Free The Zurich Conspiracy by Bernadette Calonego Page B

it’s a guided hunt for lazy tourists. But maybe he wanted to be the first to kill a grizzly. Be just like him. Always was a show-off. Probably got lost, how do I know. At any rate they didn’t find him until a week later.”
    “What did he die of?”
    “Hypothermia and exhaustion, so I heard; there was an unexpected cold snap up there. But Feller-Stähli still isn’t off the hook.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “He gave the top people at Swixan such good advice that nobody’s been able to prove them guilty of anything to do with the bankruptcy so far. And he helped Thüring and his consorts legally shelter their millions.”
    Josefa uttered something incomprehensible, but Klingler was under a full head of steam.
    “And what’s more, his good friend kicks off, the honorable Beat Thüring, the CEO himself. What do you say to that?”
    “In the first place”—Josefa was slowly losing patience—“he’s still only gone missing, and secondly…secondly, why should I have an opinion about it?”
    “Just the same, he was also under your wing in St. Moritz, so I’ve heard.”
    “Under my what? Now let’s stop right there, Paul. As if I were the one to decide who gets invited. Come on!” Josefa was pacing like a tiger around her bedroom. “If Bourdin or Walther wanted to suck up to those characters…”
    “Josefa Rehmer, the clueless wonder,” Klingler teased her. “Maybe it’s just as well you don’t know everything your prominent guests are up to. Especially when they were romping about in Tenerife at the same time you were. So keep your ears and eyes well shut.”
    “And you your mouth.” Josefa’s riposte ended the conversation. She hung up the phone and went to the bathroom, but Paul’s words echoed in her ears. Prince George, when have I heard of that place before? Of course, that’s where Greg lives, Helene’s boyfriend in Canada.

She was wrapped in Stefan’s arms two hours later. Her hands traveled under his jacket, feeling his body, sensing the warmth of his skin, the tensing of his muscles, his arousal. They hadn’t seen each other in over a month. Josefa hadn’t failed to notice that the time between their assignations was getting longer and longer.
    “You look like you’re fresh from a holiday,” Stefan joked as he brushed back her hair. He liked it when she wore it loose. She gave him a kiss and pulled him into the kitchen where they made two Camparis with orange—an old ritual they enjoyed. Stefan held her tight as he drank. His bold, definitive features that otherwise radiated irresistible energy seemed worn. Jet lag, Josefa thought to herself. A lawyer for an international private bank in Zurich, Stefan’s frequent trips were getting to him over the last few months, obviously taking their toll. But maybe it was the result of his double life as well.
    Josefa had met him two years before at one of Loyn’s events. It was quickly clear to both of them that this would be just an affair. Whenever they met—always at her place—they would first talk for a bit at the kitchen table over a snack; as they talked, they would get closer, finding their common island in the river that otherwise kept them apart.
    But today it seemed Stefan didn’t want to waste any time. He took Josefa in his arms almost immediately, pushed up close against her, and did not let her go.
    Now she lay on his warm body, enjoying the stillness, enjoying Stefan’s lazily wandering touch. He played with her hair, stroked her back, gently kissed her shoulders. Josefa wanted to lie like this forever, slightly drowsy, the scent of sex in her nostrils. But she knew Stefan’s time was limited.
    They had gnocchi with homemade sauce while Josefa related the events of the past few weeks: the hiring of Schulmann and the revelation of Claire’s liaison with him, Josefa’s talk with Walther and her ongoing troubles with Bourdin, the party in St. Moritz, her Tenerife holiday and the mysterious Ingrid, and finally the