The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  The Victorian nursery housed a toy collection. A flamboyant Chinese room had a display of silks, fans and screens. The Regency room contained furniture. A twenties-style music room held a collection of instruments and music boxes. One, in a beautiful, polished-wood box, chimed ‘Danny Boy’ when Genevieve opened the lid. ‘This is lovely,’ she said. She looked unsuccessfully for a price tag. There was only a small number attached to the box. ‘I think I’ll buy it. How much is it?’

  ‘Go and ask,’ Sinclair said. ‘The gentleman at the table over there will give you all the details.’

  ‘This box?’ The discreet, soft-spoken salesman glanced at the number. ‘I’m sorry, madam, I believe this one has been sold.’ He checked with a small laptop computer. ‘Yes, it has. My apologies. I should have removed the number.’

  Genuinely annoyed, Genevieve was about to argue when she heard an unexpected and familiar husky voice.

  ‘James, darling. I didn’t know you were interested in music.’

  She turned in time to see Jade Chalfont kiss Sinclair affectionately on the cheek, brushing back her heavy fall of dark hair as she did so. In a figure-hugging black dress with her usual chunky jewelry she looked as self-confident as a top model posing on the catwalk. Her bright red, sensual mouth smiled insincerely as Genevieve walked towards her.

  ‘James, you’re with a friend. I didn’t realize.’

  ‘Miss Genevieve Loften,’ Sinclair said.

  Jade Chalfont’s smile turned frosty. ‘Oh yes. You’re a Barringtons rep, aren’t you?’

  ‘An account manager,’ Genevieve said, equally frosty.

  ‘Do Barringtons still call them that? How quaint.’ Jade Chalfont kept the smile fixed on her glossy red lips. ‘You like antiques too, do you?’ Her eyes looked briefly at the box Genevieve was holding. ‘You collect little music boxes. That’s very sweet.’

  Because she was furious at Jade Chalfont’s patronizing tone, and well aware that Sinclair knew it, she fell into the trap Jade had set without thinking. ‘What exactly do you collect, Miss Chalfont?’ She felt like adding ‘apart from men’.

  ‘Japanese swords,’ Jade Chalfont said. ‘I’m just going to look at some.’ She turned to Sinclair. ‘Shall we go together?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Sinclair said, and Genevieve could have cheerfully slapped him. Instead she glared at him as he walked past her to the door, and he treated her to his most charming smile. ‘Jade’s an expert on oriental weapons. And a high-ranking kendo sensei too.’

  ‘I know that,’ Genevieve said. ‘I was at the sports-center open day, remember?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course you were,’ he said, still smiling. ‘You were demonstrating squash, weren’t you?’

  ‘Squash?’ Jade Chalfont repeated. ‘I tried to play that at college, but it didn’t intrigue me enough. No depth. The martial arts require a great deal of mental as well as physical discipline. I find that challenging.’

  Inwardly seething, Genevieve followed them both into the Japanese room. It contained a stunning display of weapons, armor, pottery and paintings.

  Genevieve inspected some ivory netsuke, picking up one of the carvings that was shaped like a curled-up cat, its eyes closed.

  ‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ Jade Chalfont’s voice sounded huskily in her ear. ‘I have a collection of my own. The Japanese made even simple things into works of art.’

  ‘And swords?’ Sinclair said. ‘You once told me you thought the sword was the height of Japanese artistic workmanship.’

  Jade laughed delightedly. ‘Darling, you remembered my impromptu lecture. And I thought I was boring you to tears.’

  ‘I remember everything,’ Sinclair said, softly.

  All right, Genevieve thought. So now I know that you’ve had a nice tête-à-tête with Miss Chalfont. You flattered her shamelessly, and let her prattle on about the only thing she probably knows anything about, so she thinks you’re marvelous. Which is more than I do at the moment.

  ‘Come and look at these.’ Jade went to one of the sword stands and started to lecture Sinclair on its merits. He leaned over her, nodding, and seemed fascinated by her monologue.

  Genevieve turned back to the netsuke. She examined a few more of the intricately carved toggles, used by the Japanese in traditional costume, and the samurai, to hang items from their wide sashes.

  ‘I can show you something more interesting than that.’ Sinclair’s voice startled her. She turned to find him standing closer than she expected. Over his shoulder she saw Jade Chalfont deep in conversation with the salesman.

  ‘Both of us?’ she asked frostily.

  ‘Just you,’ Sinclair said.

  ‘You can’t walk out on your friend,’ she said acidly. ‘It’s not polite.’

  ‘Jade will be in here for hours,’ Sinclair said.

  ‘And she’ll go home with a nice new sword. How sweet.’

  He laughed, quietly. ‘She won’t. Unless Zaid buys it for her. She couldn’t possibly afford one of these.’

  Was he telling her Jade and Zaid were lovers? ‘Do you mean Jade is one of Zaid’s—er—sexual indulgences?’

  ‘Zaid is one of Jade’s students,’ Sinclair corrected. ‘He practices kendo. I’m told he’s very good.’

  He took her arm and guided her out of the room, towards a flight of stairs that took them to an upper landing. Two security guards loitered in the corridor, trying, unsuccessfully, to look inconspicuous. They moved towards Sinclair and Genevieve as they approached. Sinclair produced a small card, which one of the guards scanned with an electronic device that blipped. ‘Go right ahead, sir,’ the guard said politely, handing the card back.

  ‘How nice to have contacts in the right places,’ Genevieve murmured as they walked on down the corridor and up another short flight of stairs. ‘What are we going to see down here that needs extra guards?’

  ‘The guards are as much to protect our privacy as the antiques,’ Sinclair said. ‘Although some of them are valuable, at least to specialized collectors.’

  He pushed open a door. Genevieve walked into a dimly lit Victorian bedroom. Shaded lamps glowed. The washstand and chest of drawers, and several small tables, were set out with display items. The bed was turned down and a beautifully embroidered nightdress lay waiting. Genevieve went to inspect it. Sinclair watched her. ‘Pick it up,’ he said. ‘You’re allowed to handle the merchandise.’

  She did so and held the garment against her body. ‘Turn it round,’ Sinclair instructed.

  There was a circular hole cut in the back of the prim-looking nightdress, which would probably have left the wearer’s bottom exposed. ‘It’s damaged,’ she said.

  To her surprise Sinclair started to laugh. ‘Look closer,’ he said. Genevieve did so and realized that the hole was delicately hemmed. Sinclair came and stood beside her. ‘Provided by a thoughtful Victorian husband for his new wife,’ he said softly. ‘Just to make sure she understood what position he wanted her in.’

  Genevieve looked at the nightdress with less enthusiasm than before and placed it back on the bed. ‘I’m not sure I like that idea. Didn’t the woman have any choice?’

  Sinclair shrugged. ‘Who knows? She may have approved. But from what I’ve read about Victorian marriages, she probably had to do as she was told.’ He walked to a corner where a selection of canes stood in a tub. Taking one out, he sliced it through the air a couple of times. ‘Or maybe the husband would have a different idea? Especially if he thought his wife had misbehaved during the day.’ He slapped the cane gently against the side of his leg. ‘These are genuine too.’ He ran one finger down the length of the cane. ‘Collectors can get a great deal of pleasure out of speculating how these have been used.’

  ‘Is this Zaid’s idea?’ Genevieve asked. ‘Pornographic antiques.’

  ‘A specialist collection,’ Sinclair corrected her. ‘For the discerning buyer.’

  ‘There don’t seem to be many buyers,’ she remarked.

  ‘This is a private view,’
Sinclair said.

  He guided her into the next room. She was surprised to see that it was furnished like a schoolroom. There were desks, a blackboard on an easel, and something that looked like a small vaulting horse with a padded top.

  She opened a desk. Its top was stained with ink and carved names. There were books inside. Picking one up she looked at the title: The Story of Elizabeth, she read. A brief glance through the text and pictures showed that Elizabeth’s story consisted of a catalogue of demands that she bend over any available piece of furniture and be punished for her disobedience. Schoolmasters, schoolmistresses and even other pupils administered the spanking. She put the book back and closed the desk.

  She walked over to the padded horse. When she got closer to it she saw that there were wrist and ankle restraints fixed to its sides.

  ‘It’s genuine,’ Sinclair said. ‘A lot of Victorians believed flogging was good for the soul, and the earlier you started the better.’

  ‘A lot of people must still think so,’ she said, ‘if they buy this sort of thing.’

  ‘The people who buy this stuff probably only use it with consenting adults. It can give some people a thrill just to know they’ve got a genuine item.’

  Genevieve walked over to a table where a large postcard album was on display. She turned the pages. Victorian beauties, tubby by modern standards, and with frozen smiles, posed in a variety of acrobatic sexual positions. The men, with curled mustaches and often still wearing their shoes and socks, looked serious and unexcited. The sepia photographs seemed to have been designed by someone intent on making sure everyone displayed their genitalia. They had a static, clinical quality about them. Genevieve found them boring rather than arousing, and said so.

  Sinclair peered over her shoulder. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘They remind me of pictures of the old Windmill theatre nudes. No excitement. The women aren’t interested in pleasing men, they’re just doing their job. Take your clothes off, pin on a smile and collect your money at the end of the week.’ He was standing very close to her now. She could feel the warmth of his body. ‘If a woman doesn’t enjoy it,’ he said softly, ‘it doesn’t turn me on.’

  ‘How can you be certain your partner is enjoying it?’ she asked coolly. ‘Lots of women are good actors.’

  ‘Are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve fooled me,’ he grinned. ‘Up until now.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Come on, if you don’t care for these, have a look at the print room.’

  The next room was full of pictures. Paintings, drawings, etchings, framed and unframed. The pictures on the walls, in heavy, gold lacquered frames, were mostly classical scenes of rather tame debauchery: tangled limbs and satyr’s hooves, and drunken gods chasing plump nymphs. They might have been daring in the Victorian era but, Genevieve thought, they would hardly raise an eyebrow today. One or two were more explicit, with erect penises and athletic couplings, but once again Genevieve found them unarousing.

  She asked herself why, and had to admit that Sinclair’s comment about the participants enjoying themselves was valid. She remembered Ricky Croft’s pictures. There had been very obvious erotic pleasure on the faces he had drawn. Most of these Victorian paintings had a mechanical look about them. The artists were clearly interested in showing ‘naughty’ positions rather than sensual, physical pleasure.

  The drawing she liked the best depicted Leda and the swan. A swooning Leda lay entwined in the coiling neck of the swan. The picture was erotic because of what it implied rather than what it showed. Leda had the look of a woman who was happily exhausted after an energetic sex session. The swan simply looked enigmatic. The premise was ridiculous, Genevieve thought. There was no way a swan could please a woman, but its very ambiguity made it interesting.

  ‘Very classical,’ said Sinclair.

  Genevieve looked at the price and put the drawing back. ‘And ridiculously expensive. Do people really pay these absurd prices for this sort of thing?’

  ‘Of course they do. That’s an original.’

  ‘Would you?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t collect Victoriana.’ He paused. ‘Or dirty pictures.’

  She wondered if that was a reference to Ricky Croft’s drawings. ‘But you’d accept them as a gift?’ she hinted.

  He shrugged, and turned to the door. She followed him. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘It depends on why the gift was being offered. And what I was expected to give in return.’ He glanced at her and smiled. ‘Are you thinking of buying me a present?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to give you pictures. I’m giving you the real thing.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said and added coldly, ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  Once they were back in the corridor Sinclair pointed to a door. ‘In there,’ he said.

  It was a large room with one main piece of furniture. At first she thought it was simply a couch, padded with green leather, but then she realized there were padded loops and levers fixed to its sides, although she could not see their purpose. The room was lit by subdued lamps. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows. A large Victorian armchair stood near the couch.

  ‘Take your jacket off,’ Sinclair said.

  She did so, slowly.

  ‘And the blouse,’ he said.

  Even slower she unbuttoned the silk blouse, slipping it back over her shoulders. His dark eyes watched her. ‘Skirt,’ he said, flatly.

  She stepped out of her skirt and stood in her lacy white underwear, the brief panties, the garter belt, the pale silky stockings and the stiletto heels.

  He looked her over slowly, and once again she felt a rush of mixed emotions as she felt her body respond. Her nipples actually tightened under their thin, white lace covering. No other man had been able to turn her on simply by inspecting her. The fact that Sinclair could do so both excited and angered her. It gave him a power that she did not quite want him to have. Luckily, she thought, he probably doesn’t know it.

  But the amusement that showed in his eyes as he watched her prompted her to wonder if she had not misjudged him. He moved forward and stood in front of her. His eyes held hers, unreadable, dark brown. He reached out and expertly removed the clips from her hair. It tumbled to her shoulders and he ran his fingers through it, tousling it lightly into disarray. The touch of his fingers on her scalp sent a shudder of pleasure through her.

  He was so close she thought he was going to kiss her mouth, but instead his lips brushed her ear and his fingers ran along the edge of her bra. He found the fastening that clipped it to the basque and tugged. The bra peeled away. He closed his hands over her breasts and massaged them gently, his lips still whispering at her ear. She rocked on her feet. A moan began to form in her throat. Her hips moved to push against him. She could feel her clit begin to throb.

  She had a feeling he was going to lift her up and carry her to the leather-padded couch, but instead he suddenly stopped handling her and stepped back. Her moan turned to one of frustration, which she managed to cover with a little cough, a subterfuge that she did not think fooled him for a moment.

  ‘Tighten it,’ he said. For a moment she did not understand what he meant. ‘The corset,’ he said. ‘Tighten it. You can take a couple of inches off your waist.’

  ‘This isn’t a bondage outfit,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll pull tighter,’ he said. ‘So do it.’

  She struggled with the laces while he watched her. Tightening the basque pushed the lightly wired top up hard under her breasts, forcing them to a provocative fullness.

  He smiled slowly. ‘That’s much better. Doesn’t it feel better?’

  ‘It feels uncomfortable,’ she said.

  He stepped towards her again.

  His fingers brushed her nipples.

  ‘You’re a liar,’ he said softly. ‘It feels good. Admit it. It feels sexy, and it feels good.’ The tips of his fingers moved to and fro, lightly. ‘Let’s hear you say it,�
� he murmured. ‘It—feels—good.’

  She closed her eyes and gave in to the sensation. ‘It feels good,’ she repeated, obediently.

  He took his hands away. ‘You like being watched, right?’ The sudden change of tone startled her.

  ‘Watched?’ she repeated.

  ‘You enjoyed it, playing a biker’s tart. You enjoyed the idea that those men were getting their kicks from watching you.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice,’ she began.

  ‘I wish you’d stop wriggling,’ he said. ‘Stop making excuses. You enjoyed it. Right?’

  ‘Well—yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘But they couldn’t see your face,’ he said. ‘Did that make it easier?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She thought about it. ‘I’d be embarrassed if I thought I’d be recognized. I don’t think I could handle it.’ She paused. ‘All right, it’s more than that. I’d be petrified to think that someone would recognize me.’ She reminded him quickly: ‘You promised me it wouldn’t happen. I have my career to think of.’

  ‘Why does it always come back to your damned career,’ he said sharply. ‘If you knew your audience would be discreet, would you still perform?’

  She brushed her hair back and stared at Sinclair. ‘Just what are you leading up to?’ she asked.

  ‘You know what I’m asking you,’ he said shortly. ‘And I think you know who your audience will be.’

  She nodded. He wants to make love to me in front of Zaid, she thought. Or maybe he wants Zaid to join in?

  ‘I’m just interested to know why you’re actually asking,’ she said. ‘I thought you gave the orders and I obeyed them.’

  ‘Zaid wants you to agree,’ Sinclair said. ‘He doesn’t want any arm twisting. You have to be happy with the arrangement. When it comes to discretion, it would probably damage Zaid’s reputation more than yours if you did a kiss and tell act.’

  ‘I’m not going to do that,’ she said. ‘Obviously. But why me? Surely Zaid can afford to buy the best professionals you can get? Women a lot more experienced than I am.’