by Susan Lewis
‘You thought I wouldn’t have the courage, didn’t you?’ she said, somewhat surprised herself that she did.
‘I hoped you would,’ he answered still chuckling as he ran his fingers over her face. ‘You are such a pleasure for my eyes, such an indulgence for my mind. Will you take an aperitif now? Or will you shower first?’
‘I think,’ Kirsten said, ‘that I will take an aperitif.’
‘Then it will be my pleasure to serve you.’
As Kirsten sank into a cushioned wicker chair she watched his enormous body move almost lithely into the sitting room. She wasn’t too sure why she had chosen to take the aperitif before the shower since the cool night air was prickling her skin, but there had been something in those few moments that had made her want to remain here, unclad beneath the towel and, perhaps, still in his eyes.
When he came back he handed her a cocktail she had never tasted before and sat down on a chair facing her. Kirsten eyed him, waiting for him to speak.
‘So,’ he said at last, ‘you are enjoying your stay here?’
She nodded, a tiny smile hovering about her lips.
‘This is good,’ he said, putting his head to one side as he regarded her intently.
‘It was kind of you to invite me,’ she said softly.
‘You needed to come.’
There was an ambiguity in his words which, coupled with the sleepy, knowing look in his eyes, sent a quick thrill through her veins. It was so rare that she allowed herself to flirt this way, but with Zaccheo it was almost impossible not to. Though Paul had always been there before, watching them in silent amusement, like a father indulging his children.
‘What brought you back from Rome so soon?’ she asked.
The look in his eyes was answer enough and again Kirsten felt her pulses leap. She found herself looking at his immense hand holding the delicate glass, the jet black hair that curled over his arms, the gentle rise of his massive chest as he breathed. After a while she returned her gaze to his patrician face, the heavy beard that almost disguised the fullness of his mouth, the large nose and deep, sardonic eyes. She could see the moisture on his lips, almost feel the tension mounting through his body and felt herself so drawn to him it was as though the shadows stealing across the veranda were merging them into one. Her chest tightened as he stood up and moved behind her, resting his hands on the back of the chair. Neither of them moved or spoke as together they looked out at the burning orange sky watching the sun sink imperiously into the horizon.
Not until it had disappeared fully did he touch her, so softly that were it not for the electrifying tremor that went through her Kirsten might not have known it.
‘You are cold,’ he said as she shivered. He walked across the terrace to pick up a fresh towel. When he came back he lifted her hands and pulled her to her feet. As she stood the towel covering her fell away and Kirsten made no attempt to retrieve it. She knew she was going too far, that the harmless flirtation had some time ago taken on a new momentum, but his magnetism was too strong to resist. She wanted to be naked under his gaze, to feel the cooling breath of night air whisper over her skin like the caress of his fingers. But soon she would stop, any moment now she would laugh and so would he, and that strange remoteness she was feeling from the exquisite tingling of her body would be at an end.
She bowed her head, watching the indolent movements of the towel as he began to wipe the tiny droplets of water still glistening on her shoulders. Her breasts were aching to be touched and when at last he brushed the velvety fabric over their fullness she felt lightheadedness wash over her. She thought she might be swaying or trembling, but aside from the burning heat spreading through her body she was still. It was as if his hands allowed her no freedom for either movement or thought.
He moved beside her, resting one arm loosely about her shoulders as he lowered the towel from her breasts to her abdomen, caressing her tenderly with its softness until he was dabbing gently at the pearls of water clinging to her pubic hair. Then the hand resting on her shoulder came up under her chin and lifted her face to his. He looked long into her eyes his other hand now motionless, yet still touching the join of her legs. It was as though she was floating away from herself, watching herself surrender to a desire she had no power to break.
As his mouth covered hers Kirsten felt a sob shudder through her. She felt the towel slip from his fingers and pool at her feet. Then, as with one hand he massaged her neck, with the other he cupped one magnificent breast and lightly squeezed the achingly distended nipple.
Slowly he drew her to him, lifting his head to gaze into her eyes as his hands dropped to her waist and his fingers fanned over her hips. Coasting further into a daze of overpowering longing Kirsten allowed him to push her gently back into the chair and her heart started to pound as he once again lifted the towel and parting her knees began to stroke her inner-thighs.
Desire throbbed heavily through her body. Her head fell back against the chair, her eyes were closed and all she could hear were the tiny moans escaping her lips. The voice of caution was now no more than a remnant of a distant echo and as he pulled her forward, resting her buttocks on the very edge of the seat before lifting her legs and opening them wide, Kirsten knew that she was going to yield to him completely.
As his tongue flickered against her she gave a startled sob of pure ecstasy. Her head rolled from side to side, her fingers snaked through his hair and as he sucked her with his lips and probed her with his tongue she could feel herself rising on a soaring tide of impossible sensation. With his thumbs he pulled her wider apart and took that most sensitive part of her full into his mouth. Kirsten gasped, and as her head fell forward she opened her eyes and looked down to where his mass of inky black hair was resting between her thighs.
It came at her from nowhere with such ferocity and such lightning speed and clarity there was nothing she could do to stop it. Her entire body seemed to jar with the impact as the shock lashed through her. The last man to do this to her was the only man ever to have done it, and he too had black hair, he too had an expertly questing mouth and a dazzling sorcery in his finger tips. And it was him she was seeing now. It was for his body that her own was trembling, for his heat she was yearning, wanting to feel it pressing so deep inside her until she could take no more.
As though she had been struck Kirsten pulled back, knocking Zaccheo off balance as she curled her long legs into the chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped as Zaccheo looked up at her in astonishment. ‘Zaccheo, I’m sorry, I just can’t do it.’
His face darkened with fury, but as he made to get up Kirsten sprang from the chair and ran into the house.
When she reached her room she closed the door behind her and stood against it, panting for breath. But just being away from Zaccheo, by removing herself from the intoxicating ambience of a Tuscan night and the potency of his Italian charm, had restored some semblance of order to her mind.
As she walked to the bed and picked up a robe her lovely face was tight with anger. Not in five years had she allowed herself to relive the full intensity of the passion she had shared with Laurence, never had she dwelled, not even for a moment, on the image of their entwined bodies, the eroticism of their games, the indescribable beauty of his nudity. It had all, every bit of it, been banished from her mind’s eye until those moments with Zaccheo had tricked her so cruelly.
She stalked furiously to the bathroom, snapped on the shower and stood under the giant rose letting the scalding water pummel her body. She was going to deal with this, she told herself vehemently. Like the love she still felt for him, the desire was going to be conquered too. How could she have been so stupid as not to have realized before that the two were inseparable? It was a brutal reflection of how stupefyingly naive she could be. Thirty-six years old, she seethed as she savagely soaped her legs, and still she didn’t know how to deal with the treachery of her own mind.
But she would deal with it, and what was more she knew exactly how she was goin
g to begin. And stepping out of the shower she picked up a towel, stalked into the bedroom and opened up the wardrobe. Half an hour later, her hair still damp, her skin lightly perfumed and clad in a dress that clung to every curve of her body she turned to look at herself in the mirror. Just one glance was enough to see that she wore no underwear and as she looked deep into her own eyes it was almost as though she could see reflected in their depths the erotic images of Zaccheo’s vast body joining with hers . . .
Laurence had been in Los Angeles for just three days and was already exhausted by so many meetings, but he knew that his energy would never give out, he felt so alive in this place. The superficiality and bullshit amused him as much as it infuriated him, but he could play the game just as well as anyone else – and right now he was loving the game.
He was staying in the Hollywood Hills with a British director he knew from way back and even Victor’s negativity over the story of Moyna O’Malley hadn’t managed to get to Laurence. Victor had said just about the same as everyone else. ‘It’s period, Laurence, no one wants to touch period these days.’ And, ‘You’ve got to get some heavyweight names on board, your own just won’t carry it this time.’ Or, which was more to the point the way things stood, ‘You don’t have a strong enough story there. OK, the ingredients aren’t so bad, but it needs a real workover.’
For sure, Laurence knew all that, but the way Ruby had been shaping up these past couple of weeks filled him with optimism. She was even, according to Alison, coming up with some pretty amazing stuff down there in New Orleans. He’d be joining them in a couple of days and by then, if today’s conference at Universal was anything to go by, he’d have some encouraging news for them.
It had been his second meeting in the Black Tower in as many days, though he and Bill Cohen had spoken frequently on the phone during the weeks prior to Laurence’s arrival. Bill was an old friend, but Laurence had known better than to trade on that. He’d had to give Bill something that would knock his hat off or future access to the big man would prove a damned sight more difficult than it already was. But the seemingly endless hours spent with Ruby, coupled with Alison’s inspired settings and his own tireless efforts had in the end paid off. OK, Bill’s hat hadn’t actually been knocked off, but it had certainly tilted. And Bill was no time waster. The reason he’d called the conference at Universal that day was so that the other executives could hear direct from Laurence what they’d be putting their money into. Not that they were even considering financing the movie, but they were open to distributing it if he could pull it off. And once he had a distributor Laurence knew that the money would just fall into place.
‘Well, if the look on your face is anything to go by,’ Victor said as Laurence let himself into the air-conditioned oak-beamed kitchen, ‘I’d say you’ve managed to pull it off.’
‘Getting there,’ Laurence grinned. ‘But you know what this town’s like, the ship never sails on schedule. Any beer in the fridge?’
‘Help yourself,’ Victor said already turning his attention back to the script he was working on.
Not wanting to disturb Victor any further Laurence wandered out on to the deck and gazed absently down at the swimming pool on the terrace below. He’d give it an hour or so before calling Pippa, he didn’t want her to hear the enthusiasm for Hollywood in his voice, it would only unnerve her, but he sure as hell wanted her to share in the celebrations if Universal came up trumps. If they did then perhaps he would ask her to fly out here, ’cos he sure was missing her. Those last few days they’d spent together before he’d come out here had been like the first days of their honeymoon.
He sighed contentedly as he relaxed in a chair. God he loved it here, looking out on to the densely wooded hills, marvelling at the breath-taking sunset and listening to the haunting cries of the coyotes. Even enclosed in a garden like this he had such a sense of space.
Pippa understood completely the way he felt about LA which was why she never minded him coming over here. He was always in a better mood when he returned home, though there were times when she worried that one day he would go and never come back. But that would never happen, for as much as he loved his own country the way he missed Pippa when he was away from her was enough to get him on a plane back to Heathrow at the earliest opportunity.
‘Any calls?’ he asked looking up as Victor came to join him.
‘Mmm,’ Victor answered, an upraised beer bottle in his mouth. ‘Ruby in New Orleans. Some guy from London, Campbell I think he said his name was, and someone from Fox. I’ve written it all down next to the phone.’
‘Thanks,’ Laurence said, lifting his own bottle to his lips. ‘How you doing with that script of yours?’
‘Getting there,’ Victor quipped, ‘but I could use your help.’
‘You could?’ Laurence said, his surprise showing.
‘I’ve got an idea on how to shoot a particular scene and reckon it’s going to cost a fortune. Maybe you could tell me just what kind of a fortune before I wade in and make a fool of myself.’
‘I’ll give it a shot,’ Laurence answered. ‘Want me to take a look now?’
‘No, it can wait. I wanted to talk to you about who’s going to direct your Moyna O’Malley story – if you pull it off.’
Laurence’s eyebrows arched. ‘Don’t tell me you’re offering?’
Victor laughed. ‘Not me, no. I’m pretty tied up here for the next year or so. But I wanted to suggest someone to you. His name’s Willie Henderson. Ever heard of him?’
Laurence shook his head.
‘He’s English. Lives in London. His father’s something big in the City, got some sort of title as well I believe. Anyway, more to the point, if the grapevine is to be relied upon the old man came up with the finance for the one feature Willie has done. Before that he did mainly TV and a couple of commercials I think. Anyway, the boy’s got real talent – and contacts.’
‘Boy?’
‘He’s late twenties. Still needs some guidance, but I think he’s worth a try. I’ve got his movie on cassette in the house, you can take a look for yourself. It’s my opinion he’s really going places.’
‘But I thought you were advocating big names here?’
‘I am. And by all means get them if you can. But it’s all dependent on the kind of money you raise and what I’m saying is, if you don’t get what you’re hoping for then think about Willie. He’ll cost you a fraction of what one of the named boys will, he’ll do a bloody good job providing you hold his hand and he might just be able to point you in the direction of potential backers.’
‘I’ll take a look at what he’s done,’ Laurence said, turning to look back indoors as the telephone started to ring.
Victor went inside to answer and a few seconds later called out for Laurence. ‘It’s Cohen,’ he hissed as he passed the receiver to Laurence.
Laurence’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected to hear from Bill Cohen for several days, maybe even weeks yet.
Three minutes later he rang off and went back outside in search of Victor. ‘You got any champagne in that ice-box of yours?’ he asked.
Victor stared at him in profound astonishment. ‘Are you telling me . . .?’
Laurence was laughing and nodding. Then shrugging he said, ‘Sure there are a few conditions to be met, more meetings to be got through, guarantees and thelike to be delivered, but Cohen reckons we can prepare the ship to sail.’
‘Then to hell with the ice-box,’ Victor cried. ‘We’re out of here and celebrating tonight, my friend. Fuck me! Three days in Hollywood with a project that stinks worse than Lucifer’s breath and you got yourself a distribution deal! What are you, some kind of magician?’
Laughing, Laurence headed back inside the house. ‘Before we go anywhere I’m gonna call Pippa.’ He glanced at his watch. It was still early in the morning over there, but not so early that she would mind being woken.
‘Hello, darling,’ her sleepy voice came across the line a few minutes later. ‘How are
you?’
‘Just fine,’ Laurence answered softly. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. I was just lying here, thinking.’
‘You were? What about?’
‘You and me and Tom.’
Though he smiled Laurence was aware that his heart had suddenly tightened with something like anxiety. ‘Are you all right, honey?’ he murmured. ‘You sound kind of low.’
Pippa sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I am a bit.’
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
There was a long silence, so long that if he hadn’t been able to hear her breathing Laurence might have thought they’d been cut off. Then quite suddenly he remembered a time, some four years or so ago now, when Pippa used to lie in bed of a morning, thinking and crying and unable to find the energy to get up. And the reason for it was that she had been three months pregnant with Tom. A surge of almost overwhelming joy overtook him. He wanted nothing more than they should have another child and if Pippa was three months down the line then that meant she would have conceived long before that morning in the kitchen.
‘Laurence?’ she whispered.
‘Mmm?’
‘Do you love Tom?’
For a moment Laurence was perplexed. ‘You know I do, sweetheart. What makes you ask?’ Then suddenly, ‘Dear God, Pippa, he’s all right, isn’t he? Nothing’s happened to him?’
‘No, he’s fine.’
‘Then what made you ask?’ Laurence said his heart still pounding from the sudden onslaught of terror.
‘I don’t know really. I suppose I wanted to hear you say it. Do you love him more than anything else in the world? More than me?’