The Tides of Change

by Joanna Rees

  ‘So . . . why don’t you introduce me to the birthday boy?’ she said, her smile making it obvious that she knew exactly what was happening in his smart blue pants.

  ‘Of course. I think he’s just in here in his office.’ Richard pointed to an open door a little way along the corridor. Then his walkie-talkie went and, excusing himself, he hurried away.

  Peaches walked silently in her high silver stilettos over the carpet towards the door. Through it she could see a young guy standing with his profile to her. He was tall and slender, with well-defined shoulders. He was staring at a TV screen, his face serious and his eyes dark.

  So this was Alexei Rodokov, she thought, swallowing hard.

  He looked younger than she’d imagined. And less Russian. Almost preppy, as if he belonged with the rich set in the Hamptons rather than here. She stopped in the doorway, watching him, remembering what Valentin had said about him in Moscow: He is Yuri’s favourite. And he is stupid. He does not see that he is just Yuri’s puppet.

  He didn’t look remotely stupid to her. Or like a puppet. He looked intelligent, and handsome too. He had a small mole just above the corner of his lip, a tiny imperfection which made his classically symmetrical face all the more attractive.

  She stepped closer still, until she was inside the doorway right behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He was listening intently to what the CNN newscaster was saying.

  The woman described by Todd Lands as his new leading lady has clearly stolen the heart of Hollywood’s most desirable bachelor. The star, who is a staunch Catholic, and has spoken out about sex before marriage in the past, was keen to avoid speculation about the couple’s sexual relations, but the pictures speak for themselves. Sonny Wiseman, producer of Todd Lands’s latest movie, confirmed that Frankie Willis, an unknown actress, has been the focus of the star’s attention for some time. He made no comment when asked if Ms Willis was the same young lady who has recently been linked to Russian multi-millionaire and the film’s financier, Alexei Rodokov . . .

  A taller man stepped out of the shadows of the office and clapped Alexei Rodokov on the shoulder, making him jump. He towered above Alexei, his neck thick and muscular as he pulled on his black silk jumper. He was in his sixties with grey close-cropped hair.

  Peaches recognized him instantly.

  It was Yuri Khordinsky. The Russian billionaire.

  Peaches felt her heart thump so hard she felt dizzy.

  She forced herself to focus. To remember why she was here. Yet inside, she felt a familiar fire that came with danger. It made every sense burn. Everything suddenly seemed intensely focused.

  ‘Well, hi there, boys,’ Peaches said, remembering her Southern accent. She reached up the doorframe and let one foot fall behind the other, so that the slit of her dress revealed her tanned bare legs. ‘I was told I could find y’all hiding down here.’

  ‘Ah. The entertainment has arrived,’ Khordinsky said. His English was rougher, less educated than Valentin’s, who’d spent so much time in the US.

  Now that Khordinsky was facing her, Peaches could see his sallow skin and a small straight scar on his cheek: the kind a knife left. His eyes were ice-blue. Dead. Like a shark’s. He looked her up and down like meat.

  ‘You bet it has,’ Peaches said, automatically arranging her face into one of her most alluring smiles.

  ‘Good, because, you know, my boy here needs cheering up,’ Khordinsky said, suddenly picking up a remote control and zapping the TV dead.

  My boy. He said it as if he meant it.

  But Alexei didn’t respond to Khordinsky’s tone. He didn’t look like he wanted cheering up by her or anyone else. He looked annoyed that Peaches was standing inside his office.

  ‘It’ll be our pleasure,’ Peaches said.

  Something in Rodokov’s eyes made her instantly cautious, but Peaches forced herself to remember what she was capable of. These were only men, and even the strongest and scariest of men could be undone. She knew that – because she knew how.

  ‘Well, hey there,’ she purred. ‘Happy birthday, darlin’. Why don’t you let me introduce the girls?’

  Alexei said something in Russian to Khordinsky.

  ‘No, Alexei,’ Khordinsky said, undressing Peaches with his eyes. He put his arm around Alexei’s shoulder. ‘Come. It’s your birthday. Valentin hired in these girls especially for you. Forget that slut and enjoy them. Do it for me. Show me you’re moving on . . .’

  Even Peaches could tell that was an order, not a request.

  Peaches called the girls downstairs to the master suite. Then she supervised the lighting as the men came in. Yuri, Alexei, Dieter and Eugene the bodyguards, and six other guys Peaches hadn’t met. All of them were Russian, well dressed and undoubtedly Bratva.

  It didn’t take long for the party to hot up. Soon, the glass table was covered in chopped-up lines of cocaine and empty bottles of vodka. Peaches realized that it was time to get down to business.

  Khordinsky and Rodokov were standing, still chatting intently. Peaches stared at them, occasionally catching Khordinsky’s eye. When she did, he held her gaze and she wondered what he was thinking. Did he desire her? Despise her? Or both?

  She mustn’t think about it, she told herself. Tonight, she had all the power. She was Peaches Gold. And she must do what she’d come here to do.

  As the music changed, she started dancing, pulling Mandy towards her. She winked at Heather and Hailey, who joined in.

  Heather and Hailey slipped seamlessly into their routine, making it look natural and instinctive, when in fact Peaches knew it was contrived and rehearsed. Heather reached for Hailey’s pert, well-rounded breasts and fondled them through her sequined bikini as they pressed together, kissing lasciviously. Tongues flickering. Hips grinding. Breath shuddering. Proving to the men, who’d cut their conversations and gathered around to watch, that this was for real. Then Hailey pulled off Heather’s top to reveal a matching shiny skimpy bikini. Heather stood in front of Hailey, massaging her own breasts against Heather’s, their bikini tops coming away, their kissing becoming more frenzied as they flicked their erect nipples against each other’s.

  Peaches watched Khordinsky the whole time. He was nodding, drinking his vodka, clearly enjoying watching Hailey and Heather as Hailey knelt down in front of Heather and pulled aside the crotch of her hot-pants and started lapping at her pussy, eliciting yelps of satisfaction.

  Like Peaches’ girls, these Russian boys weren’t shy. Peaches had expected them to lead the girls off in ones or twos to the adjoining empty cabins and rooms, but most of these men seemed perfectly comfortable getting right down to business in front of each other.

  More than comfortable, in fact. Determined was a more accurate description, Peaches thought. To prove that they could. That they weren’t afraid. That they had nothing to hide. Peaches had been to and had participated in many orgies in her time, but this was different. She soon saw that this wasn’t just about the sex and the drugs, or even fun. It was about machismo. Strength. Daring. It was about these gangsters proving to themselves and each other who was (quite literally) the hardest man in the room.

  And all of it, every last thrust, was for the coldly amused eyes of the biggest kingpin of all: Khordinsky. The puppet master. The grand controller. The boss who clearly had more fire, more power, more balls than the rest of them put together.

  Soon Eugene was kissing Daisy. Hungrily. Aggressively. Rummaging his hand inside her underwear, claiming her as his in front of the other men. He led her over to the other side of the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room and set about stripping off her remaining clothes in the cool, dim light. Before long, Peaches could see his trousers around his ankles. Then he pulled Daisy down on top of him and she began crying out with either real or, more likely, feigned joy as he bounced her on his eager cock.

  Meanwhile, Mallory was going down on Dieter, the bodyguard she’d met upstairs. His eyes were closed as she knelt in front of him and reached for his
flies.

  Peaches nodded to herself with professional pride as she continued to grind her crotch against Mandy enticingly, just beyond the reach of Khordinsky himself.

  But the billionaire seemed distracted and, far from anticipation, she noticed anger flash inside his eyes. Turning, she saw why. As much fun as the rest of Khordinsky’s guests might be having, the birthday boy himself, Alexei Rodokov, was heading for the door.

  Peaches whispered to Mandy to follow him. Then she widened her eyes at Nicki, nodding for her to go too. If the two of them couldn’t crack the young guy, then surely no one could.

  Peaches prepared herself.

  It was now or never.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  Time to take the plunge.

  She winked at Khordinsky. And then she smiled. That smile. The smile that left men in no doubt that she wanted them. Slowly she sashayed into the master bedroom and held the door open for him. She wiggled her finger at him for him to follow.

  He took the bait, rising from his chair and walking towards the bedroom.

  She stood inside the door. Her back turned on him. She couldn’t risk giving anything away with her expression. She didn’t know whether she’d crack under the gaze of those blank shark’s eyes.

  She waited, heart pounding, hearing his muffled footsteps on the thick carpet as he entered the bedroom. The sound of the door closing firmly. The lock turning. The noise of the party next door fading like a radio dropped into a bath.

  She could feel him behind her now, his hand clasping her ass, making her jump.

  ‘Undress. Get on the bed,’ he said, pushing her towards the giant bed with its lavishly embroidered midnight-blue and gold cover. She recognized the sexual urgency in his tone. ‘I will be back in one minute.’

  He strode towards the en-suite bathroom.

  For a moment, Peaches felt panic the like of which she’d never felt before. Danger was all around. Her instinct told her to run.

  But then she remembered why she was here. She must be strong.

  She had Khordinsky here in this room, without his bodyguards. She had to act. Now. This was her only chance.

  She closed her eyes for one moment, picturing Irena’s face.

  I’m doing this for you, she said silently.

  And then she thought about Albert Rockbine and the innocent girl she’d once been, and bile rose in her throat. Everything that had happened to Peaches and Irena was because of that brute behind the bathroom door . . .

  Yuri Khordinsky.

  The monster. The thief. He’d stolen Irena’s eyesight. Her health.

  Her child . . .

  And now it was payback time.

  Peaches searched the room for a suitable weapon. A heavy Lalique glass paperweight lay on the writing bureau. She snatched it up and hid it behind her back before turning to face the bathroom door.

  She had no intention of getting on the bed or getting undressed. Of him seeing her naked.

  She’d make sure it was all over well before that. She pictured herself lashing out, smashing the paperweight against his skull, hearing it crack. She rehearsed it in her mind: he’d fall down; she’d get him on the bed, stay a while, then make out he was sleeping after the biggest sex marathon of his life. No one would dare disturb the big boss. She’d be gone by the time they discovered he was dead. She pictured it over and over.

  This was her moment. The moment she’d been waiting for. The moment she would do what she had to do. For herself. For her mother.

  Khordinsky came out of the bathroom. He was naked, already erect. His sagging chest and belly were pock-marked and scarred. Tattoos ran the length of his powerful, hairy arms.

  Again, Peaches saw the flash of anger in his eyes. ‘Why are you still dressed?’

  She could feel herself shaking. The concealed paperweight felt moist in her hand, covered in her sweat. At any second it might slip and clatter to the floor.

  ‘Now!’ a voice inside her screamed. But she kept her cool. He was still too far away. She tightened her grip on the paperweight. Took a step closer to him.

  ‘Because I want to strip for you,’ she said. ‘I want you to watch.’

  It was a line she’d used a hundred times, on a hundred guys. It had never failed to get them hot.

  Until now.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck what you want,’ he said. ‘From now on you’re going to learn to do what you’re told.’

  This time it was he who stepped forward, close enough that the fat tip of his penis pressed hard against her waist.

  Close enough.

  Peaches lunged for him. Swinging her arm around fast and hard, to smash the paperweight into the side of his skull.

  But Khordinsky moved quickly for such a big man. Quicker than Peaches could ever have imagined. He reached out and grabbed her wrist and twisted down hard. The paperweight thudded to the floor.

  His eyes sparkled with menace – but with something worse than that too. Amusement. As if this was all just part of a sick game that he knew he was better at than anyone else.

  Peaches’ throat went dry.

  ‘Ah . . . you like to play rough, huh? Good. So do I.’

  He toppled her over on the huge bed and she yelped. Khordinsky laughed, enjoying his power over her. ‘Good. Good. I see you have done your homework. You know I like a fight.’

  He grabbed Peaches’ hair, but her wig came off in his hand.

  ‘You don’t know who I am,’ she gasped, trying to struggle away from him.

  He laughed, a terrifying, menacing sound. ‘Yes I do. You’re a filthy American whore.’

  She tried desperately to scramble away from him on the bed but he pinned her down, his elbow across her throat.

  He pushed his belly hard against her. ‘You feel that, huh? You feel my strong Russian cock? You feel that good, little American bitch? Because now I’m going to fuck you,’ he said slowly, vodka fumes overwhelming her, his spit landing on her face. ‘Until you’ll never be able to fuck anyone ever again.’

  Peaches felt fear rip through her.

  What had she been thinking? That she’d be able to overpower a man like Khordinsky? She’d been so wrapped up in just getting to Pushkin tonight, in finally seeing face to face the man she’d been obsessing about, that she’d been fatally unprepared.

  She should have brought a knife. A gun. If only she’d done that he would already be dead.

  But now it was too late. There was no time . . .

  No time to think . . .

  She struggled to breathe as Khordinsky continued to pin her down and tried forcing her legs apart.

  Her mind focused.

  She was not going to be raped. Not by any man.

  But certainly not this man . . .

  Her own father.

  Think!

  A memory surfaced. The one memory that might save her now. A girl she’d met once who’d killed a redneck biker in the same situation. This was her only chance – but it was a hell of a risk.

  ‘Go on then,’ she taunted, smiling and going limp beneath Khordinsky.

  He laughed roughly, still groping up her dress with his filthy sweaty paw, pushing his weight down harder now, burying his face in her hair. She yelped as he tore away her thong.

  Peaches bent her knee and reached for her foot. She tore off her stiletto and held it in her hand.

  She could feel Khordinsky’s cock against the top of her thigh.

  It was now or never.

  Peaches used all her might and plunged the razor-sharp stiletto heel into his neck.

  Khordinsky screamed, twisting, rolling off her. Blood sprayed on to her face. She scrambled back as he fell off the bed. He checked his hand. It was drenched in blood.

  Still holding the shoe in front of her, Peaches backed towards the wall. She was shaking uncontrollably. Frantically, she looked around her for another way out of the room.

  ‘Dieter!’ Khordinsky roared.

  A splintering sound. The door burst o
pen. The bodyguard rushed in holding a gun. In a second, he had one arm around Peaches’ throat and the gun jammed against her temple.

  Khordinsky screamed something in Russian, holding tissues against the wound in his neck. He stared at Peaches. ‘You tried to kill me, bitch.’

  Peaches heard the gun cock against her temple. She felt all her energy drain from her. All her plans. All her scheming. It had come to nothing. She’d failed.

  Then – one thought. One flash of hope. Tell him why. So he knew that his actions did have consequences. That the past would catch up with him. One day.

  ‘That’s for Irena, pig,’ she said.

  Khordinsky’s face clouded first with incomprehension, then with anger. He flew across the room and punched Peaches hard in the stomach. She’d never experienced pain like it. Dieter let go of her as her body crumpled. She vomited on the floor.

  That’s when the kicking started.

  When she came around, Alexei Rodokov was in the room. ‘Yuri? Yuri? Are you OK?’

  She saw that Khordinsky was sitting astride her, holding a knife above his head. About to finish her off.

  Alexei grabbed Khordinsky’s wrist. ‘No,’ he cried out. He spoke rapidly in Russian. Khordinsky stared at his bloodied hands and let the knife thud to the carpet. He backed away, cursing. He collapsed on to a sofa, before starting to rant at Rodokov again, still in Russian. Peaches understood none of it. Except for the word Irena, which was repeated over and over again.

  Rodokov flicked his eyes towards the door and Dieter lifted Peaches up and marched her through. The room was empty. The party over. The girls gone. There was no one left to help.

  Peaches felt nothing. No pain. Nothing. She shifted in and out of darkness, like someone was opening and shutting curtains. Is this it? she wondered. Am I already dead?

  But then the cold sea air hit her like a slap. Her eyes snapped open. She saw stars above. The pain rushed into her, through her, making her gasp and reel.

  Someone was carrying her like a butcher would carry a side of beef. Dieter’s face swam into focus. Peaches craned her neck. Rodokov was marching up ahead. They were out on the deck of a boat. There was still no one else around. No guests. No staff. No witnesses.