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save the day. Two important bankers were flying in from Tokyo especially to meet with him. At the suggestion of Clive Barnaby, his key executive, they had been invited to his bachelor party, which was one of the reasons he couldn’t cancel it, much as he’d like to. Bachelor parties were hardly his style: he considered them a pathetic excuse for drunken married men to get their rocks off as they sat around hoping for a titty show–or, even better, a girl-on-girl sex scene.
    Work was Max’s passion. He’d always been determined to show his father he was no hapless loser–like Red had always told him he was.
    During his marriage to Mariska she’d complained that he was never around when she needed him.
    ‘To do what?’ he’d asked. ‘Escort you to the opera, the ballet, and every boring dinner party in town?’
    ‘It is excellent business for you to be seen out with your stunning wife,’ Mariska had responded. Modesty was not a quality she held in high regard.
    ‘Mariska, I’m working,’ he’d informed her. ‘Working to keep you in the style you’ve so easily become accustomed to.’
    ‘Donald Trump works too,’ she’d argued, ‘and he is seen everywhere.’
    As usual he ignored the Trump comparisons, which Mariska was fond of making. Donald Trump lived life his way in a very public fashion, and that was his prerogative. Max had no desire to be part of the busy New York social scene, enduring endless mentions in the gossip columns and a successful TV show. Publicity did not interest him. In fact, he did everything he could to avoid it.
    When he’d first encountered Mariska six years ago, she’d struck him as a simple girl who’d come to America from Moscow to pursue a dream. She already had her green card, thanks to what she assured him was a marriage of convenience to an accountant. She was divorced, working as a massage therapist and dating a business associate of his.
    On their first meeting at a dinner party he’d sat next to her, and during the course of the evening complained of a pain in his right shoulder.
    ‘I can fix that for you,’ she’d said, slipping him her card. ‘Call me, Max Diamond. I will make you feel like a new man.’
    A few days later he picked up the phone and made an appointment.
    Mariska’s massage technique consisted of heady scented oils and strong European fingers. She certainly did his shoulder a power of good, and it wasn’t long before he invited her for lunch. Her Slavic features, straight white-blonde-hair and charming accent captivated him, not that he had much time for women–work always came first. But Mariska was intriguing, and he found himself making another lunch date with her. Later that week they met for dinner. Soon he was seeing her every night.
    She treated him like a king, always putting him first, complimenting him, never asking for anything.
    Max was not a very sexually adept man–until he began sleeping with Mariska, the missionary position suited him just fine. But Mariska was having none of it: in bed she took him places he’d never been before, and he didn’t object.
    Within months he’d asked her to marry him and she’d readily accepted.
    It was only after the ring was on her finger that he’d realized what a conniving, devious, money-grabbing social-climber she really was.
    Too late. He’d married her, and by the time he caught on to her real personality, she was pregnant.
    He stayed in the marriage for the sake of Lulu, but when his little daughter reached the age of four he knew he couldn’t take it anymore. It was imperative for his peace of mind that he escape.
    Mariska did not want a divorce. She fought it every way she knew how, speaking to the press, his friends, business associates, hiring the best lawyers, which he ’d ended up paying for, and generally making his life as difficult as possible.
    Eventually he’d had to pay her a huge settlement. He considered it worth it just to be rid of her.
    Now he’d met a wonderful