The Rembrandt Affair

That’s where the real action takes place in Davos, at the cocktail parties and in the bars of the swankiest hotels.”
    “And Martin was there?”
    She nodded. “He and his entourage were having drinks in the corner, protected by a wall of bodyguards. I ordered a glass of wine and immediately found myself in a horrendously boring conversation with a finance minister from Africa about debt relief. After ten minutes, I was ready to slit my wrists. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a blond chap, dark suit, buzz cut, German accent. Said his name was Jonas Brunner. Said he worked for Mr. Landesmann. Said Mr. Landesmann was wondering whether I might join him for a drink. I accepted, of course, and a few seconds later I was seated next to the man himself.”
    “And what did the man want?”
    “I’d been badgering him for months for an interview. He told me he wanted to meet the world’s most persistent woman, or so he said at the time.”
    “Why would any businessman in his right mind want to give you an interview?”
    “It wasn’t going to be that kind of piece. I wanted to do something different from my usual scorched-earth investigations. I wanted to write about a wealthy businessman who was actually doing something decent with his money. I told Martin I wanted my readers to meet the man behind the curtain.”
    “But your conversation that night was off the record?”
    “Completely.”
    “What did you talk about?”
    “Remarkably, me. Martin wanted to know about my work. My family. My hobbies. Anything but himself.”
    “And you were impressed?”
    “Dazzled, actually. It’s hard not to be. Martin Landesmann is incredibly handsome and wealthy beyond belief. And not many of the men I meet ever want to talk about anything but themselves.”
    “So you were attracted to him?”
    “At the time, I was intrigued. And remember, I was after an interview.”
    “And Martin?”
    She gave a faint smile. “As the evening wore on, he became quite flirtatious—in an understated, subliminal Martin sort of way,” she added. “He finally asked whether I would have dinner with him in the privacy of his suite. He said it would give us a chance to get to know each other better. When I told him that I didn’t think it was appropriate, he seemed quite shocked. Martin isn’t used to people telling him no.”
    “And the interview?”
    “I thought I’d lost any chance of getting it. But the opposite turned out to be true. Scott Fitzgerald was right about the rich, Mr. Allon. They are different from you and me. They want everything. And if they can’t have something, they want it more.”
    “And Martin wanted you?”
    “So it seemed.”
    “How did he pursue you?”
    “Quietly and persistently. He would call every couple of days, just to chat and swap insights. British politics. Bank of England monetary policy. The budget deficit in America.” She paused, then added, “Very sexy stuff.”
    “Nothing personal?”
    “Not then,” she said. “After about a month, he finally called me late one night and said a single word: Yes. I got on the next plane to Geneva and spent three days inside Martin’s bubble. Even for a jaded reporter like me, it was an intoxicating experience. When the piece ran, it was an earthquake. It was required reading for businessmen and politicians around the world. And it cemented my reputation as one of the top financial journalists in the world.”
    “Did Martin like it?”
    “At the time, I didn’t have a clue.”
    “No phone calls?”
    “Radio silence.” She paused. “I confess I was disappointed when I didn’t hear from him. I was curious to know what he thought of the article. Finally, two weeks after publication, he called again.”
    “What did he want?”
    “He said he wanted to celebrate the fact that he was the first businessman to survive the slashing pen of Zoe Reed. He invited me to dinner. He even suggested I bring a date.”
    “You accepted?”
    “Instantly. But I didn’t bring a date. Martin and I had dinner here in London at L’Autre Pied. Afterward, I let him take me back to his hotel. And then…” Her voice trailed off. “Then I let him take me to bed.”
    “No qualms about journalistic ethics? No guilt about sleeping with a married man?”
    “Of course I had qualms. In fact, I swore to myself it would never happen again.”
    “But it did.”
    “The very next afternoon.”
    “You began seeing him regularly after that?”
    She