Chapter 1

The man – middle-aged but looking older – finished his embarrassing account and looked at his daughter.

"Oh, Daddy ... I told you your gambling would lead to trouble."

"I'm sorry, Baby. I know you did. Now, though, the trouble could spill over to you. You need to get away. Get out of town. Find somewhere they won't catch up with you."

"But ... what about you? They'll..."

"They can be most unpleasant. But I brought it on myself, and I don't want you to suffer."

"There's one thing I can try," she said, "which would be a lot better than prostitution or making porn films for them."

I sat in my office, studying the report in front of me. My PA entered and placed a cup – fine bone china, with a saucer – full of steaming black coffee to my right.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Thank you, Stacey. No."

I watched her delightful rear end undulate out of the room. Like most of my staff, she was blonde ... in her case it was genuine ... of medium height, with a classically hour-glass body.

When you're wealthy, and influential, there's no problem getting sex. I always laid it out from the start; no permanent relationship. When I, or sometimes she, got bored, she would have either a job in my organisation (only if I'd seen her potential), a gig in glamour modelling, perhaps, or an introduction to film. One or two did porn, but I didn't encourage that. Anyway ... after a night, a week, a month ... occasionally more ... the girl got a leg up and I moved on. I was rarely without a bed companion. No live-in girlfriends.

Stacey wasn't the current one, though I was pretty sure from her comments she wouldn't object to another go round. Perhaps I'd go for that, as my last had just run its course.

Perhaps I need to emphasise ... a woman only got a place in my organisation if she had what it takes to do the job. Having said that, I only employ men if I have to. I like to surround myself with beauty. Functional beauty for the most part, though I do have a collection of art. Art described by art snobs as 'eclectic and random'. I like it, I collect it. I don't like it, someone else can have it.

I turned my attention to the document in front of me with a sigh, and began to read. My right hand reached for the cup and I lifted it to my lips without turning away from the text. The drink was excellent, as usual; Ethiopian Mocha.

A discreet buzz from the intercom penetrated my concentration. "Yes, Stacey?"

"Sir, there's a Ms. Melissa Sharpe here, of Kelso and Son. She has no appointment."

"Do I have time?"

"There's that Cokeham Development Project meeting in ten minutes."

"They don't need me there for that. Show her in."

The door opened and a tall, dark-haired woman entered. With the slight heels she was wearing, she was maybe a couple of inches shorter than my six feet. A flared skirt to just above her knees revealed shapely legs. Her hand was at the closure of her blouse; she was just undoing a third button.

"Come in, Ms. Sharpe – take a seat, and tell me what I can do for Kelso and Son."

"Thank you." Her voice was mellow, but the pitch was such I couldn't decide if she was soprano or alto. "It's Miss Sharpe," she went on, "I'm old-fashioned. And I'm afraid I misled your receptionist. I am employed by Kelso, but I'm not here representing them."

"Then, Miss Sharpe, suppose you tell me why you are here?"

"I hear tell that a young woman can sometimes get help from you in exchange for ... favours. I am in a difficulty. A six-figure difficulty. I'm asking ... begging ... for help."

I was stunned for the moment. "You," I began eventually, "let me see if I have this right. You're offering to have sex with me, in exchange for a six-figure sum of money?"

She coloured darkly and looked down. "That sounds horrible, doesn't it?"

I was angry. Of course my money, my power, meant I had access – intimate access – to women, but I'd never paid for sex. And certainly ... I stopped that train of thought. This wasn't a slut and I had no business judging whether she was worth any amount of money.

"Yes," I agreed, "it does. I'm not sure you have the right idea about me. Do you think I need to pay for sex?"

She met my eyes, shaking her head. "No. I'm sure you don't. And I know I'm not, well, I don't look like a model, or a film-star. So..."

"So tell me your trouble."

"Really? I mean..."

"I'm intrigued as to how an obviously respectable young lady could find herself in such an expensive ... difficulty."

She snorted. "Respectable? Once, maybe." She took a deep breath. "My father is a gambler. For a long time, it wasn't a problem, though it was a factor in my mother leaving home. But then ... I don't know the details ... he got in over his head, borrowing money. I think, maybe..." she trailed off.

"You think the people he owed money to were intending to get it back by using you."

"Yes. Dad implied as much. He wanted me to leave town. But ... my life is here. Friends, job ... It's my home."

"Quite." I thought for several minutes.

"Should I be going?" Her voice interrupted my thought process.

"What? No. Just a moment." I jotted some notes. "Right, Miss Sharpe. I'm not going to just give you money," I saw her expression change, "don't worry, I'm not refusing to help. I just don't think trying to pay off your father's creditors is going to work. Have you a friend you can stay with tonight?"

"What? A friend? I suppose so, but..."

"I need to work on this. Tell your father you're staying with a friend – don't say which one. Come back tomorrow, mid afternoon. I'll see what I can do." I turned to the intercom. "Stacey, Miss Sharpe will be leaving in a moment. Fit her in tomorrow afternoon, will you? After three. Thank you."

I stood, and she copied me. I held out my hand. She took it, and there was a little shock. 'Static electricity', I thought. 'Who'd have thought it?'

"Thank you, Mister Carpenter. Thank you. I feel ... It's a relief. Even if you can't do anything. To be listened to. Taken seriously."

I suddenly realised I was still holding her hand. I squeezed it gently. "You might like to button your blouse before you leave."

She blushed again. "Oh, yes. What you must have thought of me..."

"Nothing bad," I smiled. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she echoed.

I shook my head as she left. What was I doing? I turned to the intercom. "Stacey, I want Jen and Dave in here ASAP. In the meantime, get me Jake Roberts on the phone, please."

Shortly after that, the phone rang. Jake Roberts, the PI I use most often. "Jake. I need a quick read on a Miss Melissa Sharpe and, if you have the time, her father ... No I don't have her address, but I'll be needing it shortly. She works for Kelso ... No, I don't need anything in depth right now, just an overall read. What she does, how well she does it, any noticeable skeletons in the cupboard ... Yes, you can carry on to get a better report, but I need the basics by mid-day tomorrow. The address ASAP ... Thanks!"

He rang back no more than five minutes later with the address. It was in a pretty decent part of town. Surely he could mortgage the house? The obvious answer to that, of course, was that he already had.

I turned back to that report. Might as well make use of the time. Not that the report made gripping reading.

The buzz of the intercom was welcome. "Ms. Song and Mister Jones are here, sir."

"Good. Thank you, Stacey – send them in." I stood and walked round the desk, stretching.

The door opened and a tiny oriental woman entered, followed by a much larger man. A less likely pair could hardly be imagined, but they were almost supernaturally attuned to each other. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

Jen Song gave a little dip of the head. "Of course, Boss. What's up?"

The petite woman, barely five feet and slim, gave no outward indication of her mastery of, what, three or four martial arts, and weapons skills, but she was both the most dangerous and most skilled of the pair, a natural leader, too.

"I need you to make a visit to a Mister Sharpe at this address," I handed her a slip of paper. "He's apparently caught up in some serious gambling debt. I need you to find out who he's in debt to, how much he owes. Then I want you to put the fear of God into him about gambling. You can say it's not about him, it's about his daughter. Offer counselling. But make it clear that, while his daughter has sought help – and don't mention my name, please, just say a prominent businessman – that help is conditional on him staying out of trouble in the future. Then, I need you to make a call on the creditor or creditors. I suspect it's the Stevens brothers, but whoever it is, I need you to negotiate a reasonable settlement. No more than twice the original loan. Then tell them to blacklist Mister Sharpe from their betting offices and warn them off pursuing him ... especially warn them off his daughter. You can use my name there. I shouldn't need to tell you to watch your backs."

"No, boss, you don't. But if they try anything I think we can cope."

I chuckled. "I pity anyone who takes you on, Jen."

"Boss! Anyone would think you don't love me any more."

I shook my head. Jen didn't like men. She was decorative ... and lethal, like a Japanese katana. "If something happened to you the world would be a less beautiful place. I trust you but I want you to take care."