by Hyland, Tara
Looking over at Piers, who was still chattering on, she realized she was too tired to tell him today. But she would have to do so soon. Before it was too late.
28
_________
Sex was the best sleeping pill Billy Rainer had ever found. There was something about a good, hard screw before bedtime that always made him sleep like a baby. It was all to do with chemicals. Ejaculating released some hormone in the brain that put you out like a light. He’d read that somewhere once, which was surprising, because he didn’t read much as a rule. On second thought, maybe he’d heard about it on Ricki Lake. Yeah, he nodded thoughtfully; that seemed more likely.
He took one last drag on his cigarette—postcoital smoking was a ritual he’d never been able to break—then dropped the butt into the nearest beer can and settled down on the sofa bed. The thin covers hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine since he’d moved in and carried the stale, sweet smell of his semen. God, he was looking forward to getting out of this dump. Once the payment came through next week, he and Jack would be moving on to bigger and better things. All thanks to Amber Melville.
Meeting Amber had been a stroke of luck. He’d known right away she was going to be a little goldmine. Young, naïve, and filthy rich: it was like manna from heaven. They’d had some fun with her along the way. There was the night they’d convinced her to come over dressed in her school uniform. Hell, that video was going to make them a fortune. Her angel blonde hair in pigtails; adolescent breasts straining through her too-tight shirt; that gym tunic with nothing on underneath . . . He felt himself growing hard just thinking about it. He slipped his hand down the front of his shorts to his semierect dick, still wet from earlier. He looked down at the girl sleeping next to him, whose name he couldn’t recall, and wondered if she’d be up for sucking him off.
Billy was about to shake her awake when he heard a car coming up the driveway. He looked up to see a beam of headlights sweeping through the curtains. Right away he knew that something was off. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and as far as he knew, neither was Jack. Maybe the driver had simply taken a wrong turn. Any moment now they’d realize their mistake and turn around.
But that didn’t happen. Brakes screeched, and the hum of the engine died. The slam of car doors and the crunch of gravel on the path told him there was more than one person outside.
The footsteps stopped at the front door. The bell was out of order. It took a moment for them to figure that out. And then the knocking began. Three short, loud raps echoing on the hard wood, followed by an ominous silence.
Instinct told him not to open up. There were no lights on inside the house; no car in the driveway. As long as he didn’t make a sound, then they—whoever they were—would assume he was out and give up.
He lay in the darkness, waiting. The only sounds now were the insistent tick of the clock and the thump of his heart beating faster and faster. For one hopeful moment he thought they were leaving. But then he heard a hard bang against the front door.
Boom-boom-boom.
His heart contracted. Oh God. They were kicking down the door.
He was on his feet now, searching desperately for the clothes he’d carelessly thrown on the floor earlier. In bed, the girl stirred. “What’s going on?” she asked drowsily. But Billy was too busy panicking to answer. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could get out the back . . . But then there was one last almighty crash, the sound of wood splintering.
He stood frozen, one leg in his jeans. Jackboots pounded through the house. It didn’t take them long to find him—three heavies, with baseball bats and blank expressions. They didn’t say anything, they didn’t even bother to ask his name. They just did what they’d been paid to do—beat the crap out of him.
The first blow hit him straight in the stomach, winding him. With the second, he dropped to his knees. His resolution to take the beating like a man evaporated when the bat made contact with his face, shattering his left cheekbone. He screamed out in pain.
“Please don’t!” he whimpered. “There must be some mistake. Just tell me what you want—we can sort something out . . .”
But they weren’t interested.
The girl was wide awake now. She wasn’t known for her brainpower, but even she realized the situation straightaway. Gathering up her clothes, she sensibly slipped out of the door. As she left, Billy finally remembered her name. “Michelle!” he cried out. But she ignored him. She didn’t know him well enough to get involved.
It didn’t take long to break him. Five minutes later, the intruders had barely worked up a sweat, while Billy was lying curled up on the floor, sobbing like a little girl. The bats were covered in blood and pieces of skin. Two teeth lay on the rug. They looked like incisors, but he couldn’t be sure exactly where they came from. Everything hurt like hell.
Finally, the men stood back. He lay quietly, wondering what they were waiting for. And then he heard another set of footsteps in the corridor. A figure appeared in the doorway. Through his swollen right eye Billy saw an older man in a charcoal suit standing above him. Unlike the other three, he clearly wasn’t a thug. But there was something about the cold expression on his face that frightened Billy even more. With the others, it had been business. With this guy, it was personal.
The man held out his hand for one of the bats. He raised it up high, and Billy braced himself for the blow. He closed his eyes, hoping that this would be the final one. And then everything went blank.
William Melville nudged the inert body of Billy Rainer with his handmade leather shoe. A low groan escaped from the beaten man, confirming that he was unconscious, not dead. William wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
His little girl. The things those bastards had done to her . . . He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the thoughts. Luckily, when Billy had passed the tapes on to his contact, he’d been stupid enough to brag about who was playing his leading lady in the movie. The porn distributor—Randy Dickson, if you believed that—had recognized the Melville name, seen a chance to make a quick buck, and gotten in touch with William, guessing correctly that he’d be prepared to pay a small fortune to keep the videos off the market. A little more cash, and William had the names and address of the two animals who had orchestrated it all.
He could have gone to the police—but there was no way he would risk the publicity. So instead he’d decided to deal out a little retribution of his own. The Old Kent Road was full of guys willing to do a bit of dirty work for cash in hand, no questions asked.
They’d dealt with Jack first, caught up with his truck and left him on the side of the M6, bleeding badly. Then they’d paid this little visit to Billy. William had never considered himself to be a violent man, but he’d gotten a great deal of satisfaction from delivering those final blows.
Unfortunately, that had been the easy part. Now he had to deal with Amber. He’d picked her up from Beaumont Manor earlier that evening, having made up his mind that she wasn’t ever going back there. Right now, she was outside in the back of the Bentley, crying. He still hadn’t decided what he was going to do with her.
Isabelle wanted her home with them for a while. She said that Amber had low self-esteem and that, rather than punishing her, they needed to show her how much they loved her. “Unconditional love,” she’d kept going on about last night. What nonsense! No doubt that charlatan of a psychiatrist she saw every other week had put that rubbish into her head. William didn’t agree. In his opinion they hadn’t been firm enough with Amber. Now they needed to crack down. “Before it’s too late,” he’d told Isabelle in no uncertain terms. They’d argued about it into the early hours of the morning.
As he walked outside, he caught a glimpse of his youngest daughter in the backseat of the car, her beautiful face red and raw from crying. All he wanted to do was pick her up and cuddle her. But he knew he needed to keep his feelings in check; his heart hard, his mind clear. All the way over here, he’d had to listen to her screaming Billy’s name, ple
ading for them not to hurt him, professing to love him. It frightened William that she didn’t seem to have any concept of what those bastards had done to her. Even after he’d told her about them selling the tape, she still seemed to think that they cared about her.
She didn’t look at him as he got back into the car. At least she’d stopped crying, he thought; her sobs had subsided into a quiet sniffle every now and then. He wanted to say something to her, but he had no idea what. The only way he could think to protect her was to take her somewhere else, somewhere away from here.
He hit the intercom. “Perkins?”
“Yes, sir?” The answer was brisk and businesslike. No hint of judgment or interest in the evening’s proceedings. He was paid not to notice or care.
“Take us to Heathrow. We’ve got a flight to catch.”
The car started up. William felt himself relax a little as they pulled out of the driveway.
“Where are we going?” Amber’s voice shook as she asked.
He didn’t reply. In fact, he had no idea where he was sending Amber yet. But he was sure he’d figure it out on the way.
By the time the limo reached Heathrow, Amber felt much better. Although on the outside she remained stony-faced, secretly she’d enjoyed the drama of the evening. Her father still hadn’t spoken to her—hadn’t so much as looked in her direction—but from the hushed calls he’d made during the journey, she knew she was being sent to New York for the summer. As punishments went, it didn’t seem all that awful. A British Airways representative fast-tracked them through check-in and security and then escorted them out to the waiting 747. Within moments of their taking their first-class seats, the plane was on its way.
Amber waited for her father to close his eyes and then signaled the stewardess to pour her a glass of champagne. A businessman in the adjacent seat gave her an appreciative look, and she winked at him. Embarrassed, he buried himself in his documents. No, this didn’t seem like such a bad deal after all, she reflected, as she reclined the seat. She’d spent the last few hours swearing blind to her father that as soon as she was old enough, she would find a way to be reunited with Billy. But now she was discovering that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t quite so heartbroken over him after all. The weekly parties had grown dull. He never had any money to buy her presents. And Keepers Cottage had been kind of a dump.
Amber found the headphones in the seat pocket and selected a movie. By the time the plane was halfway across the Atlantic, Billy, Eva, and Beaumont Manor were little more than a distant memory.
William stayed long enough in New York to deposit Amber with the Penfolds, one of the oldest and stuffiest families in America. Charles and Audrey Penfold were old money, blue bloods with impeccable breeding and manners; their name up there with the Vanderbilts, Kennedys, and Rockefellers. Naturally they lived on the Upper East Side, occupying the top floor of a landmark nineteenth-century building on 62nd Street, between Park and Madison Avenues. It was one of those grand old apartments that represented the apex of the late-eighties Louis Quinze style. Every ostentatious detail was beautifully coordinated. The floors were covered in tinted marble; ornamental cornices and friezes decorated the walls; the furniture was carved out of rare woods and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory.
The Penfolds were much like their apartment: perfectly coordinated on the surface but with little substance underneath. Amber had met them once before, when she was ten. They were pretty much as she remembered them. Charles Penfold was a partner in an investment bank. He worked sixteen-hour days—twelve on weekends—voted Republican, and had been sleeping with his secretary for the past eight years. Audrey Penfold didn’t work and spent her time doing lunch and her personal trainer. She had been a well-preserved forty-two when Amber had last seen her. Botox and regular trips to the plastic surgeon had made sure she stayed that way.
Audrey and Charles had the perfect Upper East Side marriage: they never shared a bed or a conversation but were both unfailingly discreet in their extramarital affairs. Their life together was predictable and well organized, and they would have preferred not to have to take William Melville’s delinquent daughter in. But he was an old friend, who had seen fit to lend Charles money during some lean times a few years back, so they couldn’t very well say no.
William stayed only a few hours. As he left, he promised the Penfolds that once Amber’s exam results came through in August, he would find an appropriate school where she could study for her SATs, and she could return to the U.K. That seemed to pacify the couple. But Amber was less convinced. She remembered little of the exams she had taken a few weeks earlier—apart from English, when she’d turned in forty pages in just over an hour, driven on by a coke rush. She suspected yesterday had marked the end of her school career, and she wasn’t altogether upset by the prospect.
Amber woke surprisingly early the next morning, excited about commencing her New York adventure. It was late June, and the city was already stifling. She surveyed her wardrobe. She’d had little time to pack, so she selected the one decent outfit she’d brought with her—a simple white cotton dress. It was imperative that she go shopping as soon as possible, she decided.
She wasn’t sure at first how much her father had told the Penfolds about what had happened back in England. But when she went down to the breakfast room, she guessed it was pretty much the whole story. Audrey Penfold could barely look her in the eye over her breakfast of black coffee and Prozac, whereas her husband Charles couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Another bagel, my dear?” Charles’s deep, burnished voice boomed. He held out a basket of bread and pastries. Amber shook her head—she’d hardly touched the one on her plate. But he seemed not to notice. His eyes were fixed firmly on her chest. She hadn’t worn a bra this morning, and under the cool of the air-conditioning her nipples had stiffened and were clearly visible through the thin material of her dress.
Audrey frowned. The society matron’s sharp eyes missed nothing. The thought of the pretty young girl spending the summer lounging around the house in the briefest of clothes, showing off her long, tanned limbs, suddenly seemed more of a problem than she had first thought.
By the time breakfast was over and Charles had been packed off safely to work, Audrey had decided that it was imperative to find something other than her husband to keep their guest occupied for the summer. Over a fresh pot of coffee, she learned that this was easier said than done. The girl appeared to have no real hobbies or interests. No wonder she had ended up making mischief.
“And what is it you would like to do when you’re older, dear?” Audrey asked, thinking that there must be some way—any way—to get Amber out of her hair.
“Modeling,” she said immediately.
How original, Audrey thought. She managed a tight smile. “What a wonderful idea!” She reached for her Rolodex. “Now that’s something I may be able to help you with.”
Rich Cassidy was a busy man. He was owner of a small but prestigious modeling agency and his time was precious. Usually based in L.A., he was only in the New York office for the day, holding open auditions to find a fresh face to represent one of his biggest clients, Hiltman jeans. So far, none of the girls he had seen were anywhere near good enough. Hiltman was after a certain look—someone with attitude, someone with unconscious cool.
Rich was stalking back through reception when he spotted her. A stunning young girl, with the cutest white blonde curls he’d ever seen. She was sitting on one of the low suede sofas, flipping disinterestedly through a magazine while she chewed away on some gum. Rich stared at the girl for a moment, assuming she was a wannabe who had turned up late for the audition. Usually he would have sent her away. He loathed tardiness and hated people chewing gum even more. But this girl . . . she had a look about her—something different.
He headed over to Linda, the receptionist. “Who’s that?” He gestured toward the blonde. “Someone for Hiltman?”
Linda consulted Rich’s diary. “No. That’s your
eleven o’clock—Amber Melville.”
Rich raised one effeminately plucked eyebrow. He had forgotten all about his promise to Audrey Penfold. When she’d asked him to meet her unwanted houseguest, he hadn’t been keen, but Rich owed her a favor—he’d met his latest boyfriend, makeup artist Louis Kent, at one of her charity dinners—so reluctantly he’d agreed.
He hadn’t been expecting anything to come of it. Sure, Amber Melville wanted to be a model, but that meant nothing. In his mind, he’d been expecting her to be a typical inbred English aristocrat: mousy hair, long face, thin lips. But in fact, with her crown of tight platinum curls and rosebud mouth, Amber looked more like a wanton courtier from the Restoration Period. Even without knowing her history, he could see exactly what she was: an upper-class slut, rich trash, a spoiled brat who would do anything—and anyone—for amusement. And if she could get that look across on camera, then she was going to make a fortune.
“Okay, Linda.” Rich was decisive. “Get Paul on the line and tell him I’m sending someone down for test shots.” He walked over to where Amber was sitting and squatted down beside her. “So, Amber Melville,” he began. “How do you feel about being famous?”
William wasn’t happy when he heard that Amber wanted to stay in New York—to model, of all things. “She should be going back to school this autumn to get some decent qualifications,” he fumed. “Not gallivanting around with a bunch of strangers.”
Isabelle, who’d spent an hour on the phone the previous evening listening to her younger daughter’s tearful pleas, was more inclined to go along with Amber’s wishes. “They’re hardly strangers,” she reasoned. “I’ve spoken to Audrey, and the owner of the agency is a great friend of hers. She speaks very highly of him and assures me that Amber will be in good hands. Honestly, I can’t see why you have such a problem with this.”