Sidney Sheldon: Chasing Tomorrow

Maximilian Pierpont experienced a stabbing pain in his chest. Forget Papa. Who builds a church on prime beachfront land in Rio?

“May I ask how much the monsignor has offered you?”

“Five million Brazilian reals. He’s been very generous.”

Maximilian Pierpont almost choked on his Quinta de la Rosa. Five million reals was a little more than $2 million. Six acres of land on the coast, with planning permission, was worth ten times that amount at least! The stupid bitch clearly hadn’t even had the property appraised.

“It’s a good price, Valentina.” He looked at Tracy with a straight face. “But what if I could do better? Say I offered you six million. As a friend. I could build your dream estate exactly as you imagined it.”

“Well, that would be wonderful, Max!”

“Great.” Pierpont grinned triumphantly. What a stroke of luck, meeting this rich, sexy airhead on the flight. Now he would get to screw her and screw her over. And all for the price of one measly dinner! “When can I see the property?”

Tracy gave him a pained expression. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

“What do you mean”

“My deal with Monsignor Cunardi closes tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here, to oversee the transfer of the funds. If only we’d met sooner. Anyway, enough about business. I must be boring you stiff! I hear the desserts here are to die for.”

She began to peruse the dessert menu. Maximilian Pierpont wore the expression of a man who could feel millions of dollars slipping through his fingers.

“Look. I don’t need to physically see the land. You say you have the necessary planning permissions?”

Tracy nodded gravely.

“If you could get me copies of those tomorrow morning, along with the deeds to the property, that’d be enough. Do you think that’s possible, Valentina?”

“Well, yes!” The Countess Di Sorrenti’s eyes lit up. “Of course. But surely you wouldn’t want to pay such a huge amount of money without even seeing the land? I mean, one has to walk there to understand the true magic of the place. Papa always said—”

“I’m sure.” Maximilian Pierpont cut her off, unable to listen to another minute of her vacuous rambling. As if he gave a damn about the “magic” or her stupid dead father. He did still want to maneuver the countess into bed. But he’d better wait until the deal was done first.

“Well . . .” Tracy smiled broadly. “I’ll send over the paperwork in the morning, then. I must say, this really is incredibly kind of you, Max.”

“Not at all, Valentina. I’d hate to see your dream for that land slip away. Waiter!” Maximilian Pierpont clicked his fingers imperiously. “Bring us some champagne. The best in the house! Countess Di Sorrenti and I are celebrating.”

THAT NIGHT JEFF CALLED Tracy’s cell.

“I’m trying to reach the future Mrs. Stevens.”

Just hearing his voice again made Tracy’s heart leap.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong number. This is the Countess Valentina Di Sorrenti.”

No man had ever gotten to Tracy the way that Jeff did. Not even Charles Stanhope III, the first man she’d thought she wanted to marry, back in Philadelphia, in another life. Charles had betrayed her. When Tracy was sent to prison for a crime she didn’t commit, Charles Stanhope III hadn’t lifted one powerful finger to help her.

Jeff Stevens was different. Tracy trusted him with her life. And he had saved her life once. That was when Tracy first realized that he loved her. Every day with Jeff was an adventure. A challenge. A thrill. But the irony wasn’t lost on her:

The one person on this earth that I trust completely is a con man.

Jeff said, “I thought you said we were done with capers?”

“We are. Just as soon as I’m done with this. It’s Maximilian Pierpont, for God’s sake!”

“How long will it take?” Tracy could hear the pout in his voice.

He misses me. Good.

“A week. Maximum.”

“I can’t wait that long, Tracy.”

“Valentina,” Tracy teased. “Although you can call me ‘Countess.’ ”

“I want you in my bed, not on the end of a telephone line.”

Jeff’s voice was hoarse with desire. Tracy gripped the phone, feeling weak with longing. She wanted him too, desperately. It had been only a week since they had been together in Amsterdam, but her body was already crying out for him.

“We can’t be seen together in Rio. Not until I’ve nailed Pierpont.”

“Why not? I can be the Count Di Sorrenti.”

“He died.”

“Bummer. How?”

“Jet Ski accident in Sardinia.”

“What a phony. He deserved it.”

“I watched it happen from our yacht.”

“Of course you did, Countess.” Jeff chuckled. “How about I come back as his ghost?”

“I’ll see you in church next Saturday, darling. I’ll be the hot girl in the white dress.”

“At least tell me where you’re staying.”

“Good night, Mr. Stevens.”

THE LAWYER’S OFFICE WAS small and airless, tucked away in a small street off the Avenida Rio Branco in Rio’s Centro business district.

“You’re sure these permissions are genuine?”

“Yes, Countess Di Sorrenti.”

“And complete? There’s nothing else I would need, legally, apart from the deeds here”—Tracy held up a sheaf of papers—“to begin work on this site?”

“No, Countess.” The lawyer’s frown deepened. He’d explained the situation to the beautiful young lady multiple times now, but she still seemed unable to grasp it. The Countess Di Sorrenti might be rich and beautiful, but she was also clearly profoundly dim. He tried one last time. “You do understand, there is still the issue of—”

“Yes, yes. Thank you.” Tracy waved an imperious hand before reaching into her vintage Louis Vuitton handbag for a gold Montblanc pen. “How much do I owe you?”

Suit yourself, thought the lawyer. He’d done his best.

FIVE DAYS AFTER HIS dinner with the Countess Di Sorrenti at Quadrifoglio, Maximilian Pierpont drove south of Rio, along the breathtaking Green Coast road, toward his latest acquisition. As good as her word, the countess had couriered over copies of the deeds to her property along with building permits the very next morning. Pierpont had wired the six million reals to her Swiss account within an hour, and the land was his. Go to hell, Monsignor Cheapskate! But he hadn’t had a chance to drive out and see it until today.

Six acres of prime cliff-side property—six acres!—with its own private beach, easily accessible from both the city and from Paraty, Rio’s answer to East Hampton. Maximilian Pierpont could hardly believe his luck. Better still, he fully intended to nail the lovely Countess Valentina tonight, once he returned to the city. She’d invited him over to her apartment for dinner, always a good sign. The address was on one of the finest streets in Leblon, the most exclusive neighborhood in the whole of South America. Clearly neither “Papa” nor “poor Marco” had left the lady short of funds. The prospect of swindling the sexy young heiress out of still more millions, while availing himself of her smoking-hot body in bed, was giving Maximilian Pierpont the biggest hard-on he’d had in a decade.

He reached the property just before noon. There were a few houses along this stretch of road, but no real standouts. Pierpont’s plot stood in splendid isolation at the very top of the bluffs. Valentina wasn’t kidding about the views. They were spectacular. On one side the ocean blurred into the cloudless sky, a symphony in limitless blue. On the other, mountains smothered by vivid green rain forest sparkled like vast heaps of newly polished emeralds. It’s even prettier than I imagined. Maximilian Pierpont congratulated himself again that he hadn’t lost out on this deal by listening to his dumb-ass lawyer.