‘You fucking bitch,’ she screamed, and pulling her clenched fist back, landed a punch straight in Yasmin’s face, the force of the impact almost knocking her on her backside.
Momentarily stunned, Yasmin felt the warm trickle of blood as it began to ooze from her nose. Only a few seconds could’ve passed before she set upon her; striking Sammie with her small but hard fists in retaliation. And then all hell broke loose. The two women began to fight, tearing at each other’s hair and clothes, screaming and slapping, swearing that they would kill each other. The blood from Yasmin’s nose was smeared across her face now, making her injuries look worse than they really were, and Sammie could feel the beginnings of a swollen eye.
‘You double-crossing bitch, Stacey Jones. I’ll go to that husband of yours and I’ll show him what I’ve got on you …’
‘I’ll blow your fucking brains out first … if I can find them, that is,’ Yasmin quipped as they circled each other around the coffee table. ‘You’ve got nothing on me darlin’… just hearsay and speculation. Jeremy will laugh you all the way to court. Now just give me that goddamn tape and let me the fuck out of this shithole.’ She went for the Dictaphone in Sammie’s hand again but Sammie was too quick and held it high above her head, out of reach.
Yasmin began to jump up in a bid to snatch it from her grasp. Grunting and straining, the two women suddenly made eye contact and, as the sheer ridiculousness of the situation began to dawn upon them, started to laugh. Soon they were in stitches, with Yasmin on her knees, almost crying with laughter, and Sammie, snorting and gasping for breath as tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘Stop,’ Sammie gasped after a few moments. ‘I can’t breathe.’
Yasmin was on her back now with her knees up against her chest, her whole body shuddering. She wasn’t even sure what was so funny, only that whatever it was, it was making her feel better. Much better. She hadn’t laughed with such abandon in years.
Sammie shuffled over towards her, laughter spurting from her mouth like gunfire. She looked down at Yasmin’s pretty face and immediately stopped laughing when she saw the blood.
‘Oh, God.’ She put her hand to her mouth in horror. ‘What have I done? Jesus, I’m sorry, let me get you a cloth or something.’
Yasmin sat up, her sides tender. She wiped her nose and looked down at the blood.
‘It’s alright,’ she shrugged. ‘Just a lucky shot, that’s all.’
Sammie came towards her with a clean towel from the bathroom.
‘Here, let me,’ she said, moving in close, dabbing at Yasmin’s face.
‘Leave it out.’ Yasmin shooed her away, her voice suddenly sounding more cockney than ever. ‘Don’t make a fuss.’ For a split second their eyes locked and suddenly they were kissing, their faces pressed against each other’s in urgency, their mouths open and hungry for the other.
Sammie tasted the blood on Yasmin’s mouth, a strange tinny taste, as it mixed with the sweetness of her saliva, her lips full and wet, her tongue warm and gentle as it explored her own.
Yasmin felt the passion rise within her like she had never felt with anyone before. Sammie’s kiss, tender and more gentle than any she had ever experienced, had taken her completely by surprise and yet she had allowed herself to dissolve into it, to fall into the softness of her arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sammie whispered to Yasmin as she gently wiped the claret blood stains from her nose. ‘I’m so, so, sorry.’
CHAPTER 41
‘For God’s sake, woman, will you just relax? It’s only a bit of turbulence. Have a drink why don’t you? You’re making me nervous, all that bloody twitching.’ Sebastian snapped at his wife, irritated.
‘I can’t help it, Seb,’ Imogen replied tremulously, digging her fingernails into the butterscotch leather seat, panic etched on her face like a mask. ‘All this wobbling about, it’s scaring me.’
Ever since the plane crash that had claimed Cressida’s life, Imogen had become a nervous flier and consequently had spent the most part of the plane journey to St Barts in a heightened state of awareness. For most people such apprehension would be understandable, given the circumstances, but Sebastian was not most people.
‘Fix me a martini, would you, Pierre?’ Imogen smiled nervously at the attendant, thinking that perhaps, for once, her husband might be right. ‘And please, make it a strong one, would you?’
‘Of course, madam. Coming right up. And you, sir?’ He turned to Sebastian.
‘Oh, to hell with it! Bring me a large scotch on the rocks!’ he said, adding, ‘I am on holiday after all.’
Sebastian reclined his seat and grinned broadly, oblivious to his wife’s distress once more. He was in a good mood today. An exceedingly good mood, in fact. They were on their way to St Barts as guests of honour of his new friend and business associate, Prince Saud. For the next three days, they would be staying on his magnificent yacht, Carpe Diem, enjoying his generous hospitality while rubbing shoulders with some serious Hollywood heavyweights.
The thought of being among such calibre of guests excited Sebastian to no end; this trip would undoubtedly offer him some truly sublime networking opportunities. Though as it was, things weren’t looking too shabby in that direction, thanks due, in part, to that airhead friend of his wife’s, Yasmin Belmont-Jones, who had just helped him secure an interview with ESL magazine. Seems she had been good for something after all.
Sebastian recalled his recent interview with the charming young ESL journalist with a deep sense of satisfaction. He had seduced her with his dazzling wit and repartee. The girl had practically hung off his every word and had left his office grinning from ear to ear. His chest swelled with self-importance at the recollection.
Sebastian took a slug of his scotch and let out a satisfied ‘ahh’ as the smooth amber liquid slid down the back of his throat. In a couple of weeks’ time it was his birthday and far from fretting about the passing of another year, he positively welcomed it. In particular he was looking forward to seeing the final sculpture that Amandine Lamarque had come up with.
And while Bryony was due to fly home for a visit, it was to be more brief than she thought. Sebastian had secretly arranged for her to go dry-slope skiing with family friends, the Orsmby-Bowles, in Saas Fee, Switzerland. He felt the slightest twinge of guilt as he thought of it. He was well aware that Imogen would be beyond furious when she found out what he had done, but he was convinced that their daughter’s presence would get in the way of this newfound harmony between them, and he just couldn’t afford to jeopardise that.Anyway, to assuage his guilt, he would buy her those Dolce and Gabbana salopettes she’d been going on about, kit her out in all the latest high-fashion designer après ski wear so that she could show off to all her friends. Then, he could head off to Rio for The International Banking Association Annual Conference the following week with a clear conscience. Ah, the IBAs. Yet another reason to be cheerful.
This year, Sebastian had been asked to appear as a key guest speaker at the annual industry event. Randolph Walmsley CBE, Chief Executive of the ABB (Association of British Banking) had personally requested he ‘do the honours’. Sebastian had been only too happy to oblige. In fact, if his speech at this year’s ball was anything to go by, then he was looking at another standing ovation.
The turbulence had begun to settle now and with it Imogen’s nerves, thanks, in part, to the martini that she’d thrown back in almost one hit.
‘We’ll be landing in less than an hour,’ Sebastian said, resting his hand lightly just above her knee. She fought down the urge to slap it away. The next few days were going to ask a lot from her. But she knew what she had to do. What she must do.
‘I’ve always loved the Caribbean,’ Imogen sighed. ‘Ever since you took me to Necker Island.’
She placed her hand lightly on top of his. ‘Seems like so long ago now, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does, yes,’ he replied, appreciating her unexpect
ed gesture of affection.
‘Do you remember it?’
He glanced up at her, pulled a face.
‘Necker Island? Of course I remember it, woman!’
Sebastian would never forget it. He had waited what felt like a lifetime to finally get her into his life – and his bed …
‘Do you remember the day we flew out?’ she asked, her eyes glazing over. ‘That morning you sent a car for me. I had no idea where it was taking me. And then the next thing I know I’m on a flight to Necker Island! It was all so thrilling! I was only twenty-one. So young … so naive.’ Imogen gave a small sigh and snuggled into Sebastian’s stiff shoulder, resting her cheek against his arm. His smell was unfamiliar to her. Like a stranger’s.
‘I don’t know about naive, Imogen,’ he sniffed sardonically. ‘You were quite worldly-wise if I remember rightly.’
She resented the ungallant remark but chose to ignore it.
‘I was terribly nervous about flying that day too.’
‘Oh really, were you? Why?’
‘Don’t you remember?’ She glanced up at him, feigning mild indignation.
‘Remember what?’
‘It was Friday the 13th.’
Sebastian pulled his head back into his chin.
‘Was it? Can’t say that I do, to be honest.’
‘Well, I remember. I remember everything – all the little details, right down to dates and times.’
Sebastian was as surprised as he was delighted. He couldn’t recall the last time Imogen had spoken about Necker Island with such fondness. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken about Necker Island at all.
‘We made love on the beach that evening.’
‘Ah, now that I do remember.’
‘On the sand, with the sound of the waves in the background. I fell in love with you then.’
He turned to her, stunned. What was all this about? Was she drunk? He’d never heard her speak with such tenderness before.
Imogen fixed him with a penetrating stare and slowly raised an eyebrow, placing her tongue provocatively to one side of her mouth, her lips gently parted.
‘You know what day it is today, don’t you?’ she said slowly, her fingers wandering towards the button on his shirt. She began playing with it gently.
‘Yes, it’s Thursday, 12th July, why?’ He glanced at her, suspicious.
‘What time do we land in St Barts?’
Sebastian looked at his Patek Philippe watch. ‘I make it just under one hour’s time.’
‘So with the four hour time difference, by the time we get there it’ll be, what, just gone midnight?’
‘About that, yes what are you up to?’ He narrowed his eyes at her.
‘Well,’ she ran her fingers along his, linking them in her own. ‘By then it’ll be Friday the 13th. Wouldn’t it be nice to recreate that moment again,’ she smiled at him mischievously. ‘Just the two of us together, alone on the beach?’
Sebastian grinned so broadly that he exercised facial muscles he never knew he had. He leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth, parting her lips with his hot, probing tongue. She would never know of his crimes against her, must never find out. Not that he was particularly worried that she would. Beautiful she might be, but she was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Imogen tentatively broke off their kiss by excusing herself to the small but perfectly luxurious bathroom, complete with 22-carat gold taps and lavatory seat. Locking the door, she visibly blanched as she gripped the wash basin with both hands. Tasting his salty saliva on her lips, she began rinsing her mouth with water in a bid to wash it away, her hands shaking as she patted her mouth with a paper napkin.
Imogen stared at herself in the mirror and looked into the face of a stranger. Some time during the next twenty-four hours she knew she would have to make love to her husband like she had never made love to him before – with passion and sincerity, like she really meant it.
Taking a deep breath, Imogen exited the cubicle and rejoined Sebastian. She smiled as she noticed that he had ordered her another martini.
‘You read my mind,’ she said, genuinely grateful.
‘Well, cheers, my darling.’ Sebastian raised his tumbler of scotch and tapped the rim of her cocktail glass.
‘Here’s to Friday the 13th!’ Imogen smiled provocatively, raising her eyebrows at him once more as she pressed her lips to the glass. ‘To us.’
CHAPTER 42
Clutching a $7,000 bottle of Cristal Brut 1990 and her diamond-encrusted Jimmy Choo shoes in one hand, the other holding up the trailing silk chiffon fabric of her dove grey embellished Marchesa gown, Imogen ran barefoot along the jetty.
‘Catch me if you can!’ she called out to him, her voice trailing behind her, a silky whisper in the ubiquitous inky blackness.
Sebastian straightened his bow tie uncomfortably and glanced tentatively over his shoulder, looking back at the magnificent yacht in the near distance. The sound of music and laughter punctuated the warm Caribbean night air above him and he felt a little irritated by his wife’s sudden outburst of spontaneity. She really knew how to pick her moments.
Unrivalled king of the bon viveurs, no expense had been spared for Prince Saud’s collection of most prestigious guests. As well as treating them to a gastronomic feast, he had arranged for a real live white tiger act to be flown in from Las Vegas alongside exotic dancers, illusionists, singers, acrobats and comedians, all on hand to thrill and amuse them until the early hours of the morning.
The champagne was flowing freely and a high-brow mix of international royalty, Hollywood heavyweights, politicians, playboys, supermodels and business tycoons mingled and chatted with abandon, revelling in each other’s company and marvelling at such an opulent display of wealth and splendour.
Sebastian had not wanted to leave. The party was just beginning to warm up. But Imogen, it seemed, had other ideas.
‘What’s the matter, Seb, too risky for you?’ She stopped halfway along the jetty, goading him, one hand on her hip, the other swinging the $7,000 bottle of vintage Cristal. ‘I thought you were a man who liked to take risks … live on the edge a little.’
Sebastian watched as the lights from the boat danced like flames on the ocean’s surface, illuminating his wife’s milky skin, her chest visibly heaving from her sprint along the jetty.
He turned to look behind him once more, torn. ‘Oh, to hell with it,’ he muttered under his breath, stooping to take off his bespoke Berluti shoes. It would be churlish to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Imogen smiled triumphantly as she watched him approach.
‘Come on,’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck, ‘let’s run down to the beach.’
Sebastian shook his head and gave a small laugh of incredulity. She was clearly quite drunk.
‘What’s got in to you, Imogen?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been like a different woman these past few weeks.’
She dropped her arms from his neck and laughed. She was swaying a little, he thought.
‘Let’s just say I’m tired of all the fighting. Besides, can’t a woman desire her own husband anymore?’
‘Of course,’ he said, immediately aroused by her use of the word ‘desire’. ‘But don’t you want to appreciate a little more of the entertainment first? There’s a rumour that Céline Dion is on board …’
‘Céline Dion?’ Imogen screwed her face up. ‘Oh Seb, you always were such a stuffed shirt!’
He laughed then, even if he was a little put out. He’d always been a huge fan of Céline’s.
‘Come on,’ she said, turning on her bare feet. ‘I’ll race you.’
The sand was cool underfoot as they ran along the shoreline, the sound of the gentle waves methodical and reassuring, threatening to catch their toes.
Imogen braced herself.
‘Kiss me, Seb,’ she said, suddenly pulling him close to her. Duly obliging, they fell backwards onto the sand, the ruffles of her chiffon
gown incongruous against the soft white powder as she sank into it. He wanted her badly now, his early apprehension at having left the party – and all those networking opportunities with it – all but disappeared as he found himself caught up in the moment. He pressed his mouth hard against hers, his breath hot and meaty from all that rich barbequed food he’d eaten.
‘I want you, Seb. I want you now,’ she whispered into his ear and he responded with a small moan of pleasure. Unzipping his trousers and pulling them down to his knees, he climbed on top of her and, pulling at her couture gown and delicate La Perla underwear, thrust himself deep inside her, pushing through her body’s initial resistance, his hands roughly grabbing at her bare breasts exposed in the moonlight. Sebastian felt his orgasm begin to build almost instantly and willed it back, wanting to savour the moment for as long as possible. She felt delicious beneath him, tight yet juicy, her skin soft and smooth as stone.
Sebastian felt powerful in that moment, slamming himself into his wife’s delicate flesh. Tonight he was going to show her just who Sebastian Forbes was – her husband, her lover, the only man who had ever really loved her. Yes, Seb thought to himself as he blindly pumped away at her, oblivious to her pleasure – or lack of it – she was his wife. His wife.
As Sebastian came, a great crescendo of shudders and cries he could no longer contain, he was oblivious to the hot salty tears that had escaped from the corners of Imogen’s eyes and slid silently down her face onto the sand below. Collapsing on top of her, his whole body spent, he let out a long and protracted sigh. He had not had an orgasm as intense as that in years.
‘That was amazing,’ he panted after a few moments.
Imogen blinked back silent tears. It felt as if something terribly wrong had just happened.
‘I do hope no one saw us,’ he added, glancing around, suddenly a little paranoid. ‘It wouldn’t do to be caught having sex on the beach by the Douglas-Zeta Joneses.’
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