The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  More people than she expected came down to the court and Genevieve partnered some of them in a slow demonstration.

  Several others claimed to have played squash at school or college and wondered if they were too old to take it up again. By the time she and Frank had finished answering questions and explaining points, Genevieve realized that she had been on the court much longer than she intended.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ Frank asked, mopping his face with a towel.

  ‘I rather wanted to see one of the martial arts demos. I hope they’re not over.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be,’ Frank said. ‘It’s only quarter past three. I think I saw karate down for three o’clock. It’s in the main hall. If you change your mind about that drink, I’ll be in the bar.’

  Genevieve could hear shouts coming from the sports hall as she approached it. The center had been turned into a demonstration area and there was quite a crowd watching younger members of the local club going through their paces. The commentator was explaining that karate was a disciplined sport that improved coordination, strength and flexibility.

  The children were demonstrating the basic moves—punches, blocks and kicks—that everyone had to learn before they could progress to the more spectacular freestyle fighting. They looked serious and determined as they went through their paces, yelling with martial enthusiasm as they completed each set of moves. After they left the area to a round of applause, a young black belt demonstrated a kata. This, the commentator said, might look like a fancy gymnastic exercise but it was actually a series of defense and attack moves, woven into a pattern, and used for training purposes.

  Although she knew nothing about karate, Genevieve was impressed by the young boy’s speed and the sharp strength of his movements. When he followed his performance by showing how each of the kata moves worked against four opponents attacking him from different sides, she was even more impressed. The attackers—all youngsters of his own size—were obviously enjoying themselves pretending to be muggers and falling to the ground in make-believe agony as they were dispatched. Genevieve joined in the applause when the demonstration was over.

  ‘If that little bugger had a go at one of my boys I’d knock his head off,’ a man said aggressively behind her.

  ‘He wouldn’t ever do that.’ A woman next to Genevieve turned angrily. ‘Unless your son attacked him.’

  ‘My son wouldn’t attack anyone,’ the man said. ‘But this stuff just encourages kids to be bullies.’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t,’ the woman said. ‘My children train with this club. They’re taught self-control and respect.’

  ‘By hitting people?’ the man sneered. ‘Teaching kids it’s big to kick someone’s head in? I prefer my kid to kick a football. We don’t need all that kung-fuey junk over here.’

  He stalked away and the woman turned to Genevieve, lifting her eyebrows in mock despair. ‘Some people just don’t know what the real martial arts are all about.’

  ‘Your sons do karate?’ Genevieve asked.

  ‘My daughters,’ the woman said. ‘They’re not here today because they’re staying with my ex this weekend. But getting their black belts did them the world of good. It’s given them confidence, and that improved their schoolwork. But they’re not silly enough to think a black belt makes them superhuman.’

  The crowd on the other side of the demonstration area parted and Genevieve saw six adults, five men and a woman, step forward. They all wore elaborate samurai-style armor protecting their chests, legs and arms and carried masked helmets and bamboo-bladed swords.

  ‘The next martial art we are going to see is the kendo,’ a cool voice announced. ‘The Way of the Sword.’

  Jade Chalfont was standing almost directly opposite Genevieve, a microphone in her hand. She was wearing a white karate-style jacket tucked into a long black hakama, the traditional Japanese ‘skirt’, usually worn by males. Her black hair was pulled back into a severe bun. Coupled with her pale skin and the red gloss of her mouth, it made her look like a combination of samurai and geisha. Genevieve was certain she had chosen the look deliberately. It was both sexy and aggressive. Jade Chalfont, Genevieve thought, would make an impressive dominatrix, uniformed in black leather.

  While Jade described the different parts of the protective armor and explained that bamboo swords were used in early training, her six students wound scarves round their heads and then donned their helmets. They bowed and picked up their weapons. All their moves had a ritual slowness about them which gave an impression of calm control. They demonstrated various attack and defense moves, and then the woman and one of the men fought together while Jade’s cool voice explained the methods of scoring used in competition bouts.

  Genevieve was just wondering why Jade had not shown off her own skill when she saw one of the students take the microphone. Jade bent down and picked up a sword that Genevieve had not noticed before. It had a long blade that glittered in the sports-hall lights.

  ‘You may have already seen a young karate-ka demonstrate a kata,’ the student announced. ‘We also have kata in kendo. Sensei Chalfont will now demonstrate one for you. As you can see she will use a genuine Japanese sword. In the hand of an expert this sword can sever a man’s neck with one blow.’

  He did not need to add that Sensei Chalfont was such an expert. It was obvious from the way Jade moved forward, bowed, and took up her starting position. Her movements were calm and economical but there was a quiet arrogance about her. When she began her kata she moved with fluid grace and speed. It looked effortless but Genevieve sensed the hidden power behind the ritual actions. She had no doubt that Jade’s sword would slice through flesh and bone with ease.

  Jade completed her demonstration, hesitated for a brief moment, and then bowed. The crowd applauded and moved towards her. Genevieve turned away. She did not want Jade Chalfont to know that she had been watching.

  ‘Not going to join the kendo class?’

  She spun round, startled. James Sinclair was standing by the entrance doors. ‘Aren’t you?’ she responded, concealing her surprise.

  He grinned. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, pale combats and trainers. He looked stylish and relaxed.

  ‘I might. Were you impressed?’

  She decided that it was pointless and silly to lie. ‘Yes. Miss Chalfont was very good.’

  That shows you I know exactly who you came to watch, she thought. And I’m damned if I’m going to call her Sensei.

  ‘She’s been doing it a long time,’ he said.

  All right, Genevieve thought. Now you’ve made certain that I know you’ve met, and you’ve talked about hobbies. What else have you discussed? Taking your advertising account to Lucci’s? Have you also suggested that Miss Jade Chalfont might like to be stripped and tied to your specially adapted door, and then tongued into the kind of climax that you gave to me?

  The thought made her angry. Angry and jealous. She noticed that the top buttons of his shirt were undone. The white cotton contrasted with his dark tan. He wore a watch made of dull metal that Genevieve guessed was platinum. He was certainly attractive, but then so were a lot of other men. What was it that made her think of sex—want sex—whenever she looked at him? At least it’s only sex I think about, she told herself. I’m not in love with him. It’s purely physical. An obsession. When our ninety-day agreement is over I’ll forget all about him.

  So why did the idea that he was interested in Jade Chalfont’s hobbies annoy her? The woman was a business rival, that was all. A rival in a competition that she was going to lose. Genevieve glanced across to the demonstration arena. Jade Chalfont was standing in the center of a circle of people, answering questions. She noticed that Sinclair’s eyes were gazing in the same direction. Then he turned to her. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  She would have loved a drink, but she had a feeling he might ask Jade Chalfont to join them. ‘Is that an order?’ she asked coolly.

  ‘No. A civilized re
quest. Orders come next week.’

  ‘I have to get home,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some work to finish.’

  ‘Housework? Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Business,’ she lied.

  His expression changed. ‘That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s the basis of our relationship,’ she replied.

  He grinned crookedly. ‘If you say so, Miss Loften. See you next Saturday.’

  Despite her apparent cool Genevieve had spent the rest of that Saturday wondering if Sinclair had taken Jade Chalfont for a drink, and then back home, or to a restaurant or even for a ride on his motorcycle. Somehow she could not imagine the super-cool, sword-wielding sensei wearing a miniskirt and no knickers just to please a man.

  But then, she had to admit, she would never have thought she would agree to play that role either. Not that she did it to please Sinclair, she told herself. It was part of the agreement. If she enjoyed it too, that was a bonus. And yet here she was trying to work out how to please him again. What did you wear to an antiques fair hosted by a millionaire Arab—providing that really was where they were going.

  She decided that as Arabs were supposed to like their women demure and ladylike (at least in public), she would dress as conventionally as possible. She pleated her hair into a knot, just loose enough to look neat without being too severe. She chose a pale-gray suit with a jacket that was feminine without overemphasizing her figure, and a straight skirt that skimmed her knees. Worn over a plain silk blouse, it gave the right impression of chaste femininity.

  Since the Arab was not going to see her underwear—and Sinclair probably was—she wore a white lace basque with a detachable bra top and briefs, a narrow garter belt and pale stockings that sheened her legs discreetly in silky gray. She had already chosen a pair of matching pumps but when she came to put them on she hesitated. She felt she needed something to imply that she was not entirely demure. After a moment’s thought she discarded the low pumps and picked out a pair of higher, much sexier gray stiletto heels. They had been an impulse buy in a sale and she had only worn them a few times, not because she did not like them but because they rarely seemed suitable for the few social events she attended.

  Now, combined with her ultra-respectable suit, and coupled with her lacy underwear, she felt suitably dressed for a meeting with a presumably conventional, Eton-educated Arab millionaire with impeccable taste, and for any later activities with the decidedly unconventional and educated goodness-knows-where James Sinclair.

  He arrived promptly, sounded his horn and waited for her at the kerbside. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit and a silk tie. She saw him give her a swift visual inspection and treated him to a frosty smile as he opened the passenger door for her.

  ‘Do I get a Grade A, or do you want me to go back and change?’

  ‘You look fine,’ he said. And surprised her by adding, ‘As always.’

  ‘You don’t think my shoes will shock your Arab friend?’

  He laughed. ‘Nothing shocks Zaid. He’ll love them.’

  She settled in the passenger seat and fastened her safety belt. Sinclair sat beside her. The car moved smoothly away from the kerb.

  ‘Want some music?’ She nodded. He pressed a button and a drawer full of CDs slid open. ‘You’ve got a choice.’

  She chose a selection of film music and the sounds of the Hugo Montenegro orchestra filled the car. Sinclair let her enjoy it, occasionally commenting on the various tracks and the films they had accompanied. They soon left the suburbs and headed for the M25 where the Mercedes eased into the fast lane and stayed there until Sinclair turned off at Junction 8 and headed south.

  After that Genevieve lost track of their direction. Sinclair drove confidently. The main roads became country roads. They passed through small villages and the Mercedes twisted and turned until it suddenly slowed and Genevieve saw large wrought-iron gates on their left.

  The house was a surprise. It looked as if several Victorian architects had formed a committee to discuss its design but had never come to a unanimous decision. Its sprawling walls and balconies were thickly covered with ivy. Its massive entrance doors looked more suited to a castle, and were reached by an impressive flight of steps. A castellated tower had been added to one corner, making the whole building look slightly off balance.

  ‘A millionaire lives here?’ Genevieve was amazed. ‘If I had money this isn’t exactly what I’d buy.’

  ‘Zaid doesn’t own it, he rents it,’ Sinclair said. ‘I think it appeals to his sense of humor. And it’s rather an appropriate venue for an antiques fair. Wait until you see inside.’

  There were other cars parked near the entrance steps, all of them sleekly expensive. Genevieve noted three Rolls-Royces, one of them a gleaming Silver Cloud. A uniformed chauffeur sat in the driver’s seat leafing through a magazine.

  An impressively large gentleman who looked slightly uncomfortable in his smart suit and tie stopped them at the door. Sinclair produced a small card. The security guard glanced at it briefly, pressed a button and waited. After a moment the doors swung open and Genevieve followed Sinclair inside.

  The entrance hall was oak-paneled and the walls were hung with an assortment of hunting trophies. Dead stags and dead foxes stared at Genevieve. There was a massive stone fireplace and a central flight of stairs that rose to a balcony and then branched both left and right. Several people stood in small groups, talking. A waiter moved about silently with a tray of drinks.

  ‘James, I’m delighted you could make it. I thought you’d back off and claim pressure of work.’

  The man who stepped forward was slightly taller than Sinclair and a few years older, but equally slim and elegant. His jet-black hair was fashionably cut and he had a neatly trimmed beard. Combined with his darkly tanned skin it gave him a slightly satanic look. He was dressed casually in an immaculately tailored jacket and trousers, with a silk cravat tucked loosely into his open-necked shirt.

  His eyes fixed on Genevieve. They were dark eyes, darker than Sinclair’s. There was humor in them, and obvious appreciation. He held out his hand.

  ‘I am Anwar Zaid ibn Mahmoud ben Hazrain. But please just call me Zaid. You must be Miss Genevieve Loften.’ Genevieve shook hands. His grasp was warm and firm. He smiled, and again she was reminded of Sinclair. ‘James has told me a lot about you,’ Zaid added.

  Genevieve glanced sideways at Sinclair. He raised one eyebrow and shrugged. But there was the trace of a smile on his lips and she immediately felt suspicious. Why had he found it necessary to tell this undeniably attractive man anything about her? She was supposed to be just a visitor, viewing the antiques.

  ‘James will show you everything,’ Zaid said, ‘and afterwards, I hope we’ll see each other again.’ He turned to Sinclair. ‘Everything, James. You understand?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Sinclair said. ‘And I thought you would.’

  Zaid laughed. ‘You know me far too well. Better than my own brother. And certainly better than my wife.’ He gave Genevieve another charming smile and then turned to greet another guest.

  Sinclair took Genevieve’s arm. ‘What would you like to see first? China? Glass? Paintings? Toys?’

  ‘Obviously I’m going to see everything,’ Genevieve said pointedly. ‘Whatever that means.’

  ‘You’ll find out what it means,’ Sinclair said. ‘Later.’

  ‘And where’s Zaid’s wife?’

  ‘Where all good wives should be.’ He grinned. ‘At home.’

  ‘So your friend has a Western education, and medieval ideas?’

  ‘Zaid probably thinks our idea of marrying for love is medieval. He sees marriage as a commitment to the future. His sons will take care of the family fortunes. His wife will ensure that they are properly prepared for their place in the world. In return she has a luxurious lifestyle. She has respect. She has children. She also knows that her husband would never do anything to disgrace the family name. It means too much to
him. The arrangement suits both of them.’

  Genevieve remembered the obvious appreciation she had seen in Zaid’s eyes when he first saw her. ‘And I’m sure he’s completely faithful, too,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Zaid isn’t celibate when he’s abroad,’ Sinclair said. ‘His wife wouldn’t expect it. He’s permitted his sexual indulgences. He’s a man, after all.’ He glanced at her. ‘And an attractive one, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, in a neutral voice. ‘Very nice.’

  He looks a lot like you, she thought, but I’m damned if I’m going to tell you so. She remembered the slight pressure of the Arab’s hand on hers. She knew he had found her attractive. Was that what Sinclair was planning? Was he going to offer her services to his friend? And if he did, would she agree?

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for Zaid’s wife,’ Sinclair said. ‘It was an arranged marriage, but they both agreed to it, and I doubt if they were pressured. You might say it was a business agreement.’ He smiled at her, and again she was reminded of Zaid’s smile. ‘You should appreciate the logic of that.’

  I’m sure Zaid does too, Genevieve thought. It gives him respectability and the right to play the field. She followed Sinclair up the wide stairs. A couple passed them and smiled, the woman glittering with jewelry that Genevieve instinctively knew was genuine. She also knew Sinclair was planning something, and she was equally certain it involved his Arab friend. But what was it? And what had Zaid meant when he insisted that Sinclair show her ‘everything’?

  She soon realized why Sinclair had told her that the house was a suitable venue for an antiques fair. Each room was decorated in a different style or historical period, and the antiques on display had been chosen to suit the decor. In every room smartly dressed purchasers were politely haggling or writing checks.