“Come,” Lula coaxed him. “Let’s eat.”
“You spoil me,” Wyles told her with a smile. He opened the front of her gown and trailed his hands over her breasts, flicking his thumbs over the nubs of her nipples. Lula was the most exquisite specimen of a Kekonese woman he’d ever laid eyes on, and he considered himself a connoisseur of international beauty. The town center on Euman Island was full of brothels catering to Espenian servicemen, but even though Wyles spent many weeks away from home, he never considered dipping into the common well with the navy boys. He was a wealthy man with refined tastes, fifty-two years old, a global traveler who’d sampled what the world had to offer in food and art and women. His wife was an elegant society woman who had the best of everything. His mistress was a former runway model who’d graced the covers of all the fashion magazines. So it took a special class of woman to catch and hold Art Wyles’s attention.
He’d first seen Lula at a private dinner held for the Espenian ambassador. She and four other courtesans had been brought in for the event, but Lula stood out among the other women like a swan among geese. The demure sequined black dress she’d worn showed off every curve of her taut, youthful body. Her face had the radiant glow of a moonlit lake, framed by glossy waterfalls of darkest ink. She sang and danced with unearthly grace and beauty. Wyles knew at once that he had to have her, but he was afraid his expectations could not possibly be met. He needn’t have worried. Sex with this island angel was transcendent, pleasure on another dimension.
Wyles quickly arranged to have an exclusive arrangement with Lula. Whenever he came to Kekon, he phoned her three days ahead so she could prepare for his arrival. She lived with him in his house on Euman Island, prepared his meals, and shared his bed every night. When he traveled back to Port Massy, she was free to return to Janloon to visit her family or go shopping with the allowance he gave her. She could speak a bit of Espenian and was quickly picking up more. She was perfectly agreeable, considerate, anticipating his needs, but never demanding. Wyles sighed. You could not find a woman like Lula in Espenia.
They sat down to enjoy their meal, and afterward, Wyles said, “My sweet, I’m expecting a visitor this afternoon, and I’m afraid we’ll be talking business for hours. Why don’t you go shopping or to the gym?”
Lula stood and leaned over to give him a kiss. “I wait for you, Arto-se.” He loved the way she said his name, Kekonese-style; in her delicate mouth it was so arresting. Picking up the empty tray, she slipped out of the room on noiseless, slippered feet.
Wyles went into his library with a fresh cup of coffee and a newspaper while he waited for his guest to arrive. The phone on his desk rang. When he picked it up, Joren Gasson’s reedy voice said, “I hear congratulations are in order, Artie.”
Wyles shifted uncomfortably, glad the man on the other end of the line couldn’t see his expression. “News sure travels fast.” Of course Gasson, with all his connections and one ear always to the ground, would be among the first to hear of anything that might affect him, even if it wasn’t yet public. Wyles had hoped to at least tell his wife and children before fielding this inevitable call. Jo Boy Gasson was a friend, but the sort of friend Wyles preferred not to speak to very often.
“President-elect of the Munitions Society,” Gasson said proudly. “Not a shabby way to make your big entry into politics. Not shabby at all.” The Munitions Society was one of the largest and most powerful Trade Societies in Espenia. As its president, Wyles was guaranteed to have access to the premier and influence over politicians in the National Assembly. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”
“We sure have.” Wyles looked at his watch; he wanted to get Gasson off the phone.
“We’ve been friends for—what, now? Twenty-five years? Sometimes, it’s a wonder to think I was there at the start, I was the first person to say, ‘That Art Wyles is going somewhere.’ I’ve always had a knack for betting money on a sure thing.”
“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me over the years, you know that. Listen, I’ve got an important meeting in a couple of minutes. It’s about the jade business. How about I talk to you later?”
“Sure, Artie,” Gasson said. “I only called to say how proud I am.”
“Thanks, Jo Boy. That means a lot to me.” After he hung up, Wyles let out a sigh of relief. He knew he was only one of many people on the payroll of the Baker Street Crew, just as Joren Gasson, who effortlessly straddled the legitimate and illegitimate spheres of business and politics, was only one of his many stakeholders—both an asset and a liability. Wyles tried to keep Gasson in the background as much as possible. Right now, he had more important things to think about.