She wished he was here with her. She wished he had come in while she was in the bath and dipped his hands under the froth of bubbles and found her warm skin, slippery from the oil that scented the water. She imagined the sensation of his hands searching her body, lingering down her spine, fondling her nipples just roughly enough to excite them, sliding between her legs.
Maybe he would strip, and join her. She would feel his skin next to hers, his hard erection pressing against her. But he would save himself. They would shower the soap from their bodies. She imagined the shine of his tanned skin under the cascade of water. The sight of his cock, straining upwards. She would tease him, gently cupping his balls and maybe even taking him in her mouth, arousing him still further. He would lift her into his arms and carry her over to the bed.
You romantic idiot, she told herself. That’s never going to happen. That’s the way lovers behave, and James Sinclair is not your lover. He’s a business proposition. And to him you’re an amusement. He’s selling, and you’re buying. You’re using each other. That’s what the ninety-day agreement is all about.
And my usefulness is coming to an end, she thought suddenly. James Sinclair is already looking round for a replacement.
She began to wonder if she was going to get the usual feedback from Sinclair. If there was even going to be another meeting. Then the courier brought a small parcel and a large white envelope. The parcel contained a length of heavy silk cord and in the envelope was a large white invitation card: YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO A CELEBRATION. COSTUME AND MASK TO BE WORN BY ALL GUESTS. The address was Hilton Hall, Essex. The date, the thirtieth of the month. It was the day her agreement with Sinclair ended.
Chapter Eight
Genevieve put the invitation card on the shelf of the small Welsh dresser in her kitchen. She read it each morning, and each time it depressed her. It sounded terribly final. Was this really going to be her last private meeting with Sinclair? She believed it was. He had not shown any sign of wanting to continue their relationship. Was he already enjoying Jade Chalfont’s company more than hers? With Marsha adding a little spice to the mixture? Perhaps Marsha and Jade were willing to perform a twosome for him, with variations that she and Bridget had not had the time—or, in her case, the inclination—to try?
She did not want to imagine them together, but the pictures kept forming: Jade Chalfont, slim and tall as a supermodel, but with hidden muscles from her martial arts training, and Marsha, with her more rounded curves and stunning red hair. What would they do? Would they use whips and chains? A cock-shaped vibrator? A strapped-on dildo? Surely Sinclair would not find that sort of thing a turn-on?
Or maybe he would. Maybe she did not know him at all. He had certainly shown no particular interest in the more extreme pleasures on offer in the dungeon, but was that just because he guessed she was not interested? Although part of his pleasure clearly came from making his partner aware of sexual needs she had not previously been aware of—or had deliberately refused to acknowledge—he did not seem to want to force a woman into any sexual games she did not enjoy.
But she was certain he would be equally good at discovering what those games might be. Was he already planning to get her to back down on the last day of their unusual contract? Would that amuse him? She remembered his words: if anyone breaks our agreement, it’ll be you. He had quite obviously enjoyed the feeling of being in control. This would be the ultimate proof of it.
Would he do it? She was still not sure.
‘How are things progressing?’
Genevieve had hardly had time to check her appointments for the day, before George Fullerton arrived at her office, making a rather obvious attempt to look as if he had been casually passing by, had seen her and just dropped in.
‘How am I getting on with Mr. Sinclair, you mean?’ Genevieve countered.
‘That too,’ Fullerton agreed. ‘I understand the Japanese trip was successful, but the rumor is that Barringtons haven’t a hope in hell of getting Sinclair’s account.’
‘That rumor’s been going round a long time,’ she said.
‘And nothing much has happened here to disprove it,’ Fullerton commented, quietly.
‘I told you, George,’ Genevieve said, with a touch of irritation fuelled by the knowledge that she was not sure if she was telling the truth, ‘Sinclair has been buying time. Now that the Japanese deal is finalized he’ll start to reorganize his marketing campaigns. With us.’
‘I wish I shared your confidence,’ Fullerton said honestly. ‘But I’d feel a lot happier about Mr. Sinclair’s sincerity if gossip didn’t also claim that he’s been seeing rather a lot of Jade Chalfont. Maybe it’s just for sex—knowing Sinclair’s reputation that wouldn’t surprise me—but you can’t tell me they never discuss business. Chalfont’s one of Lucci’s account managers, after all.’
‘They call them reps,’ Genevieve said.
‘I don’t care what they call them,’ Fullerton said sharply. ‘That Chalfont woman set her sights on Sinclair almost as soon as she joined Lucci’s. She probably got him into bed after their first meeting.’
‘That doesn’t mean she’s also going to get him to sign on the dotted line,’ Genevieve said.
‘Obviously not,’ Fullerton agreed. ‘But if they’re having a fling, I’m sure it hasn’t harmed Miss Chalfont’s chances. Of course, I don’t expect you to use the same tactics, but you did give me the impression that things were moving nicely before that Chalfont woman appeared on the scene. Very nicely, if I remember rightly. After that,’ he smiled slightly to show that this was only a friendly criticism, ‘negotiations seemed to have come to a standstill.’
‘I told you, George,’ she said patiently. ‘Sinclair wanted time.’
‘He’s had time,’ Fullerton said. ‘How much longer do you think he wants?’
‘Oh, good heavens, George.’ Genevieve felt her temper slipping. ‘I can’t push a prospective client too hard.’
‘Make an informed guess,’ Fullerton requested.
‘I’d guess at next week,’ she said. ‘One way or the other.’
And which way would it be? she wondered, later that day, as she made her way home from work. The more she thought about it, the less certain she was that Sinclair would choose Barringtons’ services. She had believed him to start with. But was that because she had been attracted to him and had wanted to believe him?
Would he really risk the ideas offered by a young and admittedly relatively inexperienced creative team, rather than trust an international track record, like that of the equally up-and-coming Lucci’s? Would he stay with Randle-Mayne in the end? She had only his word that he was having creative differences with them.
How would her career stand if her predictions proved wrong? She knew nothing drastic would happen, at least not immediately, but she would certainly lose credibility, especially as she had insisted so strenuously that Sinclair was going to bring his account to Barringtons. Damn you, Sinclair, she thought suddenly, angrily. You’ve messed up my life in more ways than one.
That evening she did an internet search on Hilton Hall and found that it was a private house owned by a city financier whose name was familiar to her from the newspapers. A respectable figure who had never been linked with any kind of scandal. But, she remembered, the Knights of the Banner had been a genuine organization meeting at a legitimate venue. She suspected that the celebration at Hilton Hall was not as conventional as it sounded.
The week passed slowly. On Thursday a small white envelope landed on her mat. Inside was an appointment card. Variety Costumes, she read. The telephone number and address were printed, but a time and date had been added by hand with a request for confirmation. The date was the evening before the one on Sinclair’s invitation card. He was obviously assuming that whatever costume she wanted would be available from this supplier. She telephoned, and a girl with a Sloaney voice seemed very anxious that she was happy with her appointment time and asked her if she had ‘any ideas.’
Totally confused, Genevieve said that she hadn’t. What would the girl suggest?
‘Does the party have a theme?’
‘I don’t know,’ Genevieve said. ‘I don’t think so. My invitation just says it’s a celebration.’
‘Well, aren’t you lucky,’ the cheerful voice informed her. ‘You can go as absolutely anything.’
Somehow this made Genevieve feel depressed again. Usually Sinclair dictated what she would wear. Now it seemed as if he was no longer interested enough to care.
Variety Costumes gave the impression of being as chaotic as a jumble sale, but it was soon clear that the assistants knew exactly where everything was. Dresses, coats, hats, shoes and accessories were labeled and coded. One assistant worked a computer. When a customer asked for a particular costume, the computer found its number, and an assistant fetched it for approval and fitting.
Faced with so much choice Genevieve found it impossible to make up her mind. She could be an exotic Eastern dancer or a maid in a short black dress with a fresh white apron and cap. She could swathe herself in furs and jewelry or go seminaked as a belly dancer. She could be a clown (in fact she was rather tempted) or a wasp-waisted lady in a high-necked, lace-fronted blouse and a wide-brimmed hat heavy with flowers and colorful feathers.
Then she saw a top hat. On impulse she tried it on. The assistant turned her towards a mirror.
‘That really suits you. How about going as Marlene Dietrich? The Blue Angel look, you know? You could wear a man’s tailcoat and high heels. Your hair’s the right color and with the correct period makeup you’d look super.’
Although she had been thinking of a glamorous historical outfit, Genevieve found this idea appealing. She knew she had good legs, and they’d look fine in black silk stockings and high heels. Combined with a man’s coat and the top hat, the effect should be sexy and unusual. Even if Sinclair did not appreciate it, she would feel happy knowing that she looked good.
When she tried the complete outfit, she knew she had made the right choice. The band of white flesh visible between the tops of her stockings and edge of her black silk briefs added to the erotic image. The black tailcoat, cropped at the front, and the white shirt beneath, disguised her feminine shape but somehow made her look and feel more sexy than if she had worn a low-cut gown. This outfit promised and tempted rather than revealed. She put on the top hat and tilted it rakishly sideways. The assistant smiled in enthusiastic approval.
‘Absolutely great. Your husband’s going to love you in that.’
‘I’m not married,’ Genevieve said.
‘Well, your boyfriend, then.’
‘I haven’t got a boyfriend either,’ Genevieve said, and before the assistant could comment she added quickly: ‘I’ll need a mask.’
The assistant smiled. ‘I know just the right one. I’ll get it for you.’
Left on her own Genevieve posed unselfconsciously in front of the mirror. Maybe Sinclair would be attracted by this costume. It was strange how the right combination of masculine clothes and feminine accessories emphasized femininity. This Blue Angel look promised something not quite conventional, a hint of the forbidden, the unusual. The assistant returned with a mask that looked as if it had been sprayed with Christmas-card glitter.
‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘This will go with your costume. A contrast to all that black.’
Genevieve had to admit that she was right. And the sparkling mask under the brim of the top hat disguised her completely. She left the shop well satisfied with her visit.
The taxi that came to collect her had no other passengers. Genevieve wore her fur coat over her costume. The taxi driver was cheerful and talkative, making the journey through London and out into the Essex countryside pass quickly.
It was getting dark by the time they branched off the motorway and turned into roads that quickly grew narrower and devoid of traffic. The driver seemed to know his way, rarely hesitating to consult signposts at junctions or crossroads. He finally slowed at an imposing pair of wrought-iron gates, and turned into a driveway. Colored lights glittered in the trees. At the end of the drive, Hilton Hall stood illuminated with spotlights. Music spilled from the open doors.
The welcoming atmosphere was slightly spoiled by the two burly bouncers in smart suits who checked Genevieve’s invitation card with an electronic scanning device. But, once she was through the doors, smiling staff took her coat, offered her a selection of drinks, and explained that there was a permanent buffet in the blue room, the cinema was showing a continuous program, there was dancing in the ballroom, the indoor pool was heated and the viewing area was open. If she wanted a private room, the first floor was available. Theme rooms were provided. If she did not know her way around the Hall, any member of staff—dressed in royal-blue, page-boy uniforms—would direct her.
Not all of this made immediate sense to Genevieve. She loitered in the foyer, wondering if Sinclair was looking for her. A masked couple wandered past, the man dressed conventionally as a vicar and the woman as a bare-breasted ancient Egyptian. Another couple, who had probably started off in Edwardian clothes but were now down to their period-style underwear, went up the wide main staircase together. Obviously heading for the private rooms, Genevieve thought.
She was beginning to feel awkward. Guests arrived in pairs or groups, in various stages of dress and undress, smiled at her and then wandered off together laughing and talking. Where was Sinclair? Would she recognize him? He would certainly recognize her, even with her mask on. She felt certain he had contacted Variety Costumes for details of the outfit she had chosen. Surely he was going to attend this party? And if he wasn’t, what was the point of sending her all the way out here?
She decided she might look less like a wallflower if she started to walk about. Passing a door marked CINEMA, she slipped inside, more to confirm her suspicions about what kind of films they would be showing than from any particular desire to watch.
She realized immediately that she had guessed correctly. On the huge screen bodies writhed together. The camera zoomed in to a close-up: a man’s mouth caressing a woman’s breast, the tip of his tongue tracing a line under its curving weight, to end up on a nipple. His tongue circled. The woman’s gasps of pleasure as his lips sucked her were amplified on the soundtrack. Memories of Sinclair’s mouth performing the same erotic tricks on her made Genevieve feel tense with frustration. The camera moved to another couple, another mouth, a pair of hands stroking an erect cock.
It was a well-made film, with soft color and excellent picture quality. As Genevieve watched, the camera picked out another couple, their legs entwined around each other, their bodies rocking. Once again the hidden speakers magnified the sound of their delight.
‘Looks like fun.’ The unexpected voice startled her. She turned quickly. The man next to her was tall and powerfully built, and dressed as an American policeman. He had a soft American accent that she thought was genuine and not just assumed because of his costume. ‘But the real thing’s better still.’
There was a suggestive invitation in his voice that Genevieve did not like. ‘That depends on who you’re doing it with,’ she said coolly.
She saw his teeth gleam in the flickering light from the screen. ‘You wouldn’t be here if you were bothered who you did it with,’ he said.
‘I was invited by a friend,’ she answered shortly.
‘Yeah? Where is he—or she?’
‘He is waiting for me by the pool,’ Genevieve improvised. ‘So if you’ll excuse me?’
She pushed past her unwelcome companion, and for a moment it seemed as if he was going to try and stop her. She felt the hard bulk of his body. She smelled the faint sharpness of an expensive aftershave. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she said abruptly.
He laughed then, and stepped back, allowing her to escape into the light. She decided that she would go to the pool anyway. Maybe she could borrow a bathing suit and have a swim. She asked directions from one of the staff and hurried down a long cor
ridor. A harlequin in a brightly patterned bodysuit passed her, followed by a woman wearing a brief and revealing schoolgirl’s tunic and a boater hat.
She tried to imagine the kind of costume Sinclair would wear. She had only ever seen him in a suit, combats, and his motorcycle leathers. Her mind clothed him in various uniforms, her favorite being a hussar: tight white trousers and glossy boots, his cropped jacket ornamented with masses of gold braid. It would suit his tall, athletic figure. She kept the image in her mind, trying to blank out the memory of the American.
She reached the pool and found it crowded with swimmers, laughing and shrieking. None of them, she was surprised to note, wore any kind of mask. When a few of them pulled themselves out of the water she realized that they were not wearing costumes either. One of the pool staff came up beside her.
‘If you want to see better, go down to the viewing room.’ He pointed to a door. Genevieve went down some steps and found herself in a room below pool level. Music filtered from hidden speakers. Men and women stood in groups watching the action through a thick glass wall. Their bodies were dappled with watery reflections, making them look strangely surreal. As Genevieve stood watching, the swimmers began to move away from the viewing panel. Before she could work out why she heard a voice behind her.
‘Recognize anyone?’
She smelled the familiar sharp aftershave and turned round. The American policeman was grinning at her. She could see the dark stubble on his chin beneath the black mask.
‘Please stop following me,’ she said coldly.
‘I’m not following you,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to watch the fun.’ He gestured at the glass wall. Genevieve realized that there were only two swimmers in the pool now. The naked bodies of a man and a woman trod water and then reached for each other. As she watched they began to stroke and caress each other, in time to the music. Their supple bodies floated in the water in a series of weightless and erotic gymnastics. They looked like aliens from outer space, their skin patterned with rippling shadows. Even when they joined together in their sexual finale their hip-thrusting was in slow motion, and seemed oddly innocent. Genevieve felt that she was watching a ritual dance rather than a sex show.
The Ninety Days of Genevieve Page 23