He moves to the next stage, the touches, the hands on her calf, the massage of her shoulders, the tactile demonstration of the workings of her muscles. She feels his rock-solidity, begins to wonder if such steely flesh can ever yield or melt in the blast furnace of passion. She realises that she would very much like to know the answer to this question. She holds his gold-flecked chocolate eyes a little too long, and then he knows he has won.
'There's another kind of workout I'd like to give you, baby,' he might say. Depending on the quarry, there will be giggles, or coquettish looks, or a straightforward acquiescence. He will fetch his master key and lead her towards the sauna and shower room, which will remain locked for the next half-hour.
The shower is the wet-room sort, large and tiled in black. He will put two exercise mats down on the rubberised floor, then he will hook one enormous forearm around the small of her back and curve her against his chest. He will wait for her gasp of realisation that the swollen mound pressing into her stomach is not a skittle. Then he will capitalise on her wide eyes and gaping mouth, lifting her into his arms and kissing her into submission en route to the exercise mats.
There will be an agonisingly slow peeling off of Lycra and cotton. There will be awestruck tracing of the ridges and inlets of Lincoln's physique, which he will respond to by finding her corresponding softnesses. There will be marvelling at the satin smoothness of his shaved head and the iron rigidity of his biceps and triceps.
Now the two sets of limbs will entangle, legs within legs, arms over arms, more often than not a colour contrast of skins. Her streamlines will mould sweetly against his bulk; together they will work through a series of poses that would inspire any sculptor. Large hands over firm breasts, faces merging at the lips, manicured nails pressing into taut dark buttocks. The scanty underwear, now salty with their excitement, is finally discarded. She might find herself on her back, flexing her toes over the broadest shoulders they will ever encounter, showing off her Brazilian, or American, or French waxed mons to his single-eyed conqueror. She might find herself straddling his pelvis, hovering above that thick, straight stalk, summoning the nerve to lower herself on to its prodigious girth. Or she might be sandwiched between the shiny black tiles and his shiny black six-foot frame, drilled to the wall like a soapdish by his hardworking tool. There are many variations on this picture, enough to fill a catalogue, but they always end the same way. Whether it's hard and fast or slow and sensual, she is brought to the screaming bucking orgasm of her life while he congratulates himself on another job well done before filling the rubber sheath within the heated flesh.
'Babe,' he'll say, every single time. 'Oh, babe.' And then he'll turn on the jets and they will lie there on the drenched exercise mats, panting and moaning while the pearly droplets cleanse their steaming bodies.
They have both had what they wanted, but woe betide the woman who wants more. Lincoln has only that much to give. It is good, oh yes, is it good, but it is all you can ever expect. Or at least, it was.
Mostly, we would shake ourselves off, dust ourselves down and accept that the Special Induction was our last taste of Lincoln. Sooner or later, the women moved on. It took some of them a long time, but eventually, after fruitless months on the treadmill or the rower, they would see him work his magic on the next new girl and realise how the land lay. The thing about Lincoln was that he was always travelling towards the next peak on the horizon, always passing through and never staying. There would be a girl with bigger tits, or longer legs, or – most importantly – a more famous name along soon, and he had to be ready for her. Lincoln did not have emotions so much as an endless bedpost, incompletely notched, stretching away to infinity, representing his ego and his self-worth. Poor vulnerable Lincoln. In the end, you had to feel a little sorry for him.
I was not feeling particularly sorry for him, though, on the day his nemesis checked in.
'Hey, Sophie,' he hailed me, jogging over the lobby to the jingle of gold jewellery. 'You heard who's signed up for Inductions?'
'The Queen?' I hazarded, scarcely bothering to veil my indifference.
He unleashed that rich chuckle, the one that made every female nipple within a half-mile radius tingle.
'No, baby, you know who I mean. Our famous friends.'
'Uh huh. Kitty and Kat. I know. Did they sign up separately, or do you get them as a tag team?'
So successful had Kitty and Kat's TV sketch show proved that they were now filming a movie in the city. The plot was basically the same as all of their sketches – Kitty is beautiful but dim; Kat is frumpy but saves her friend's bacon time after time. Startlingly original premise, no? I was not a fan, I had to admit, but the girls had been friendly enough at the Reception desk and had made no ridiculous diva-ish demands of the staff, so I was prepared to accept that they weren't as annoying as their show might lead one to suspect.
'Well, I've got one after the other. Kitty at ten, Kat at eleven. I might not have time for Kat though.'
'And she doesn't have the model looks,' I pointed out sourly.
'Hey, she's a name, baby. A name doesn't need the looks. Besides, the homely girls have compensations to offer.' Lincoln winked, flashed his teeth and bounded off towards the basement health complex.
'Arrogant twat,' I mouthed in his wake, and thought no more of it.
The following day, Kat – real name Karen – rolled up at the desk to ask whether she could have another newspaper delivered to her door.
'Sure,' I said with my professional smile (which is slightly wider than my ordinary one and comes with an incline of the neck). 'Is there anything else you need?'
'No,' she said lightly, then she frowned. 'Well . . . actually . . . Kitty has been asking whether there's a decent gym in the area.'
'Oh? I thought you did the Induction at our health complex yesterday?'
Kat sucked in her cheeks and made a number of her trademark comedy faces, although there didn't seem to be a punchline at the end this time.
'Yeah,' she said at last. 'That's the problem.'
I regarded her from lowered brows, hoping my silence would tease a confidence from her. It didn't.
'Problem?' I finally said. 'Lincoln will be mortified. He prides himself on his . . . track record.'
Kat barked with laughter. 'So I see. He's quite impressive in action, isn't he? Look, it's not a complaint as such, so please don't treat it as one, but he's a bit . . . predatory, isn't he?'
'Many bear the scars of his cross-training techniques,' I told her. She smiled. She was warming to me. Now I needed the dirt.
'I mean, I expected him to come on to Kitty. Everybody does. She takes offence if they don't, frankly. And if the guy is good-looking enough, she'll usually grant her favours. Lincoln is good-looking enough. And that's all I'm going to say.'
'Message received and understood,' I told her. 'But if Kitty likes him . . . why does she want another gym?'
'Oh, that's not her – it's me. He came on to me, straight after. I mean, what is that about? I don't care if he's Adonis himself, I don't want to shag him.'
'You don't? Well, that's fair enough. I think he can take no for an answer.'
But then I had to rethink. Actually, can he? Has he ever? Has anyone ever rejected his advances?
'I'm not sure he can,' Kat echoed my inner voice. 'He seems like a guy who has never had to work for it in his life. And I can see why – he has the six-pack and the lunchbox; he only needs a tartan groundsheet to be the perfect picnic set.'
Ah, a meadow of wildflowers, a bottle of champagne and Lincoln . . . I drifted off for a moment, brought back by Kat's clicking fingers.
'Tell you what,' she said. 'Could you have a word with him? Tell him he's welcome to Kitty, as long as she can still totter on to the set, but he can lay off me. I'm not interested and I'm not worth it. Would you do that for me? And then I can go back to the gym.'
'OK,' I said. 'I'll try.'
And I did. I did try. But Lincoln did not believe me. He a
ccused me of jealousy in the first instance and then he decided to see it as a challenge.
'Link, she doesn't want you,' I said, gesturing wildly in my frustration. 'Move on. She isn't even your type.'
'She is my type,' he insisted bullishly. 'And if she wants to play hard-to-get, I can do that.'
I shook my head. 'I don't fancy your chances,' I said frankly. 'Sexual harassment isn't attractive.'
'That's pretty funny coming from you,' he said rudely, leaving me to gasp and slam my clipboard on the desk as he strutted off. I shrugged. He would learn, one way or the other. Either that he was truly irresistible, or that he wasn't. I was rather hoping for the latter.
Kitty and Kat were booked in for six weeks, and over the course of that time, something happened to Lincoln. He de-swaggered, unpreened, lost a few peacock feathers. Everybody noticed it, but nobody knew what was causing this decline. Nobody except Kat, who told me the whole story later.
On the day after their Induction, Kitty and Kat visited the gym together before breakfast. Lincoln well understood the maxim that the early bird catches the worm, so even at six thirty he was presiding magnificently over his domain.
Kat made an unobtrusive start on a treadmill, while Kitty fussed and flustered over the settings on her static cycle. 'Oh, Lincoln,' she cooed helplessly. 'I don't understand the digital thingy. Can you help me?'
Kitty's firm thighs and calves still ached from the wheelbarrow-style banging Lincoln had given her the day before. The cycle saddle was unforgiving on her sore quim, but there was no way she was equal to running or stepping, so it seemed the lesser evil. When Lincoln bent to adjust the setting, Kitty's trainer toe glided up the back of his track-suited calf, coming to rest in the crease at the back of his knee.
'Thanks, big boy,' she simpered. Kat looked on in mild disgust. 'Big boy' indeed. Who did Kitty think she was, Marilyn Monroe? Actually, she probably did. Her blondeness might not be real, but her dizziness certainly was.
Lincoln, far from joining in with Kitty's flirtatious game, stood up stiffly and said, 'No problem,' before retiring into his office. Kat watched her comedy partner's face drop and felt a stab of sympathy. Lincoln was a louse, perhaps even a louse with a spouse. Shame Kitty hadn't managed to squeeze a diamond or two from him before finding out.
'Are you OK, Kit?' she asked, a touch puffily, from the treadmill.
'Fine,' said Kitty, the untruth of it almost tangible.
'We can use another gym if you like.'
'Don't fuss! It's nothing!' Kitty began to pedal maniacally. Kat sighed and returned to her pounding rhythm. Lincoln, she perceived after a minute or two, was watching her from the doorway. Watching her. Not watching Kitty's tight glutes as they strained on the exercycle, but her strapping thighs as they wobbled in a smart run. Not watching Kitty's becoming flush, but her patchy sweaty cheeks. Not admiring Kitty's second Lycra skin, but her baggy Editors tour T-shirt and fading trackie bottoms. What would a man like Lincoln want with a girl like Kat?
Kat was no idiot, and she worked out somewhere between his hint of a smile and his almost-wink that what he wanted was the conquest – it was nothing to do with her at all.
Well, he would not have it, she vowed. No amount of cheeky glints or sly touches or insincere flattery was going to land her on Lincoln's exercise mats.
'Let me help you with those weights, baby,' he rumbled.
'Your leg needs to be a bit further back, baby, let me show you,' he advised, closing his grip on Kat's thigh.
'Boy, your shoulders need unknotting,' he opined, placing heavy hands at the back of her neck.
She wriggled away. 'I'm fine. I'll book a massage if I need one.'
This dance of mock-courtship continued all week long. Kitty forgot about him and threw herself into a romance with the third assistant director instead, getting enough exercise in bed to allow a little slacking on the gym front. But Kat was enjoying the chase and continued to frequent Lincoln's kingdom, deflecting his attentions with skill and ingenuity.
'Are you married?' he finally asked bluntly at the start of the second week of filming.
'No, Lincoln, I'm single. Are you?'
Lincoln filled two paper cups with water from the cooler and handed her one.
'I sure am, baby. Until you say the word.'
'Lincoln, you can stop bullshitting me. I know what you're about. You just want to be able to say you've shagged Kitty and Kat. You're not the first and you won't be the last. But I'm not a trophy, so give it up.'
She looked at him expectantly, a little regretful to be ending the game. She could not deny that she had enjoyed his onslaught of attention, and his touch did bring the prickles up on the back of her neck. All good things had to end though.
Lincoln made a face of disbelief, shaking his head. 'Kat, baby, you know that's not true! I'm no kiss and tell merchant, I've got more class than that.'
'No, Lincoln, I don't think you'd kiss and tell. You'd just know. It would make you happy, for about ten seconds, until the next challenge came along.'
'I'd be lying if I told you I couldn't make your nastiest dreams come true, baby,' drawled Lincoln, inflaming Kat's senses despite herself. 'But I like you as a person, Kat. I'd like to get to know you . . . really get to know you. And I'd like you to get to know me.'
'Would I be the first?' asked Kat drily, trying not to feel too flattered. She had to keep her head around this man.
'You know, you just might be,' said Lincoln thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, he said emphatically. 'Hey, lady, you think you've got me pegged, but I am going to prove you wrong! Let me take you out. A date, no strings. You think I'm a gigolo but I want to show you who Lincoln Van Demeter III really is!'
'The third?' said Kat, cocking her head to one side. 'You mean there are two more of you?'
Lincoln chuckled. 'The world couldn't take more than one Lincoln Van Demeter III,' he said.
'You know, I think you're right. Let me get back to you about the date. I'd better change and get on set. See ya.'
Kat hopped off with a cheery little wave, considering Lincoln's proposition. A date. Dinner and conversation. Would he settle for that? If he would, then perhaps she might be tempted . . . No. She really shouldn't. He was so very arrogant, it would simply fuel his monstrous ego. But then again . . . he was so handsome. And he was fun. He would be good company. And Kitty was never off her back since taking up with that director boy.
Thus it was that Kat found herself staring into Lincoln's eyes across a circle of white linen interrupted by a slim vase containing a single rose stem.
'Do you come here often?' she asked politely, one eye on her escort, the other on the menu.
'Not really.' He sat back expansively, creasing the sharp white suit he had worn for the occasion.
'The women fall into bed with you that quickly?'
'Hey. I just don't usually do restaurants, OK?'
'I'm not letting you pay. We split the bill. No obligations, no guilt-tripping.'
'You ever heard of romance?'
'You ever heard of feminism?'
'Damn, I was hoping that was just a rumour.'
They smirked at each other, the awkwardness passing, and ordered the food.
'So what was wrong with Kitty?' asked Kat pointedly, her mouth set in a straight line.
'Man, she's beautiful,' sighed Lincoln, 'but I just didn't feel her. Do you know what I mean?'
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