Sin Tropez Read Online Free PDF

super-rich, membership of which she’d long been angling
for. She checked his watch, which only confirmed her prior observation. His Patek was last year’s model. She’d wager he was worth something pretty pitiful, twenty mill, perhaps, on a
good day. In the current climate, Forbes would halve that. Not that he’d come anywhere near making their list. The next man’s customized new Rolex had the opposite problem – so
big and flash on his wrist, Natalya wondered how he could even fit his hand into his pocket to reach for his wallet. It was too … obvious; he was clearly trying too hard, a pretender. Even
Gregory could buy his overweight arse, so that ruled him out. She turned to the guy he was chatting to and perked up – a hundred mill at a guess and he’s just bought himself a new
watch, a new car and a new woman (the supermodel waiting by his black Ferrari had been dating an actor last month) so must have had a good year; his stock was on the up. Finally she spotted Reza.
Two billion and rising.
    Unlike Heathrow, at Farnborough one only needed to arrive fifteen minutes before take-off, which cut short the girls’ sizing up of the men and each other. Before Abena and Tara had a
chance to panic, or change their minds altogether, they were swooped upon by a grinning Reza in his customary leisure ensemble of blue jeans, brown loafers, crocodile-skin belt, and tight white
shirt stretched over his hairless orangey-brown chest. He made a big show of kissing each one of them on both corners of the mouth, which, he seemed to feel, counted legitimately as part of the
cheek. Then, taking both girls’ hands in his, he lifted them high above his head so that their short summer dresses rose up dangerously, and proceeded to do a peculiar jig. Gyrating his
pelvis from side to side as his surprisingly pert bottom strained against the scant material of his jeans, he threw his triumphant face upward towards the heavens and roared ‘Where the fuck
is St Tropez? Come on baby – all aboard the jet.’
    Seconds later Reza’s assistant, Henry, whom both girls had come to adore, shimmied over with his boyfriend, Anders, a young Dutch singer with a new rock-band. Abena ran to hug him as he
led them to the aircraft. The plane was streamlined and compact, in dark teal with a red-and-white stripe across its side. From the outside it was surprisingly understated and quite beautiful.
‘Not as flamboyant as you’d expect from the big man is it? But then my boss is shrewd enough not to let pleasure get in the way of business. He parties like there’s no tomorrow
but he also needs to be taken seriously when doing deals and if he happens to want investment from an abstaining tycoon whose wife wears a burqa, then it doesn’t look great to have a crystal
replica of a naked woman embellishing the wing of his PJ,’ explained Henry, ushering them in after Reza. Abena was surprised at how few seats there were, each surrounded by acres of
space.
    ‘Oh, so sad,’ whispered Tara, ‘there’ll be no room on the PJ for Ms Vogue and the rest of her posse.’ Henry, having followed her envious gaze towards the other
girls, confirmed that they’d be flying with Eric, the tall Swedish financier she’d glimpsed earlier. The two groups would reconvene once they reached France.
    Just as she thought they were in the clear and that there were to be no models joining them, Tara saw with irritation that the very slender, young-looking blonde with choppy layers and an
angelic face was tottering towards the plane. Doubtless an evil old witch, she thought bitchily. ‘Here comes Slutlana,’ she muttered to herself.
    ‘Aah Natalya, how are you sweetheart, meet Abena and Tara,’ said Henry, introducing the girls to each other. Directed to a seat beside the newcomer, Abena was unsure which was
lovelier to look at: Natalya herself or the sleek, beige and dark brown interior of the plane. The leather upholstered chairs were vast and