Eye of the Cobra (13 page)

Eventually he pulled himself out of the water and Royston handed him a towel, then held open the door of the steam- room. Inside, Phelps tried to relax in the hot clouds of vapour, but it was useless. He was succumbing to his greatest weakness - impatience.

He glanced down at his watch. The time was passing so slowly.

Everything was in place. The car, according to de Villiers, was magnificent. Carvalho had begun producing the tyres. The two drivers had been signed up. The only difficulty was de Villiers - the man was uncooperative. And that could pose big problems.

Jack Phelps thought angrily about the fax de Villiers had sent to Shensu, telling him that he was prepared to test the Carvalho tyres, but if they weren’t good enough, he was switching to Zenith. The bastard. De Villiers had gone over his head and got Aito’s agreement. Well, he wasn’t outmanoeuvred yet. He’d pulled in the best tyre development engineers in the business and sent them down to Carvalho.

De Villiers would be using Carvalho tyres, that was all there was to it. The deal centred around publicity - publicity for Calibre lights, Carvalho tyres and Shensu cars. That was why he wanted drivers who could win. Only the cars on the front of the grid got extensive media coverage.

But Phelps knew he needed someone in on the ground floor, making sure that the three brands got the attention they deserved. So far de Villiers had only payed lip-service to that dictum - directing all his energies into head-hunting for the team and developing the new car with Mickey Dunstal.

There was no advance publicity - and already there should have been interviews. Calibre-Shensu was a big event, but it lacked an image. It needed well-co-ordinated visual impact.

He came out of the steam-room, showered, and changed back into his suit. He glanced at his watch. Good. She would be arriving very soon. He had seen the pictures in the international magazines like
Harper’s & Queen
, Italian
Vogue
and
Time.
He wanted to use her.

There was a knock on the door. He almost purred with satisfaction - she was punctual, as he had expected.

‘Come in.’

The door opened and in she walked. He baulked slightly.

About six foot, he estimated. High cheekbones, ice-blue eyes. Her hair was beautifully cut and hung around her shoulders like strands of fine gold.

His eyes took in her body - an athlete’s body, but with generous curves in all the right places. The clothes were perfect: a black silk suit, with a white cotton blouse that rose to a high-buttoned collar. She wore a single strand of pearls and simple gold earrings, and her face was a mixture of haughtiness and sensuality. She was, in a word, delicious.

‘Good morning, Mr Phelps. It is a pleasure to meet you.’

The accent was polished, though definitely German.

‘Please sit down, Baroness von Falkenhyn.’

‘Thank you. Suzie, please.’

‘Of course. And call me Jack. Something to drink?’

‘Perrier, please, with a slice of lemon.’

She was still standing. He wanted her seated - there was something about her that interfered with his usual feeling of control in such situations.

‘Please sit down.’

She sat down on the leather couch and he caught a brief glimpse of her thighs. He wanted her, that was all he knew. But such a dalliance could not be rushed, with this sort of woman it would take attention and time.

He walked over to the drinks cabinet and handed her her drink.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Your office has the most beautiful view. In Munich we have few high-rise buildings. Our architecture is more classical.’

He felt the veiled criticism in her voice. ‘Munich is, I think, one of the most beautiful cities in Europe,’ he said.

‘You know Munich?’

‘My cigarettes are sold in your country, and I set up an office in Munich to handle the marketing and distribution. I must tell you that it was more because of my fascination with the beauty of the city than because of its location.’

She seemed unmoved by this statement. ‘You are a busy man,’ she said. ‘I thank you for your interest in my country. Let me begin my presentation.’

Baroness Susanna von Falkenhyn was as he’d been told - precise and to the point. He would play along with her, get her into his power and then mould her very slowly to his way of thinking. It would be a gradual process, like reeling in a marlin.

‘You read through the brief I provided for you?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It was most comprehensive. The project would pro
vide me with the broad canvas I always look for.’

‘Believe me, Suzie, the brief was tightly composed. Your proposals, if they are the ones that win . . .’

He made a significant pause. He must make sure she knew she was not the only one in the running for the job - that she would have to fight for the account. It would be his first opportunity to assert his control over her.

‘. . . will be followed through in their entirety,’ he went on. ‘They will dictate the way the advertising and promotion is done.’

‘Excellent. First, I would like to put forward the philosophy of my company - Zen.’

She opened her portfolio case and placed a parchment board in front of him.

‘In Germany we have often been accused of being too regimented, too dogmatic. It is, in fact, not true. Throughout history, German art and music have been among the most creative and avant-garde in the world. That is why I chose the name Zen - because my company considers design to be a way of life. Thus I make no presentation.’

Phelps felt as if he had been given a slap in the face. ‘You’re not going to show me
anything
?’

‘You expected to be shown something? You gave me words written on paper and you expected a visual response? I see you’re angry. I apologise, my response is not meant to be an insult but rather a mark of respect. As I said, I make no presentation. Instead I will tell you of the philosophy of my company.’

Phelps came round and sat beside her on the couch. She was intriguing him more by the minute. He gestured for her to continue.

‘I studied design at school; however, I did not study it at university. Instead I studied film at the University of Califor
nia. I realised that film was the communication of our time. Thus, all design that is seen must at some point be seen on film. Design must be related to the images created by the movies of our time.’ As she spoke, she took some pictures from her case and handed them to him.

‘How do you know these men?’ she asked softly.

‘I’ve seen them winning races. On TV.’

‘Exactly. You know them through film. Or through pictures.’

‘So?’

‘I am still a designer. Now I design images for companies that want to be seen in a certain way. A successful image is the one that is best suited to the personalities of the people it represents. Your racing team has two key personalities, the two drivers.’

‘Ricardo Sartori and Wyatt Chase.’

‘Correct. And in order to project the Calibre-Shensu image, I first have to know them, understand them, feel them . . .’ He wondered if that included sleeping with them.

‘Why are you smiling? You find my approach amusing?’

‘No. I admire your nerve. What would the fee be for this appraisal?’

She shifted slightly and pulled her skirt down to her knees. His eyes left her legs and refocused on her eyes. She took a moment to compose herself.

‘You do not understand, Mr Phelps. Either you agree to my way of doing things ... or you don’t. If you agree, then I go ahead and draw up a plan of action. If you don’t - I go.’

He took a deep breath. She was not only one hell of a looker, she was also a very shrewd businesswoman.

‘All right. I’ll consider your proposals. I’ll give you an “in principle” decision by the end of this week.’

She lay back on the couch and her skirt rode up, revealing her legs almost as far as her crotch. He sucked in his breath and she looked at him with a subtle smile on her face.

‘I have dealt with many businessmen, Mr Phelps. Time is used to achieve a certain advantage. I have a number of projects which will occupy me till the end of next year. I do not have the luxury of time to wait for your decision.’

He was excited by her aggression, it was actually a challenge to him. He knew she was good - perhaps the best in the business. He looked her straight in the eye.

‘All right, I’ll give you the job on one simple condition.’

‘And what is that?’

‘That we have dinner tonight.’

‘Mr Phelps, we have, as you Americans would say, a deal.’

She left the building elated. She had always been fascinated by Formula One, now here was a chance to experience it at first hand.

Jack Phelps was both interesting and charming. She also sensed that he was attracted to her, and had used that to her advantage. Exploiting her sexuality had never bothered her, it was merely part of her ammunition. Later, she argued, her work would speak for itself.

As a rule she acted in a supervisory capacity for the projects Zen undertook, but on this one, she decided, she would be totally involved. The scope and difficulty of the exercise excited her. She had a very clear idea of the way in which Calibre-Shensu’s image should be projected, and she was determined not to compromise on her vision.

She would begin with the cars, then focus on the team. The drivers and the pit crew would all be outfitted in matching designs - a totally integrated look that would reflect the electric atmosphere of the Calibre-Shensu team. The clothes would be easy to wear and comfortable - always an essential feature of her designs. Suzie believed that ‘the look’ should come from within as well as from without.

The concept would then be sold to the public - a range of Calibre-Shensu clothing that would break for the European summer as the Grand Prix season got underway.

Phelps was the perfect backer. He understood the nature of promotion, and that, together with his advertising knowledge, would ensure that all her plans were followed through. He would guarantee that she had the full co-operation of the team.

Of course, it wouldn’t pay to let Phelps become too aware of how excited she was about the project. She sensed that he was one of those men who loved to manipulate others. Her aloof professionalism was an elaborately painted mask that protected her from such people.

Suzie knew all about Phelps’s reputation with women. The rumour went that once he had slept with a woman, he lost all respect for her. She looked forward to the challenge of manipulating him, for she was sure she could do just that.

Now, back in her hotel room, she went to an enormous amount of trouble to make sure that she looked her best for the evening. She made up three times before she was satisfied with the way she looked, and experimented with her long blonde hair - finally deciding to let it hang loose around her shoulders. Her evening-dress completely covered her bosom in black velvet but left a gaping V at her back that ran right down to the curve of her buttocks. It had a long skirt, generously slit to reveal a daring mini beneath. She scrutinised herself in the mirror and was pleased.

Slipping on her high-heels, she looked down at her watch and saw that it was almost time to leave.

Jack Phelps bathed carefully. German women, he had heard, were fastidious about hygiene, and he did not want to be found lacking in this respect. He shaved slowly, making absolutely sure he did not nick the skin of his throat. Then he smoothed on the after-shave - specially prepared for him by America’s leading couturier, Rudy Washington. He laughed quietly, imagining the way Rudy would react when he learnt that the Calibre-Shensu job had gone to Susanna von Falkenhyn.

He chose his finest black-tie suit from the big wardrobe adjoining the bathroom, and stood in front of the mirror, hand-tying his bow-tie. He had seen the flicker of Susanna von Falkenhyn’s ice-blue eyes when he gave her the contract, and he would exploit that weakness to the full.

He thought of her now, sitting alone. He would arrive at the restaurant late.

The noise of conversation, the glow of candlelight and the dark forms of the waiters created an atmosphere of rich exclusivity. As Phelps walked into the crowded restaurant he caught sight of Suzie sitting at a table. She was talking to another man. He kept in the shadows for a few moments, watching them together. Then he walked across to her table - and was rewarded with a faint smile. He took his hand and kissed it.

‘My apologies, Suzie.’

The man got up. ‘You shouldn’t be late for a lady like this,’ he said, ‘you might find she disappears.’

Phelps gave the man an icy stare, and he moved away.

Then Phelps kissed Suzie on the lips, enjoying the scent of her perfume. Roses, jasmine - a hint of sandalwood? She was delicious.

‘Perhaps I might wish you had not come so soon . . .’

Phelps coughed uneasily. Susanna von Falkenhyn didn’t respond to normal tactics. He’d underestimated her.

The meal passed in a delirious succession of intimate moments. They drank a bottle of Tattinger Rose, and soon the lateness of his arrival was forgotten and she was relaxed and laughing freely. Almost despite herself, she was enjoying being with him.