called up his room number and left a short message.
“Something wrong?” It was Handsome, sitting a few seats away. His face looked concerned, sympathetic.
“Oh, nothing much,” Karla replied, keeping up her Danish accent for the time being. Almost unconsciously, she thrust out her chest a little and curved her back as she picked up her drink. Fuck Maarten, she told herself silently. “I was just stood up, that’s all.” She’d go on the hunt for that little prick after she’d enjoyed her drink and perhaps endured a cigarette and a couple of lungfuls of carbon monoxide.
“Well, he’s a fool,” Handsome remarked. “Here’s to the next, better catch.” He raised his glass as a toast and Karla joined him with a half grimace. Any catch was going to be better than Maarten Kropp.
She observed Handsome from the corner of her eye. He was even more well-made this close up than she’d first thought. His shirt must have been Armani and he was dressed in a pair of casual trousers that, like his shirt, complimented a pretty powerful-looking physique underneath. At the same time he wasn’t crashing into her space in the way that more neurotic guys were always doing. Confident, self-assured. If she wasn’t his particular fish, there would always be plenty of others in his net. She raised an eyebrow at the thought.
“So, where are you headed?” she asked as casually as possible.
Handsome looked back at her, his blue eyes full of humour. “Ostensibly I’m flying out to New York in the morning, but in truth I just love the atmosphere of these
Maarten. Bloody Maarten. Where-the-fuck-are-you-now Maarten. Why-do-I-bloody-care Maarten. She answered the last with a sigh. In one sense, it would be the easiest thing in the world to dump Mister Kropp—after all, she had what she wanted in a safe box at Heathrow. The danger was that Maarten was a squealer. As soon as she left him, he’d be straight to the police and things would heat up on her trail. Better for the moment to stick to the plan: get Coilin to fence the Wallenstein, fly out to South America and get rid of him there. Then she could lose this identity and enjoy the proceeds of her latest crime.
For a moment she wondered whether she’d be able to do all this and not have sex with him. That almost made her feel guilty: almost , but not quite. He’d done an awful lot for her, and she’d strung him along nicely so far, but the truth was that Maarten Kropp was a slimy little man and not the sort of person she’d fuck for pleasure—and Karla took pride in the fact that she only ever fucked for pleasure. Perhaps, if worst came to the worst, she could get away with a blowjob, just to keep him quiet. After all, as Bill Clinton had so famously observed, oral wasn’t really sex.
She was dressed as nondescriptly as possible, in jeans and a sweater, clothes that nonetheless showed off the fact that this was a woman with a very nice figure indeed. (Damn it, she wasn’t the type of woman to dress like a bag lady, and this was a Mantaray! A bit last season, but still enough to make her feel a part of the several million dollars she was now worth.) As she ordered a gin, she realised that her phone was making a buzzing sound and she pulled it out. There was a text message from Maarten, offering his apologies and telling her that he’d meet her in the morning.
Cursing under her breath, she phoned him back. Funny, she thought. The message had only come through a few moments before but it was switched off. What the hell was Maarten doing? She’d visited his room and banged on the door but there was no answer. In frustration, she called up his room number and left a short message.
“Something wrong?” It was Handsome, sitting a few seats away. His face looked concerned, sympathetic.
“Oh, nothing much,” Karla replied, keeping up her Danish accent for the time being. Almost unconsciously, she thrust out her chest a little and curved her back as she picked up her drink. Fuck Maarten, she told herself silently. “I was just stood up, that’s all.” She’d go on the hunt for that little prick after she’d enjoyed her drink and perhaps endured a cigarette and a couple of lungfuls of carbon monoxide.
“Well, he’s a fool,” Handsome remarked. “Here’s to the next, better catch.” He raised his glass as a toast and Karla joined him with a half grimace. Any catch was going to be better than Maarten Kropp.
She observed Handsome from the corner of her eye. He was even more well-made this close up than she’d first thought. His shirt must have been Armani and he was dressed in a pair of casual trousers that, like his shirt, complimented a pretty powerful-looking physique underneath. At the same time he wasn’t crashing into her space in the way that more neurotic guys were always doing. Confident, self-assured. If she wasn’t his particular fish, there would always be plenty of others in his net. She raised an eyebrow at the thought.
“So, where are you headed?” she asked as casually as possible.
Handsome looked back at her, his blue eyes full of humour. “Ostensibly I’m flying out to New York in the morning, but in truth I just love the atmosphere of these
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