The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  ‘I still say nothing beats the real thing,’ the policeman said.

  He put his hand on Genevieve’s bottom and patted her. ‘How about it, baby? You and me? I do a good strip search.’

  She moved away from him and walked towards the door. ‘I’ve told you, I’m waiting for a friend.’

  He followed her. ‘So what? Leave him a message. If he turns up, he can join in.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d be very happy about that,’ she said, walking faster.

  ‘Listen,’ the policeman said. ‘I’m used to getting what I want. And right now I want you.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ she said, ‘because I’m already booked for the evening.’

  He grinned. ‘Make me a promise? Introduce me to this boyfriend of yours. We’ll do a deal. I’ll trade him two very acrobatic brunettes for you.’

  ‘Why don’t you make use of the brunettes?’ Genevieve said, sweetly. ‘And leave me alone.’

  ‘Because they don’t surprise me any more,’ he said. ‘And I think you will. I fancy a bit of class, and you’ve got it.’

  ‘What I’ve got, I’m keeping,’ she said. ‘So please go away.’

  He laughed. ‘I just hate it when women give in too easily. But the night is young, as they say. I’m going to have you, and you’ll probably love it.’ He touched his cap in a mocking gesture. ‘See you around, sweetheart.’

  Despite his easy manner she sensed a ruthlessness about him. She believed his claim that he usually got his own way. Once again she wished Sinclair would appear. Where was he? A rush of anger swept over her. What was he playing at? Leaving her on her own at a party like this made her an obvious target for unattached men. Was that what he wanted? Did he hope a stranger would pick her up and take her to one of the first-floor private rooms so that he could follow her discreetly, and watch?

  She did not want to believe this of him. She knew he had called her an exhibitionist, and she accepted that it was partly true. But she realized now that if she was going to have an audience, she only wanted to perform with him, not for him with another man. She remembered Bridget but, for Genevieve, somehow it seemed different with a woman. Almost like making love to yourself. Pleasant, but without any emotional commitment.

  If he was planning to pair her with someone else, would she refuse? She prided herself on being a modern woman. Surely a quick bout of sex with a man she did not like was not an impossible final price to pay for a career success? Or was it? She did not want to have to make the decision. She could no longer give a confident affirmative answer. Sinclair had changed all her values.

  She made her way to the buffet but the food, delicious as it was, tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She inspected the costumed revelers for anyone who looked remotely like Sinclair in size and height. She tried to avoid gazing too intently at any particular guest in case they took it as an invitation. Even without any advances on her part she was approached by several men, and some women. Happily they took her refusal in good part and wandered off to find more obliging playmates.

  As she was trying to decide whether to hide herself in the cinema or go out into the floodlit grounds Genevieve felt a tap on her arm. Turning she found a man in royal-blue staff uniform. He held out a plain white envelope with FROM JS on the front.

  ‘I believe this is for you, ma’am. Do the initials mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ she confirmed.

  ‘I was told to look for a Marlene Dietrich lookalike, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Although in my opinion you’re more beautiful than the original.’

  Genevieve smiled her thanks at the compliment. She opened the envelope and recognized Sinclair’s writing. The message was simple: TAKE PART IN THE AUCTION.

  The staff man had begun to walk away. Genevieve moved forward to catch up with him.

  ‘What is this auction? Where do I go?’

  ‘The charity auction?’ He stopped and turned towards her. ‘You want to volunteer?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘But I haven’t got anything to sell.’

  The man laughed. His eyes moved over her body in a quick assessment. It was friendly rather than lecherous and Genevieve felt that she had been complimented again.

  ‘I think you have, ma’am.’

  ‘All right,’ Genevieve said, returning his smile. ‘Explain.’

  ‘The auction is a feature of parties at Hilton Hall, ma’am. Volunteers go on stage, and bidders pay for the removal of a chosen item of clothing. You can stop whenever you like, but if you do, you have to pay a forfeit. If the volunteer agrees, the purchaser can also buy some of their time at the end of the auction, to be spent in one of the private rooms. That’s a personal choice, of course. There’s no forfeit if you refuse.’ He smiled at her. ‘To be honest, I’m sure the volunteers know who’s buying them anyway. The arrangements are made in advance.’

  Genevieve thought that sounded exactly like something Sinclair would enjoy, and if he was in the audience watching, she would enjoy it too. She began to feel a lot happier. She had no doubt that he would bid for her time at the end.

  ‘Who gets the money?’ she asked.

  ‘The charity of your choice, ma’am. You tell the auctioneer before the bidding starts.’

  Fine, she thought. I know a good charity that promotes medical research without the use of animals. Mr. James Sinclair can add substantially to their funds.

  She was in the buffet, enjoying the food this time, when the auction was announced. She followed the moving crowd to a large room adjoining the ballroom, registered her charity and was given a number to carry. The volunteers laughed and joked together. Most of them were masked, but despite this they seemed to know each other.

  A woman in a medieval gown was teasing a man dressed as a samurai.

  ‘Can’t wait to show your pecs, can you, Miles? You’re such an exhibitionist.’

  The samurai grinned. ‘I aim to show more than pecs if Amanda’s bidding for me. Providing I can remember how to get these odd clothes off.’

  ‘You should have chosen something simple,’ the medieval lady said. ‘With a body like yours, you could have been a lifeguard or something.’

  ‘You can’t see my body,’ he objected. ‘Not in this skirt.’

  ‘I’ve got a photographic memory, darling. I remember all my men.’

  ‘Don’t tell Amanda,’ the samurai laughed. ‘You might shock her.’

  ‘You think she doesn’t know? We’ve already swapped performance details.’

  ‘Women!’ the samurai complained. ‘You’ve no scruples at all.’

  Genevieve could see the darkened ballroom through a door. The band began to play a fanfare and the first volunteer, a girl dressed as a cat, walked down an aisle formed by the bidders and onto the stage. A spotlight picked her out and stayed with her. She stood on a small dais and held her number above her head. The dais began to revolve slowly. The band began to play. A voice over the loudspeaker suggested an opening bid and someone from the audience responded enthusiastically.

  The girl stripped off her catsuit quite sexily, but since it was a one-piece outfit and she was only wearing a bra and pants underneath she was not on the dais for very long. Her figure was lithe and slim, with small breasts. She posed while the audience cheered, and the voice from the speakers announced the sum of money she had raised. I can strip better than that, Genevieve thought smugly. If Sinclair wants a show, I’ll give him one.

  When she finally stepped into the ballroom the glare of the spotlight followed her. Dazzled, she could not make out any of the faces in the audience. She stood on the revolving dais and felt her body begin to move in response to the beat of the music. This was going to be easy. She was going to enjoy it. She felt certain Sinclair was watching her but when the first bid came out of the darkness she did not recognize the voice. It sounded slurred.

  ‘Twenty-five for the hat.’

  ‘I am bid twenty-five pounds for the lady to take off her hat,’ the auctioneer announced
over the speaker.

  Genevieve almost smiled. If that was the way the bidding was going she stood to make a healthy profit for her charity. She took off the top hat with a flourish.

  ‘And loosen her hair,’ the bidder added.

  ‘An extra fiver for the hair,’ the auctioneer demanded.

  ‘A fiver? I can’t afford it!’

  There was laughter, boos and catcalls.

  ‘Has he paid his fiver?’ the auctioneer persisted. ‘The hair stays up until he’s paid.’

  Genevieve could not see any money changing hands. She was dependent on the hidden auctioneer for instructions. While she waited for the good-natured argument to end she moved sinuously on the dais as it turned.

  ‘A hundred pounds for the coat!’

  She removed it, taking her time, sliding it back off her shoulders, wriggling it down her arms. Finally she bent over and caught the dangling tails, whipping the coat between her legs, as she stood up again, and flinging it away.

  ‘A hundred for the shirt.’

  ‘More for the shirt,’ the auctioneer demanded. ‘A hundred and fifty.’

  Genevieve lifted the edges of the shirt provocatively. High enough for the lower curve of her breasts to be visible. High enough for the audience to see that she was not wearing a bra. She stayed there, waiting.

  ‘More for the shirt,’ the hidden auctioneer repeated. ‘Two hundred.’

  ‘Two hundred for the shirt.’ The auctioneer accepted the bid.

  Genevieve took her time. Toying with the buttons. Lifting the edge of the shirt just high enough to tease, then dropping it again. Finally easing the garment off her shoulders, bunched in front of her, still covering her breasts, always moving with the music. She was aware that the audience were quieter now. She had captured them. When she tossed the shirt aside there was a cheer and several wolf whistles.

  The bids went on for the rest of her clothes. None of the voices sounded like Sinclair. A hundred pounds for her suspender belt. A hundred for each stocking. Three hundred for the black silky pants. Now she wore only a brief G-string, her glittering mask and her shoes. How much for the G-string, she wondered?

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’

  The voice from the audience answered her question. Her hands went to the narrow silk ties that held the brief garment in place.

  ‘A thousand pounds for an hour of the lady’s time.’

  This was a different voice. There was a gasp from the audience, then clapping. Then the first voice again.

  ‘A thousand pounds for the G-string.’

  More clapping and cheering. ‘Two thousand.’ The second voice interrupted the applause. ‘For two hours of time.’

  It certainly sounded like Sinclair, although the noisy reaction from the audience made it difficult to be sure. But who else would pay so much money for my time, she thought. The note she had received had definitely been in Sinclair’s handwriting, and he would have been the only one who knew the costume she was wearing.

  ‘The lady has the choice,’ the auctioneer was explaining. ‘Either way her charity will benefit, but will it be by one thousand pounds or two?’

  Genevieve was so convinced that Sinclair had bid for her she did not hesitate. ‘I’ll sell two hours of my time,’ she said.

  More cheering, clapping, whistling. She revolved once more on the dais, acknowledging—and enjoying—the applause. As she left the dais someone handed her back her clothes. She put on the tailcoat, feeling the lining silky and cool against her flesh. ‘Room 32,’ a staff member told her. ‘It’s a beautiful room.’

  Genevieve went out into the brightly lit foyer. The wide stairs were softly carpeted in deep red. She walked up them. Sinclair would be waiting for her in Room 32. She was sure of it. She paused outside the door, almost afraid to go in. This could be their last meeting. She would have to accept that he was not the type who wanted a permanent relationship. Or if he did, he certainly didn’t want one with her. When she saw him again, it would be in her professional capacity, and they would probably treat each other as if they were polite business acquaintances. She put the thought of it out of her mind. It depressed her.

  When she pushed open the door the first thing she noticed were the mirrors. Ornately framed in gilt they reflected each other, and made the room seem much larger than it really was. The second thing that caught her attention was the bed. It was a huge four-poster, with fluted gold posts. Gilt cherubs held white draperies so light they moved and billowed in the draught from the open door.

  Then she smelled the sharp tang of aftershave. ‘Two hours,’ a voice said. ‘And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.’

  She spun round. A tall, muscular man dressed in an American policeman’s uniform appeared in the open door that led to an adjoining bathroom. He was no longer wearing a mask.

  ‘Surprised?’ he said. ‘Expecting someone else? Well, I’m real sorry to disappoint you, but you’ve ended up with me, just like I promised.’

  For a shocked moment Genevieve thought she had come into the wrong room.

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ he drawled. ‘Take your coat off. Make yourself at home.’

  For an answer she drew the edges of her coat closer together. She saw his eyes stray downwards to the black silk triangle that only just covered her pubic hair and linger there.

  ‘I’m told you’re a natural blonde,’ he said. ‘Like to prove it?’

  She stood like a statue, not believing what she was seeing and hearing. Had she really mistaken his voice for Sinclair’s during the bidding? She could not believe it. It was deeper, and his accent was too distinctively American to disguise.

  ‘I can’t imagine who told you that,’ she said, with icy disdain.

  ‘The same guy who put in my bids for me,’ he said.

  She stared at him, not wanting to believe him. He walked over to a small table, opened a box, took out a cigar and lit it. ‘One of my vices,’ he explained. ‘I’ve got quite a few.’ He grinned. ‘You might like some of them.’ A cloud of fragrant smoke wreathed his face. ‘Doesn’t bother you, does it? I know you don’t smoke.’ He shifted the cigar in his mouth. ‘I know quite a lot about you, Genevieve.’

  She did not bother to ask him how he knew her name. Despite the warmth of the room her body felt cold. Her mind still refused to accept that Sinclair had bid for her, knowing that she would come in here and find this—stranger.

  ‘I’m Bradford Franklin.’ The American sat down on the bed. ‘My friends call me Brad. That can include you, if you like. Or not, it doesn’t bother me. But something else does.’ He patted the bed. ‘At a grand an hour you’re costing me about sixteen English pounds a minute. That’s serious money. Come and lie down.’

  Genevieve stayed where she was, her back to the door. She could see herself reflected in the carefully placed mirrors. A long-legged figure, her blond hair loose, a man’s black tailcoat clutched round her.

  ‘There’s been a mistake,’ she said.

  Brad shook his head. ‘No mistake. You agreed to the auction.’

  ‘But I thought…’

  ‘You thought someone else was doing the bidding?’ He laughed. ‘Well, you were right. My friend James owes me a favor. Quite a few favors, as it happens. I suggested a way of paying some of them off. He agreed. Neat idea, huh?’

  ‘It was mean,’ she said, angry now. ‘Mean and underhanded.’

  But was it really, she thought bleakly. She had agreed to Sinclair’s terms at the start of their agreement, and if forcing her to go with someone else was part of his idea of erotic entertainment she supposed he had a right to arrange it.

  Bradford Franklin seemed to think so too. ‘Oh, come on.’ He lounged back on the bed. ‘Stop trying to convince me that you’re little Miss Prim and Proper. I know all about your arrangement with James. You’re a smart lady. You want to get on. I like that.’ He patted the bed again. ‘C’mon, baby. It’s not that bad. You and James had a good time together and you’ll do well out of it.’ He sh
ifted the cigar in his mouth, watching her. ‘But how much higher can you get in a firm like Barringtons? I’ve got connections. America, Canada, Europe, you name it. I can get you into the kind of positions you’ve never even dreamed about, and I’m not just talking sex. You’ve proved you’re open to suggestions. Here’s one for you. Another ninety days—with me. We play some good games together and I’ll push your career like you won’t believe.’ He took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘How about it, baby? Sound good to you?’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you even want to think about it?’

  No, she thought. Before I met James Sinclair, maybe I’d have considered it. Just maybe. But not any longer. Not as a career move. Not on any terms. Sinclair had woken her up to the kind of sexual fantasies she enjoyed, but she knew that she enjoyed them because she was acting them out with him. It had been easy for her to forget that they were not really lovers. Would she have enjoyed them with anyone else? She doubted it now.

  ‘There’s nothing to think about,’ she said.

  ‘And I thought you were a hardheaded businesswoman.’ He shook his head in mock reproach.

  So did I, she thought. And I was, until I met James Sinclair.

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to make do with my two hours.’ He stubbed out his cigar. ‘Come over here and show me how well you can perform with that pretty mouth of yours.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That deal’s off, too.’

  He stared at her for a long moment, then grinned lazily. ‘Are you sure you mean that? You want to lose everything you’ve gained? James wants me to fuck you, baby. And I want it, too. I’ve even agreed to pay two grand to a charity for the privilege.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay the charity. But I’m not for sale.’

  Brad stood up and hooked his thumbs in his belt.