‘Mio Dio,’ he muttered into her breasts. ‘Mai sentito qualcosa cosi.’
‘What?’ she said, her eyes closed, reaching up to stroke his hair.
He planted a kiss on each breast and rolled off her; she whimpered, feeling his weight withdrawn. Carefully, he pulled off the condom.
‘Ma, guardo quanto,’ he observed smugly, looking at it before he discarded it on the stone floor. ‘I make a lot of sperma,’ he said, lying back down next to her on the carpet and pulling her into his arms. ‘I am very manly with you. I come a lot.’
Devon started to giggle. ‘Only you,’ she said, ‘would boast about how much you’d come.’
‘It is a compliment to you,’ Cesare said, kissing her hair. ‘With you, a man makes a lot of sperma. You are very much a woman.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, still giggling. ‘That’s really beautiful.’
‘Ero cosi eccitato, sono ancora duro,’ Cesare added. ‘I am still duro.’ He took her hand and reached it down, between his legs; it was true, his cock was still hard. ‘I am very excited for you,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Devon’s dress was entirely bunched around her waist, her bra hanging off one arm; Cesare’s trousers and silk boxer shorts were round his knees. They were both still wearing their shoes; they must have looked completely ridiculous. But all Devon could think about was Cesare’s cock in her hand, hot and slippery, and still, amazingly, as hard as if it had a bone inside it. She couldn’t stop herself. She ran her hand up and down it, slowly, twisting and stroking, drawing a series of groans and picturesque Italian swear words from him. Eventually, he reached over and slid a couple of fingers between her legs, finding her equally slippery nub and bringing her to orgasm as slowly as he could, again and again, a series of heady, gradual climaxes that built on each other, one not quite finished before the next began. She never let go of his cock; she was proud of that.
‘Ti trombo di nuovo,’ he said, finally coaxing her to her knees. ‘I fuck you again now.’
‘Oh, yes please,’ Devon said with great enthusiasm; but then she froze as she felt his now dripping fingers leaving her pussy and running between her buttocks instead, parting them gently, one finger sliding in, and then two before she even realized what he was going to do. It felt wonderful, but she couldn’t help stiffening; this was something that men she’d been with before had begged to do, and considered a huge favour on her part if she had agreed. And she’d seen it as a favour, too; she had definitely always seen it as something she should be asked for, something that she enjoyed much less than them, and should be cajoled, flattered, persuaded into bestowing on rare occasions.
And now Cesare was acting as if he could just do it without even asking her permission! She was outraged. Even more so when she heard him unwrap another condom.
‘Wait a minute,’ she started to say, but then he bent over her, his mouth closing round her ear, breathing hot against it, licking and biting her lobe, the hand not at her rear wrapping round her, descending between her legs, sliding into her again, making her stop talking and moan and rear against him instead, her hands reaching out to hold onto the back of the sofa.
‘Eccola,’ he said softly against her ear. ‘Eccoti. Ora mi prendi.’
Somehow, his fingers had come out of her bottom, and his cock was easing into it, very slowly, letting her tighten in resistance, waiting cunningly until his fingers, making her come slowly, tricked her body into relaxing; and then he pushed in further, in stages, each orgasm making her looser, more helpless, till she realized that she was pushing back against him, wanting him further inside her, taking him in.
‘Brava,’ he said complacently. ‘Bravissima.’
‘You bastard,’ she said, deeply annoyed at how effortlessly he had achieved his goal, but unable to resist pushing back against him harder now, the sensations flooding through her utterly, overwhelmingly positive. ‘You absolute, twisted, fucking bastard.’
But those were the last coherent words she managed to utter. After that she started to scream. She held onto the back of the sofa for dear life, screaming what was almost an aria of release as Cesare began to move faster now, sliding in and out, never stopping the work of his fingers between her legs, making sure that she was entirely under his spell. By the time he was ready to come, she was limp and utterly satisfied, feeling him plunging inside her, his hands rising to close over hers on the sofa, gripping and twining through her fingers, his entire torso pressed tightly into her back, his mouth on her neck, as he yelled his climax into her sweat-drenched skin, jerking up again and again as he came.
I will never be happier than this, Devon knew, as his curly head collapsed onto her shoulder, as they slid, once more, entwined, back to the carpet in utter exhaustion, their bodies throbbing with overloaded sensation and damp with sweat, lying side by side, Cesare still inside her. It would be impossible. I will never, ever, be happier than this.
Deeley
It had been three days now, and Deeley was still too terrified to go back to the flat in Green Street by herself. She felt horribly alone. If she’d had a friend she could trust to come with her, even just to stand guard on the street, ready to let her know if someone was following Deeley down the steps to the flat’s front door, it would have been a different story. She could at least have cleared the flat of her things, moved them into Maxie’s nanny flat upstairs; she was dying to get the rest of her clothes.
No, that was a silly overstatement. She wasn’t dying. But she was scared that she might be, if she made another mistake. Deeley was absolutely sure that going up to Riseholme had set this whole train of events in motion; the push into traffic at King’s Cross, the warning on the door of her flat. She had been followed the whole way back to London. And who would do that but the terrifying woman she’d met in Thompson Road? She’d told Deeley to back off, and then made sure of it by setting someone else to trail Deeley to her home. No way could that woman have followed me herself, Deeley knew. I walked up and down the Leeds to London train, looking for a seat; I’d have seen her, I’m sure.
Which meant that the woman was as powerful as she had intimated to Deeley. She had people she could summon up in an instant, from the moment Deeley turned to head back to Riseholme Station. And not only to follow Deeley, but to menace her by shoving her in front of a bus.
She thinks I know something. Deeley had worked out that much. But what is it?
What could I possibly know that could make me dangerous to her?
The entire situation was loaded with irony; surely the boot was on the other foot. It was Maxie, Devon and Deeley who shared a terrible, guilty secret. If anyone should be threatening people, it was the three McKenna sisters. And yet there was no mistaking that woman’s message. Stay away from Riseholme. Keep your mouth shut.
It’s not just me, that’s the real worry, Deeley knew, blaming herself utterly for this whole mess. I’ve brought them to Devon’s. They know the house now, where Devon and Matt live. And maybe someone even followed me here . . .
She drew a deep breath, telling herself that now she’d gone too far. Devon and Maxie were public figures; it wouldn’t be hard to find out where they lived. That woman in Thompson Road had known about them, said they’d done well for themselves.
Besides, Devon’s still off in Italy. Safely away from this whole nightmare. Deeley, like everyone else in the country, had watched Devon on 1-2-3 Cook, and cringed at the sight. When Devon had texted her and Maxie, saying that she was off to hide out in Italy, Deeley had thought it was the best thing that could happen.
But then the press had been shocking over the next couple of days, tearing poor Devon apart. They had gone so far, in fact, that Deeley had thought Devon might be able to turn the situation to her advantage. Deeley had seen this before in LA, when actor friends or acquaintances of Nicky’s had been hyped in a new series that had proceeded to tank in the ratings, and been pulled by the network after only a couple of episodes. It could be a career killer, but it could a
lso be a stepping stone, because the sheer amount of publicity that had been poured into those actors had to go somewhere. Their faces had been all over billboards, buses, TV promos. People knew who they were, recognized them, would feel a friendly familiarity if they saw them again.
And there was already a backlash building against 1-2-3 Cook, which a clever publicist working for Devon could use and spin to help restore Devon’s reputation. With plenty of time on her hands, Deeley spent a good deal of it on the net, and she’d come across several comment pieces suggesting that Devon had been set up. The contestant she’d been paired with had, apparently, been a known grump, who’d kept auditioning for the show but had only been selected when Devon, a novice to the format, had been on. Devon wasn’t known for her live cooking skills, it was plucky that she’d tried at all, another article had said, and she should be commended for it. Catch Nigella or Nigel on one of those daytime shows!
Deeley had emailed Devon, expressing her sympathy, and telling her, too, that she didn’t think Devon’s career was by any means in tatters. Telling Devon she should think about coming back to London and planning a triumphant comeback. It was all true: Deeley had meant every word. But it was also to expiate her own guilt at having nearly had sex with Devon’s husband.
Deeley closed her eyes for a split second; it was hard not to when she thought, even briefly, about Matt. It would have been so simple for her to make an excuse to see him – tell him about the graffiti on the flat door, ask him to stand guard as she packed up her things. But she was nobly refusing to do it, though it was an awful, sinful temptation that nagged at her every waking minute. Matt had no idea where she was, and he couldn’t get in touch with her, even if he’d wanted to. As long as she stayed away, she was safe. They were safe.
It was incredibly depressing how lonely it was sometimes to do the right thing.
Jeff had been ringing her; he was in Strasbourg, travelling for work, but due back in London in a couple of days. They were going out to dinner at the weekend. Thank God, Deeley thought. I’ve got a date lined up with a nice guy – even better, one who knows that I’m on the rebound, and won’t expect more from me than I can manage. I need all the distraction from Matt I can get . . .
Deeley’s hands, pushing Alice in the baby swing, had slackened as she remembered Matt: Alice, sensing a lack of attention, yelled impatiently, a ‘Wah!’ that Deeley knew meant ‘Go faster!’ She redoubled her efforts, looking down at the tight head of dark curls below her, rocking back and forth, small chubby hands doing their best to hold onto the bars of the swing.
At least it isn’t all bad, she told herself, as she had done ever since she came to Maxie and Olly’s. At least I have Alice to hang out with.
She lifted her niece out of the swing and took her over to the baby slide, setting her on the top, holding her as she slid down to the bottom, screaming her approval and a clear desire to do it again. Deeley had a strong feeling that Alice’s first word might well be ‘again’, or as close to it as she could manage. She was a very happy child, which was a miracle when you considered that she’d been given up by a family that couldn’t afford to feed her, and housed in a so-called orphanage for months before being selected from a picture by Maxie and flown to London by two government officials. What on earth her life would be like with Maxie and Olly, Deeley couldn’t imagine.
‘Don’t worry, Alice in Wonderland,’ she said now, hoisting her niece into the air and back onto the top of the slide again. ‘Auntie Deeley will always be around. You can come and stay with me any time.’
She pulled a face. ‘Actually, you may not need to run far,’ she added, as Alice swooped down the slide again. ‘Auntie Deeley may be living upstairs at Mummy and Daddy’s for the next twenty years, the way her life’s going.’
Since Deeley’s instant bond with Alice, Maxie had definitely slackened off her emergency efforts to find a nanny; she was going through a protracted interview process, as far as Deeley could see, but seemed perfectly content to have her younger sister looking after her daughter for as long as it suited everyone. And being with Alice was utterly absorbing for Deeley. She’d always wanted children, but had never really spent time with one; the few kids of friends or work colleagues of Nicky’s in LA had been surrounded by nannies and housekeepers, kept well away from any kind of social life. Deeley knew how the game was played: you had a baby, sold the newborn pictures for charity (which meant great publicity for you) and then arranged for the paparazzi to photograph you out buying pumpkins with the kids at Hallowe’en, or taking them to the beach, so you could demonstrate how in shape you were for having just given birth. The trick was, of course, that in return for the tip-off, the paparazzi made sure to keep the hovering nannies out of shot, to make it look as if you were taking care of your child all by yourself. Which never happened: it was quite common for movie stars to have two nannies per child. Just in case.
So this was the first time Deeley had spent with a child. And she loved it. Not the nappy-changing and occasional tantrums, of course: she wasn’t a saint. But at twenty months, little Alice was so engaging, so lively and interested in the world around her that Deeley adored her already. Alice’s noisy but non-verbal company gave Deeley all the time she needed to get herself together. Reflect on the total mess that, so far, she’d made of her life. And start to think about what she could do to turn it all around.
Alice was beginning to get wilful, her cries more plaintive; signs that she was tiring out. Deeley looked at her watch. Definitely nap time. She loaded the protesting child into her stroller, waving goodbye to the other nannies in the little park. They’d already made acquaintances, the Filipinas and Jamaicans and Eastern Europeans finding it utterly hilarious that Deeley was the only white nanny looking after a black baby in SW1; it was a complete anomaly. ‘Always the other way around,’ Rosa from Trinidad had said the first day, giggling her head off. ‘Always black nanny and white baby here.’
‘I’m unemployable,’ Deeley had said, making them all laugh harder, but, she’d known ruefully, it wasn’t far from the truth. She was seriously thinking of asking Maxie to give her the job of being Alice’s nanny. Deeley loved it, found it hugely satisfying – and honestly, what else could I do? This or waitressing!
Alice was asleep in five minutes, conked out after a hard morning’s play in the park. Reaching Maxie and Olly’s house, Deeley went up the steps to unlock the door, then descended them again, bending down to pick up the stroller and carry it up into the house; she might even let Alice nap in it, if she really seemed fast asleep. Deeley had changed Alice’s nappy in the park toilets so she should be fine to sleep for an hour or so without being woken up by a cold wet bottom . . .
Absorbed with the usual calculations of looking after a small child, Deeley was too busy settling the stroller in the living room, undoing Alice’s jacket so she wouldn’t be too hot, and pulling off her own, to realize that Lucia, the housekeeper, was hovering in the hallway with a worried expression on her usually calm face.
‘OK if I leave Alice here, Lucia?’ Deeley asked, drawing the living room door to, leaving it cracked enough so she could easily hear Alice when she woke up. ‘She’s conked out, and it seems a pity to wake her up just to carry her up to bed . . .’
Her voice trailed off as she took in Lucia’s look of concern.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quickly. ‘Are Maxie and Olly all right?’
Lucia was actually wringing her hands, Deeley saw; it must be very bad.
‘It’s the police!’ she exclaimed, her wide forehead corrugated. ‘They came twenty minutes ago, to see you and Mrs Stangroom!’
Grabbing Deeley’s sleeve and dragging her into the office, where two men, one in uniform, one in plain clothes, were sitting in front of the large keyhole desk, Lucia announced: ‘Miss Deeley – Mrs Stangroom’s sister,’ and dashed out of the room again, closing the door behind her.
‘My God, what is it?’ Deeley stood there, looking frantically from one to the
other.
Both men had automatically got to their feet on seeing her. The uniformed one just stared, momentarily dumbstruck at the long jean-clad legs, the cascading caramel hair, the extremely pretty face; the older one, collecting his wits much sooner, said, ‘Miss McKenna? Don’t worry, miss. None of your family are hurt. It’s not that.’
He had read Deeley’s thoughts perfectly. She sagged against the door with relief, drawing in a deep breath.
‘God, I was so worried!’ she said.
‘Or rather . . .’ He indicated the chair behind the desk. ‘Maybe you’d better sit down, miss. I’m Detective Inspector Wenn, and this is DC Davis.’
Deeley walked around the desk, sitting in Olly’s huge leather swivel chair, which was big enough for two of her.
‘Well, it’s not exactly family,’ he continued, and as Deeley recognized the familiar accent of her childhood, an awful suspicion began to grow in her. She stared at him wide-eyed, praying she was wrong, as he continued. ‘Do you remember a friend of your mother’s you lived with for six months or so in 1993? You’d have been a kid then . . .’
He glanced sideways at DC Davis, who was already flicking through a notepad on his lap.
‘Nine years old, I make it, sir,’ he said promptly.
‘Nine, or thereabouts,’ DI Wenn said. ‘With both of your sisters. I’m referring to a gentleman called Bill Duncan. He lived at 42 Thompson Road, in Riseholme. Any memories of him at all?’
There was no point denying that she remembered Bill. Her mouth dry, Deeley nodded, unable to take her eyes of Wenn’s stolid face.
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