Page 2 of Savage Obsession

I watch from the window as he ambles off down the sandy drive in the direction of the main gate. So far, so good. Now all we need are a pair of maids and someone to get the pool in usable shape.

“More coffee, señor?” Sophia hovers, coffee pot at the ready. She passed her trial period with aplomb and is now three weeks into her permanent position. Does the woman have nothing more pressing to get on with?

I grunt my thanks and return my attention to the figures on my iPad.

“Señor, perhaps another pastry…?”

“No, thanks.” Does she not consider me capable of feeding myself?

“Some marmalade? It is from Seville.”

“No. Nothing. Thank you.”

“Then perhaps?—

My patience snaps. “Just leave it. Please. Have you nothing else to do?”

She sniffs, offended, but at last takes the hint. “I shall be in the kitchen if you need me.”

I doubt it will come to that. I heave a relieved sigh as the door swings closed behind her. Perhaps I should get back on to that agency and ask them to send me one who doesn’t try quite so hard.

No. Perhaps not. For all her fussing, Señora Hernandez is an excellent cook, and I’ll forgive her most other things. I reach for the iPad again and go back to scrutinising the spreadsheets from last night’s trading.

The clubs are doing well. Better than well, in fact. The restaurants less so, and I suspect an overhaul of menus is in order. Smaller range, more specialised Canarian specialities. Perhaps more fish. If Janey, my boss’s fiancée, was here, I’d consult her. She’s a trained chef with an eye for this sort of detail and is always saying she wants to get more involved with the restaurants, though Kris insists she doesn’t have to work. It’s an argument he’s going to lose.

Maybe a chat on the phone later.

I flip over to the sheet relating to our racecourse, recently reopened after a refurb of the bar and betting facilities. Now, here is a success story. Betting profits up by fifty percent, new gaming arcade full of tourists every night with euros burning holes in their pockets, and a mini casino ready to relieve them of any remaining cash at the end of the evening.

But it’s the horses that really appeal to me. I could count on one hand the number of times I got up close and personal with a horse before coming to Tenerife, but I’m smitten. Elegant, dignified creatures of absolute and utterly stunning beauty. I took no convincing to retain the stabling here at Los Viñedos. We keep twenty-four racehorses, breeding mares mostly but with a pair of magnificent stallions which make us a fortune in stud fees on top of the prize money.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a horseman, but most of the time I manage to stay in the saddle. On the odd occasion I end up rolling in the dust, it offers endless amusement to José and his team.

I close down the tablet and make my way down to the stables. Half an hour in the company of Dama Ofelia, my personal favourite among my equine companions, is the best way to start the day. An opportunity to clear my head, plan, strategise, review.

She’s in the paddock, saddled and ready as I stride towards her. She sees me, or maybe catches my scent on the breeze. Whatever, she canters over to the fence and whinnies in welcome. I have to stop myself waving to her. She’s a fucking horse, after all.

My phone rings in my pocket. I’m tempted to let it go to voice mail, but first I check the screen to see who it is. It’s a foreign number. Kristian, probably, though not his usual mobile number. Last I heard he was somewhere in the South Indian Ocean.

I hit ‘answer’. “Morning, boss.”

Silence.

“Hello? That you, Kris?” I wait, expectant.

“Er, czesc?”

Now it’s my turn to fall silent. A female voice, saying ‘hello’ to me in my native Polish.

“Kto to jest?” I demand. Who is this? Although the Kaminski enterprises are almost entirely relocated to the Canary Islands, we still have some residual business interests in Warsaw, and it’s possible my attention is required, especially as Kristian is away. “What’s this about?”

“Hello.” The caller switches to halting, accented English. “Is that…Baz?”

“Bazyli Bartosz, yes. Who is this?” I repeat. She does sound familiar. I search my memory for a clue.

“Baz, I…”

“Yes?”

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