He watched her round arse twitching as she led him down a dimly lit corridor, his heart beating with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Yes, this woman was the perfect combination of classy and sexy, but still, he didn’t want to get spotted going into a darkened room with her. Jeanie had spies everywhere.
‘This way.’ She smiled, opening a heavy soundproofed door and pulling him in. It was a snug little room with three rows of red velvet tip-up seats and a screen at one end. ‘I think you can even lock it,’ she whispered, flipping a switch.
‘Hey, I don’t know . . .’ he began, but never finished the sentence, as she took his hand and put it on her breast.
‘How’s that feel?’ she growled. ‘Does it feel good?’
‘Yes,’ he said, surprised. This was quick work, even for him. ‘Yes, it does.’
‘How about this?’ She slid her hand inside his trousers and held his erect cock.
‘Pretty good,’ he gasped. She pushed him back into one of the screening chairs, and as she unzipped his flies, he pulled her Lycra dress down to free her bra-less breasts, fantastic natural orbs that yielded to the touch.
‘Naughty,’ she purred, rolling her dress up her thighs to show him she hadn’t bothered with panties either. She straddled him, and using the fingers of one hand to part herself, guided his throbbing cock into her wetness. Vaguely an alarm bell was ringing in his brain. A producer friend in LA had warned him about London – the kiss-and-tell culture of the tabloids, the girls who would do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame and a cheque in the bank. But he was Euan O’Neil; he couldn’t be expected to abstain from women completely. He just had to choose carefully. Surely a lonely, lovely socialite with a rich, powerful husband wasn’t going to run to the tabloids or whisper to her friends? No, a memory of a night with Euan O’Neil would be kept hidden in the box marked ‘special memories’, along with her vibrator.
‘You are sure you locked the door?’ he moaned as she gripped her thighs around him, swivelling her hips to control the pace and rhythm. He could feel her clench around him, hot and tight. Holding on to the back of the chair, she slowly lifted herself off him so the very tip of his cock was tickling her neatly trimmed pubes, then she plunged back down, grinding herself on to him. He groaned, but the sound was lost as she leant forward and pulled his bottom lip into a sultry kiss.
‘I’m going to come,’ he growled as her nipple brushed his lips.
‘Not yet,’ she whispered, pumping harder. She was doing all the work, fucking him, pleasuring him, totally in control. Completely calling the shots. He loved it.
He groaned again, finding the energy to push her off him as he came, shooting over the red velvet like an over-eager eighteen-year-old. He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe it up, vaguely embarrassed, but it was better than having a love child floating around London.
‘Wow,’ breathed the woman, tossing her long hair back and rolling the Lycra tube back down her body. He realised he didn’t even know her name.
‘Let’s keep this between us, hey?’ he said hopefully.
She leant down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I wouldn’t want it any other way,’ she said, then opened the door and walked out.
He slumped back down in the chair, panting. ‘Shit, why didn’t I come to London years ago?’
Miles glanced casually at his watch as he made his way towards the stage door. It was five o’clock, twenty minutes after the Hamlet matinée had finished, which meant Euan O’Neil would be back in his dressing room. A male crew member with a walkie-talkie was having a smoke on the street.
‘I need to speak to Mr O’Neil,’ said Miles coolly.
The boy shook his head apologetically. ‘Sorry, can’t let you in. Mr O’Neil usually has a massage after the performance.’
Miles took out a wodge of money from his breast pocket and handed it over. ‘This is important,’ he said, knowing the money was more than a theatre hand would make in a week.
‘Follow me,’ said the boy.
They wound down through the back corridors of the theatre. What a shit-hole, thought Miles, looking at the peeling paint and concrete floors. Finally the lad pointed at a door and stuffed the money in his pocket.
‘He’s in there.’
Miles knocked and entered without being asked. Euan O’Neil was sitting in front of a long illuminated mirror where a young girl was carefully taking off his make-up. Get yourself a new agent, thought Miles, looking around at the shabby dressing room. It was small, simple, dotted with a couple of vases of wilting flowers, and a portable TV and video on the counter. Ah, that was good, thought Miles.
‘Can I help you?’ said Euan, turning to look at him.
Miles extended a hand. ‘Miles Ashford. From the Globe Club.’
O’Neil glanced at the make-up girl, then waved her away.
‘Of course, Miles,’ he said, shaking Miles’ hand, back in full PR mode. ‘Thanks for the membership, it’s a great little club.’
‘Did you have a good time the other night?’ Miles said.
Euan’s Hollywood smile faded.‘How can I help you, Mr Ashford?’ he asked. ‘I’m very busy.’
Miles placed a padded envelope on the counter in front of the mirror.
‘At the Globe Club we value discretion, privacy, but also security. As you probably know, our membership is wealthy and private, and we make every effort to ensure it stays that way.’
In the reflection, Miles watched Euan’s handsome face frown, the panstick making the lines on his face look darker, thicker and troubled. He reached into the envelope and pulled out a black, unmarked video cassette.
‘What’s this?’
‘Footage from the club.’
He stepped over to the TV and slotted the tape into the machine, waiting as a grainy black-and-white image of Euan and the brunette crackled on screen. The accompanying soundtrack was a series of moans and urgent panting. Impatiently, Euan reached over and clicked it off.
‘OK, enough. I get the fucking message. Who’s seen this?’
‘No one besides myself and the Globe’s head of security.’ Euan looked relieved and then irritated.‘I’m assuming you’re here to give me this back?’
‘Of course.’
His face softened. ‘Thanks.’
‘As I say, the privacy of our members is paramount. You can imagine if that tape got into the wrong hands it would be worth millions.’
Euan’s face changed instantly. ‘Are you trying to screw me?’ he said angrily. ‘Because I warn you, Ashford, my lawyers will have you in court before you can blink.’
Miles smiled to himself. He hadn’t expected the actor to be a complete pushover. He’d met enough celebrities in his time to know that you didn’t get well known without being tough and ruthless.
He shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t want your money, Mr O’Neil. Ask around, I’ve got enough of my own.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘Nothing. I just wanted you to know that this will go no further.’
Miles had been sceptical, but Chrissy had been right once again. They couldn’t blackmail Euan O’Neil, especially when he’d already been caught with his pants down. Instead, they needed him on side, spreading the word to his Hollywood friends about this hot new club where the women were sexy and discretion was guaranteed. And where the A list came, so would lesser mortals. They wouldn’t be joining some club owned by London rich kid Miles Ashford; they would be joining a secret cabal made up of the industry’s hottest movers and shakers.
‘This is yours,’ said Miles, ejecting the tape and handing it to the actor. ‘There are no copies. This will just be between us.’
‘Oh,’ said Euan, looking down at the tape. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little hasty there. This is very good of you.’
Miles nodded sympathetically. ‘My pleasure,’ he said and began to turn towards the door.
‘Hey, listen,’ said Euan. ‘At least let me buy you a drink? I’ve got a few hours to ki
ll before the next performance. I’d like to say thanks.’
Miles glanced at his watch. ‘Sure, maybe just the one.’
Chrissy was waiting in the office.
‘So?’ she asked, pouring two fingers of ice-cold vodka and handing him the glass.
‘He’ll be on the membership committee and he’s getting Tom, Brad and Harvey to join him. He’ll have the VIP party for his next London premiere at the club, and he’s coming for dinner with his wife when she’s back in London in a fortnight. Make sure the paps are outside. We can’t have the Ivy hogging all the Covent Garden action.’
Chrissy grinned and took a drink. The cameras had been hastily put into the screening room the day before Euan’s first visit, but maybe it was a good idea to install CCTV everywhere in the club. You never knew when this sort of thing might happen again, with or without a little helping hand. She picked up her phone and dialled a number.
‘Lauren? Chrissy. I have to say, congratulations are in order.’
Lauren was the raven-haired woman with the chocolate-brown eyes. Chrissy knew her from the Tokyo hostess circuit, but she was now one of London’s most elite call girls. Chrissy and Miles had put quite a bit of work her way in the past few months.
‘I aim to please,’ replied Lauren.
‘I’m transferring the five thousand now. By the way, what was it like fucking the sexiest man in Hollywood?’
Lauren giggled. ‘Messy.’
Chrissy hung up and turned to her husband, leaning across the desk to clink their tumblers together. The Globe Club was suddenly in business.
31
February 1994
Sasha pushed the glass door and stepped out into the bright sunlight of Lombard Street. It didn’t happen very often, but at this moment, she felt like crying. She scrabbled around in her bag looking for a tissue, but could only find a cocktail napkin from the Atlantic Bar, seizing it to dab at her eyes.
Philip Bettany put a reassuring arm across her shoulder. ‘Hey, don’t worry, Sash,’ he said. ‘We’ll find another bank. It will all work out in the end, I promise.’
‘It’s not that, I’ve just got something in my eye,’ she muttered, turning away. The truth was, the endless stress of trying to take over the Ben Rivera label was finally getting to her: she wanted it so much, but the harder she pushed, the further away it seemed to be. She had spent the last twelve months walking a dangerous tightrope, on the one hand trying to interest Ben in selling his company and raise the finance to buy him out, while simultaneously trying not to alert any other investors to the potential of the brand.
It was an impossible task, especially as part of her job was to tell everyone how amazing Ben Rivera’s designs were – and of course they were amazing, but she didn’t want anyone else to twig that Rivera might be a future gold mine with the right strategic investment. The last thing she wanted was for him to be poached by one of the big fashion giants like Dior or Versace for a well-paid in-house design position.
The thing that was giving her the most sleepless nights was the difficulty in finding the money. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know plenty of wealthy people. The problem was, Sasha was a twenty-two-year-old ex-model with zero commercial experience. They’d take her for dinner, sure. But hand over upwards of a million pounds for turning Ben Rivera into a ready-to-wear label with a London boutique outlet? Not a chance. The one genuine lead she had, a wealthy Iranian called Razzi Akbari, had put her off seeking private investment overnight. Sasha had been brilliant at their meeting, presenting her business plan with passion and gusto, answering all his concerns, even indulging in a little light flirting. But when she’d overheard Razzi’s wife at a party boasting that her husband was about to buy her ‘a little fashion company to play with’, Sasha had immediately shut down all communication. Ben Rivera was her find. She wasn’t going to be elbowed out of the way by anybody.
Which was why she was standing in the City, fighting back the tears. This was the sixth bank to turn her down flat. Philip’s generous attendance at the meeting had definitely helped things along – having an analyst from Schroder’s in the room meant she hadn’t had to face the ‘but what financial experience do you have?’ question this time. But his presence hadn’t been enough to make it happen.
‘It’s bloody over, isn’t it,’ said Sasha, her voice cracking. ‘There’s no one else to go to.’
‘Chin up, Sash,’ said Philip bullishly. ‘Look around you. We’re in one of the greatest financial capitals of the world. Somewhere nearby is someone with money to invest in the company; it’s just a matter of finding them.’
She forced a smile. He was being kind; he was always kind. After their flirtatious beginning at her parents’ anniversary party, Sasha had discouraged any romantic interest, but to her surprise, Philip had stuck around. It had been strange at first – Sasha had never had a platonic male friend before; in fact, working in fashion, she didn’t have many real friends at all beyond the kissy-kissy, ‘see you at the next party’ variety. But Philip had been a rock, happy to give up his weekends to help her draft a comprehensive business plan, celebrating the completion or refinement of every draft with suppers at Pucci Pizza, drinks at the Hollywood Arms or just a video and popcorn in his small Chelsea Harbour apartment. It was actually nice to have a friend without any of the sexual complications; Sasha wondered why she hadn’t done this years ago.
Philip stuck his arm out, flagging down a cab.
‘Listen, I’ll bet you’re starving,’ he said.‘Come back to mine, we’ll get a takeaway and work out how to crack this.’
‘I’m way behind on work for the label,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I really should get back.’
‘Oh no,’ said Philip firmly. ‘You can’t wriggle out of it that easily. I’m not having you moping all night when I bet the answer is staring us in the face.’
It was true, she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten all day, partly through nerves, partly because she had been so busy preparing for the meeting.
They ordered Chinese from the cab using Philip’s mobile, and it was there by the time they arrived. Philip arranged the cartons on the rug in the living room and laid the business plan out next to it.
‘So let’s look at this logically,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The banks are a no-go without a big injection of your own cash. What other avenues can we try?’
‘Are you sure your dad isn’t interested?’ said Sasha, reaching for the noodles. She’d never met Leo Bettany, but she still hadn’t forgiven him for making her father redundant. His selfish attitude to his kids hadn’t helped; although Philip had all the polish of a successful Young Turk, not a penny had come from his father. Leo Bettany believed in leaving his children to their own devices and had vowed to bequeath all his wealth to charity.
‘Tried him,’ said Philip sheepishly.‘He says he only invests in areas he understands – that doesn’t include cocktail dresses apparently. Besides, you’re a friend of mine, which definitely counts against you.’
He sat up, pursing his lips. ‘Look, we need at least a million pounds’ investment and the banks have refused us,’ he said. ‘There’s the venture capitalist firms, but they usually like dealing with bigger investments.’
‘So let’s ask for more money.’
‘And give up seventy per cent of the business?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think that’s the way to go. I still think we need to chase down private investors, despite what happened with Razzi. Investment is about people, and you are definitely the right person to turn Ben Rivera into everything it can be.’
‘Sweet of you to say,’ she said. ‘But no one seems to agree with you.’
Philip paused for a moment.
‘Look, I have about two hundred thousand pounds of my own funds we could put in,’ he said. ‘Private investors might be more willing to look at you if we put in some capital of our own.’
Sasha stopped and gaped at him, a spring roll halfway to her mouth.
‘You’d really d
o that?’
‘Well, when you first told me about your idea, I was sceptical. But that was before I knew you, before I knew how determined you are, what a taste-maker you are, how special you are.’
‘You’re a sweetheart, you know that,’ said Sasha with sincerity.
‘Everything you’ve done over the past few months, everything you’ve helped me with . . . I don’t know how to thank you.’
She felt the atmosphere in the room change. Dusk was settling across London, and while Philip’s apartment was small, it had floor-to-ceiling windows with a view right across Chelsea Harbour. Suddenly Sasha was very aware of the soft glow of the setting sun filling his living room.
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