by Tesni Morgan
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
On the Loose
ISBN # 1-4199-0882-0
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
On the Loose Copyright© 2006 Tesni Morgan
Edited by Briana St. James.
Photography by Les Byerley, cover design by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication: December 2006
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Content Advisory:
S – ENSUOUS
E – ROTIC
X - TREME
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated E–rotic.
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. E-rated titles might contain material that some readers find objectionable—in other words, almost anything goes, sexually. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry in terms of both sexual language and descriptiveness in these works of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Stories designated with the letter X tend to contain difficult or controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
ON THE LOOSE
Tesni Morgan
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Doc Martens: Dr. Martens International Trading
Fortnum & Mason: Fortnum & Mason PLC
Harley–Davidson: H–D Michigan, Inc.
Harrods: Harrods Limited Company
Levi’s: Levi Strauss & Co.
McDonalds: McDonald’s Corportion
Mercedes: DaimlerChrysler AG Corporation
Pimm’s: Diageo Brands B.V. Private Limited Liability Company
Selfridges: Selfridges Retail Limited
Chapter One
Have you ever felt, when meeting a guy for the first time, that you want to leap on him, make mad, passionate love to him, marry him and have his babies? This was exactly what happened to Carenza when she walked into his state-of-the-art office and looked straight into David Farlan’s steel-gray eyes.
He was thirty-something, older than other boyfriends she had had, apart from one. She was overawed by his reputation, nervous as a kitten because she needed the job and bowled over by the sheer charisma of the man.
He rose, held out a broad, firm hand and said, “Take a seat, Miss…” He glanced at the monitor on the antique mahogany desk before him adding, “Carenza Hewitt, I believe.”
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Farlan,” she replied and lowered herself onto the leather upholstered chair opposite his.
The luxurious calfskin was comfortable, pressing her businesslike skirt against her bottom, making her aware of the silk panties against her. She was sensitive to everything, an awareness brought about by the presence of the tall, wide-shouldered, expensively suited man who was interviewing her. What a babe! I can’t wait to tell the girls about him!
Watch it, cautioned her sensible self.
David steepled his fingers together, touched the tips to his full lips, regarded her steadily and said, his voice deep and cultured, “Of course, I have already interviewed several other applicants. What can you tell me about yourself that may convince me that you are the most suitable?”
He’s an arrogant bastard, she thought, but her skin tingled as his gaze wandered over her body. She felt he was stripping off her skirt and sensible white blouse, then removing her bra and panties and leaving her naked for his inspection. Vicky and Joanna had warned her this might happen. Her streetwise roommates had heard of him from mutual friends. They guarded her like mother hens, sheltering her from the wicked city.
“Watch your back,” they had warned. “He’s charm itself and, apparently, when he makes love! Wow! Hang on to your hat! They say he’s hung like a mule and has a degree in sex, or so it’s rumored. We’ve not tried him ourselves.”
Carenza believed them. They knew the scene. Had lived in London for ages, trawled the smart clubs and worked in prestigious places—Vicky in fashion houses and Joanna in journalism. But their comments added to her nervousness and she was all too aware of his chiseled features and those penetrating eyes.
He was waiting for an answer, one eyebrow raised quizzically and she stammered out, “I’m new to television and radio, though I know the formula, learned it during media studies at college, but have ideas that I’m certain will give me a fresh approach. I have no ties and don’t mind unsociable hours.”
“You’re ambitious?” A smile played around his highly kissable lips.
“Yes.” She concentrated on anything, rather than his mouth. “I’d like to get on and want to learn everything. How to conduct interviews and present programs, all the tricks of the trade, in fact.”
“And you’re fresh from university?” He was listening to her as intently as if she was the only woman in the world and that he had not already heard this tale from other hopefuls.
“That’s right.” Carenza clasped her hands over the bag on her lap, thinking, If only he wasn’t so attractive!
“And this will be your first job?”
He swiveled his chair slightly from side to side, but his eyes never left her. Picking up a pen, he rapped a tattoo on the desk. Somewhere a phone trilled, but was answered in the outer office. He had obviously given orders not to be disturbed.
She wished she had more confidence. Her tutor, Kelyn, had taken away what little she had. How was she to know that he was going to marry another lecturer who had gone to America on an exchange? Somehow it slipped his mind to mention it. She thought he loved her. She was a virgin until then, too shy to date boys until after Kelyn, let alone have sex with them.
“I came to London after I’d graduated from Stanchester.”
She remembered that ancient gray college in the northern town, set amidst the moors and granite hills where the wind blew from arctic regions. She had never been really warm during the three years spent there. A far cry from mild Kent, the so-called Garden of England, where she was born.
“That’s good news. It means you’ll be malleable and I shall be able to mold you in the way I want you to go.” He smiled at her disarmingly.
The notion of being molded by him was disturbing. She visualized chains and restraints and herself wearing nothing but a thong and thigh-high boots. The chamber would be dusky and lit by candles, and he would stand there facing her with that look in his eyes and his hips, buttocks and crotch outlined by ball-crushingly tight black velvet trousers. Carenza’s imagination was getting in the way of reality, fired by photos she’d seen in Vicky’s porn magazines.
The office was light and airy, on the top floor with a view over the River Thames. A prestigious and popular location. No doubt David had an apartment nearby, valued at half a million pounds at the very least. A high flyer. A successful businessman. A most desirable person on all counts. I want this job, she thought, and her chin lifted in a mulish way that friends would have recognized. She was stubbor
n, as shy girls often are when they get their teeth into a project.
David appeared to be deep in thought. He drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. He continued to scan her qualifications, then looked at her, and she wondered if he was visualizing her in his bed. She could feel her cheeks reddening and couldn’t meet his eyes. The tumult in her loins was increasing, becoming more and more pleasurable. Would it be possible to work close to him or would she be constantly on the verge of orgasm?
Sounds from outside were muted. They might have been alone on a mountaintop. Sunshine poured through the plate-glass windows and it was warm there, despite the air-conditioning. Rather like a hothouse where lush tropical plants flourished, throwing off powerful pheromones.
Stop it! she lectured herself. You’re here for a job, not a screw!
His lips curved in a knowing smile, as if the heat, the silence and the sheer feral jungle feeling in the air was affecting him. Unable to move, fascinated as a rabbit with a snake, she watched as he rose and came around to her side of the desk. He was graceful as a dancer, his loose designer suit emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs. When he paused beside her, it seemed that her heart fluttered then went racing on.
“Would you like a trial run…say, a month?” His lips were somewhere in the region of her right ear.
“That would be wonderful,” she managed to squeak, all too aware of the scent of him, a mixture of expensive aftershave coupled with the personal smell of his hair. She wanted to run her fingers through it, so dark, thick and curling, sweeping back to touch his collar.
“Good. Then that’s settled.” He straightened up. “Come in around ten tomorrow morning and I’ll introduce you to Laurette Upton. She’s our chief presenter and you’ll act as her researcher.”
Carenza struggled to her feet, weak-kneed with relief, shock and excitement. He really was taking her on! She’d seen Laurette on TV and would now be actually working with her for David’s company, Beyond Enterprise, helping to bring new and glamorous assignments to the public. And David would be there. She’d probably see him daily. It was almost too much for her to accept and believe.
I can’t wait to discuss it with Vicky and Joanna, she thought. He shook her hand on the deal and promised to work out salary and hours and all those trivial details that were of little interest compared with the feel of his dry, warm palm pressed to hers. She had the crazy urge to prostrate herself before him and beg him to take her home with him.
Get a grip! Good heavens, what’s wrong with you? Anyone would think you’d never seen a man before!
* * * * *
“And that’s what it felt like,” she burst out, seated at the kitchen table in the house she shared with her friends. “He’s great!”
“Oh, help! She’s in love again,” exclaimed Vicky, beautiful, up-to-the-minute in every fashion detail and with legs that went on forever. She reached for the brown earthenware teapot and refilled their pottery mugs.
“No, I’m not,” Carenza protested indignantly. “But I’ve got me a job! Just think of that! A job in TV.”
“Good for you!” Joanna chimed in, beaming widely.
She was a redhead, and her hair was shagged and jagged by Larry, their mutual friend and coiffeur, who owned a trendy salon in the heart of London’s West End. As petite as Vicky was willowy, she was a journalist par excellence, a shrewd, sharp-tongued critic of the lifestyles of the rich and famous, whose misadventures filled the newspapers. She believed in the old adage, “The pen is mightier than the sword”.
They sat around the table, as they had done so often before. A meeting place where, at the end of the working day, any and every topic came under discussion, particularly men. It was on the ground floor of a circa nineteen-hundred villa in Kensington and belonged to Carenza’s mother, inherited from an aunt. At present-day prices it was worth a fortune, and Carenza had moved in when she left college. She had known Joanna and Vicky for years and they were delighted to join her, sharing the kitchen, conservatory, lounge, dining room and study and having their bedrooms one flight up. Larry rented the upper floor. He was useful for making their hair look fabulous at a moment’s notice and had a string of boyfriends moving in or out. None of his relationships lasted long.
“We should celebrate. I feel like partying.” Vicky flicked back her streaked honey-blonde locks. “It’s been a pig of a day, everything going wrong in the atelier. One of the girls was off with flu. The sewing machines were on the blink. The computer was playing up and Carl was throwing a fit.”
Carenza smiled. Carl was a temperamental colleague who had shares in Vicky’s business and designed and made up his garments in her workshop. They couldn’t decide if he was gay or simply rode on both buses. Even Larry found him an enigma.
She wanted to talk more about David, but was too embarrassed. She vowed that one day she would stroll in there with him, showing off her property. It would be hers then, one bonus of being an only child. No sibling rivalry or squabbling about wills. Her mother had promised that she’d give it to her when she was more mature.
Vicky stretched her brown arms. It was early summer but she had already been sprayed with fake tan at the beauty salon. Every inch of her was copper-toned. There was a secluded garden at the back of the house where all three of them sunbathed nude, weather permitting. Then Carenza remembered that there were four, including Larry. He was vainer than any of them when it came to bronzed and beautiful skin.
“Let’s go to the Barley Corn Club after we’ve had something to eat,” Joanna suggested.
“Fine.” Vicky unwound her legs from the struts of the stool and got up. “Not only food for the stomach, but for the hormones as well. Lots of fit guys there. I’m on the pull tonight.”
Carenza nodded and went to her room to shower and get ready. The expression Vicky had used jarred on her. “On the pull.” Females were saying it more and more now, behaving in a laddish way. This meant drinking pints of beer and getting drunk, trolling from club to club and picking up partners for one-night stands. Not even that—a quick fuck against a wall with some guy that they wouldn’t pass the time of day with when sober. They equipped themselves with condoms for safe sex, but were often too out of it to use them.
I’m not a prude, but everything in me rebels at this, she thought.
Vicky and Joanna weren’t that bad, though they had been hurt by failed relationships earlier on. Now they drifted from man to man, trying to be as uncaring as their masculine counterparts, presenting a tough exterior, but soft as butter underneath, loyal to a fault as far as their female friends were concerned.
Her bedroom was quaint, still furnished with items chosen by her aunt years ago. Antiques, mostly, and worth money on today’s market with its nostalgic obsession for bygones and all things retro. The chest of drawers was oak and the wardrobe spread itself along one wall, its full-length mirrors throwing back Carenza’s image.
She leaned closer and examined her face critically. Her contours were soft and her eyes wide and blue. Her mouth was generous and her hair was what she called rich mouse, which meant it needed highlights and an imaginative trim to bring out its full potential. She had not bothered to do much to it, but now wished that she had. She decided to talk to Larry, bunching it up at the back and turning her head this way and that. Neither view pleased her.
She frowned as she stared at her figure. She was of middle height and rounded. This wasn’t fashionable. Most women strove to achieve that skinny, straight-from-the-gym look, but with big boobs. Carenza was the proud owner of a fine pair, but the trouble was that the rest of her was in proportion. Her waist was normal and her hips ample. As Kelyn had put it, they were splendid for childbearing.
She hadn’t known whether to take this as a compliment or an insult, but had settled on the latter as matters had turned out. She rooted through her wardrobe, displeased with every item there. The educational grant had been a pittance, and though her mother had helped out, her father was nowhe
re in evidence, having run off with his secretary years before. Without being lucky enough to live rent-free, London would have proved a disaster while she was looking for a job. It had been bad enough at Stanchester, trying to manage on a student loan that now would have to be paid back.
She had become accustomed to exploring thrift shops where clothes and bric-a-brac were donated so that the proceeds of sales could help the needy. Every article was cleaned and pressed and presented to look its best. Carenza had purchased many a bargain in those hallowed halls of goodwill and compassion.
Mostly she stuck to conventional garments, skirts and tops, trousers and T-shirts, though occasionally she couldn’t resist weird and wonderful articles, like a genuine Afghan coat from the Seventies. This was made of goatskin, complete with embroidery and the original animal smell. She’d bought jeans too, already washed out and tatty by wear, not deliberately distressed in a factory to suit the new trend.
There were impulse buys that she later regretted wasting her money on, but there was one exception, an outfit she now retrieved from the back of the wardrobe. Shrouded decently in a clear plastic dress bag, she felt again the thrill that had shot through her when she first saw it hanging in an Oxfam shop. Longing to be bolder, she had tried it on in the tiny changing room and it had transformed her. For once she looked like her contemporaries on a night out—feisty, proud of her body, challenging anyone to say different.
She now freed it from its shroud and admired it. Made of purple see-through material with a slip beneath, the bodice was low-cut and sleeveless, decorated with beads and sequins. Carenza laid it across her bed and stripped. It was the kind of dress one had to be near-naked to wear. It wasn’t the first time she had tried it on in the privacy of her bedroom, daydreaming of strolling into a trendy club where every eye would turn to her, followed by that second of stunned silence. And in these fantasies she always ignored them, stalking in with her head high, wearing the very latest in makeup and innovative hairstyling. She would be the belle of the ball and leader of fashion.