He just wished Poppy would hurry up so they could get this over with.

Natalia Evanovitch sipped her Cristal and surveyed the scene coolly from her hillside vantage spot. She would descend in her own time. She had only known Poppy and Damian since they’d been engaged, and in that time she had grown very fond of them; they were a good-looking, intelligent, fun-loving couple who were a great addition to her little black book. Hence the generous offer of her extraordinarily glamorous clifftop villa as both the reception after-party venue and somewhere for the wedding party to stay for the week.

Natalia was seriously loaded. As she looked down at the hipsters milling around the beach in their Alice Temperley frocks and designer shades, she reflected on the contrast between her new sunny, carefree world and her cold, dark past in Kiev. And they say that money cannot buy you happiness, she thought scornfully. Ерунда!

But if it wasn’t for her past, the money almost certainly wouldn’t exist. For a moment she gazed out over the sea, lost in thought. With an effort she snapped herself out of it. Across the pass, the wedding jeep was making its juddering way down the hill. Natalia adjusted her multicoloured silk minidress, checked her smooth platinum-blonde ponytail in the rear-view window of her state-of-the-art silver Ferrari and made a leisurely descent to the beach.

Justin and Jilly were having a whale of a time. They’d been nearly the oldest swingers in town at Pacha last night and snorted much of Colombia’s finest. The Viagra-assisted screwing had lasted till dawn, so they’d only had around three hours’ sleep.

She’s not bad for an old bird, thought Justin, checking out Jilly’s childless flat stomach and lifted tits. Even though he was at least ten years older than her, he was used to much younger totty, and his forty-five-odd years of experience as a fashion photographer generally guaranteed him access to it. But he was still smarting from the hideous events of the previous year. A young model he’d screwed had accused him of rape after he’d failed to get her picture on the cover of Italian Vogue. Justin’s moral boundaries were pretty vague, but rape? No way, José. He’d assumed she fancied him; he was still pretty buff, if he did say so himself. He thought he’d taken her to heaven and back.

So, for the time being, Jilly was as good a compromise as any. She wasn’t what you’d call a babe (too old), or a beauty, like his ex-wife Olivia (also too old, but her eyes made up for it), but she was fun, with a body that could pass for a much younger one if he closed his eyes. Which he found himself doing with increasing frequency.

‘Another tequila, you naughty old wretch?’ Jilly brandished the bottle she’d hidden in her purple, suede-tasselled handbag.

‘Thanks, angel tits.’ Justin took a hearty swig then belched slightly. Heartburn. How the fuck did Ronnie Wood do it?