And Helê. I wanted generous compensation for her. As far as I was concerned, Luis had died to keep his wife’s country safe. He was a hero in my book. Fine, said Hodd. He would make sure the Brazilian government knew of the sacrifice made by Luis Antunes. Then I learned why Hodd was being so decent.
“Your methodology confuses any standard appraisal of your talents, but one can’t argue with the results,’ he said.
Jeez. Still a trademark insult salting the compliment.
“There could be a place for you with—’
“No, no, no—’
“I wish you would let me finish, Teresa.’
Huh. Used my first name. I guess we’d made a breakthrough in rapport.
“I’m well aware you’re not the kind of person who could work for us full-time, but we do have freelance positions for outside contractors.’
“I’ll mull it over,’ I said. “And I’ll get back to you, Des.’
Yeah, right. I had got my fill of spy stuff. Not interested in any more for the time being, thank you very much.
Do I have to tell you none of this ever made the papers? Not on your life. There was conspiracy chatter on the Web, of course. I do know from Hodd that Her Majesty’s Gov ernment gave a sincere if secret apology to Brazil for the whole mess and MI6’s involvement.
The arms dealer, Bassam Qabbani, was found dead, shot through the back of the skull in a São Paulo hotel room. No one was quite sure if his murder was True Base vengeance, a bit of Hezbollah justice, or the remainders of Ferreira’s gang wanting to take out their frustration on somebody.
Through some Byzantine rules to do with immunity and intelligence operations that neither Graham nor I understood, Cameron Haskell couldn’t be prosecuted, only sacked. No sooner had Haskell left Brazil with his brand-new limp than he had quickly been accepted as a high-ranking executive at Orpheocon.
It wasn’t over. If the board of directors at Orpheocon didn’t like me before…Oh, boy.
Hodd said he received a brief e-mail from of all people, Simon Highsmith, who in his usual mysterious ways got the latest news about me. “He told me the same thing he told you—that Brazil is a kind of test case. I’m not sure I can believe him. It’s too incredible.’
“Well, test case for what?’ I asked.
Hodd was pensive. “He says… He claimed that Orph -eocon is planning something like that coup attempt to take over Equatorial Guinea a few years ago—you remember, the one where Margaret Thatcher’s son was involved.’
“In Guinea?’
“No, no, not there,’ said Hodd, and his face turned grim. “Simon said he couldn’t name the place on-line, his Net connection wasn’t safe, but… Orpheocon wants to do it. They actually want to acquire their own country. Some where in Africa, they’re planning to take over—a coup d’état. But we don’t know when or how.’
♦
Graham’s work was done here in Brazil, and presumably, he would get the order soon to return to his posting in Africa. I know what you’re thinking. I’ve never sacrificed for anyone. You’re right. It’s always been me first, chasing cases, jetting around on somebody else’s tab. And despite the romance and adventure, an admission of love offered to a bunch of thugs (and not really said to me, if you want to get technical) shouldn’t be enough to disrupt your whole life. When the words are said properly and in the right moment, they’re a promise, and they only become a seal given enough time—you’ve got to see if they stick. Plus I wasn’t sure if I fancied the idea of watching someone else gallivant around while I stayed on the sidelines. Not my style.
On the other hand, despite Hodd patching things up for me, I was quite bitter about the whole terrorist label and being hunted across Europe. Serve ‘em right if I stayed in exile and published some defiant account somewhere of what actually happened.
Oh, yeah, and what about Daddy and Isaac? And my other friends, and lazy days at the climbing gym in Sutton and workout nights at the dojo, and laughing over the latest sex scandal with Helena in Richmond—she always got the best dirt.
I had to let Graham go.
Enjoy the time you still have together. That’s what you do.
Hodd’s cell rang, and as I moved reflexively away to give him privacy, he gestured for me to come back.
“No, no, it’s for you. Someone wants to thank you.’
“I’m tired, Hodd, and I should go check on Graham—’
“Teresa, I think Graham can wait. How often do you take a call from the Prime Minister?’
♦
Days later, I watched my man sleep, the blackish purple bruises on his ribs fading, his breathing growing easier as he healed. By habit, he slept nude, and since we gave the air-conditioning a break, the sheet was pulled back. He lay there, on innocent display, and I took in the sight of his wide mahogany chest, as smooth as his shaved head, lifting with each quiet breath, hands burrowed under the pillow. I studied his powerful thighs and calf muscles. God, he was gorgeous. My fingers reached out and slid along the curves of his tight ass, rounding to his legs, feeling him like he was a sculpture left here to mark some solemn memory for me. In a way, he did. A terrible time I thought I was alone and wasn’t.
I watched him dream, caressing his leg. His penis stirred, and I realized he was becoming aroused dreaming. I felt myself getting wet, seeing him like this, and I slipped off my panties and crept onto the bed so as not to wake him. Gently, ever so gently, my mouth closed over his cock and sucked him in long soft strokes. The head twitched in my mouth, and he got harder, his shaft swelling to its impressive length. I cupped his balls in my hand, and then he was a steel rod between my lips. He groaned, and his eyes opened.
“Sorry,’ I said, taking my mouth off him. “You just looked so … Lie back, baby.’
He did. I put him inside me and lay on top of him. We made love as if in slow motion, kissing slowly, everything done slowly, the caress of his hands on my breasts and gripping my buttocks, so that we became hyper-aware of the rustle of the crisp sheets, any shift of weight on the mattress. There was a mirror in the bedroom, and as I glanced across at our reflection, I grew even more aroused by the sight of our bodies profiled in our embrace. The first time we’d made love there had been a mirror too. Back in the nightclub. We looked good together. I laughed and told him how after all this—after my editing porn movies and the charade in the middle of the night with his sex tape— hey, I felt like fetching my digital camera and filming us doing it. What I really want to do is direct, I joked.
We held each other tight, and he barely had to move inside me. An invisible dial turned down the sounds of outside. There was still the heat in this room with the lights off, the heat of two bodies wrapped together, and the infinitesimal progression of his bar of flesh into my pussy, an achingly long retreat only to begin the advance again. Stroking his face and looking into his brown eyes, the pads of his fingers tracing a route down my spine. His teeth nibbled the curve of my neck, and my orgasm snuck up on me like a burglar.
He got on top of me. He moved inside me a little faster but only a little, making it last. In the mirror, in the perfectly directed scene of my mental movie, the African girl opened her mouth wide and gasped as the tall, gorgeous black man, with his beautiful toned build, lifted himself and thrust. And thrust again slowly. A flex of muscles, a subtle glimpse of his thick organ disappearing into her, her fingers splayed on the slope of his dark ass. She gasps. It’s beautiful, missionary sex in profile, if you look properly, the feminine curve of a woman’s parted legs, her knees up, the posture of the man holding her, or just his arms pressing to lift his weight. Another thrust, and mmm, fingers grip his ass tighter. It’s so long, this shot with the camera steadily advancing in for a more intimate portrait, because they look good together. They fit. When the African girl comes, she has tears in her eyes again as she lifts her head and bites his neck, overcome with ecstasy.
My burglar orgasm turned into a steady exquisite invasion …
♦
I called London the next day.
“Well, you’re respectable again,’ said Helena.
“Was I ever?’
“Trying to be kind, darling. My point is your friend Carl Norton is making the rounds, filling us all in. It’s all sorted. Your name never got mentioned, but they were showing your flat every hour on the news, so now there are stories about how it was all a mistake and so on. Charges dropped, and those nasty people decided they had to defrost my assets. Creeps! I’m not sure if I should test that waiver you got me. But at least it’s over. Carl says the murderer died in Rio—is that right?’
“Yes, it’s true,’ I answered, feeling numb for an instant. “It’s a long, convoluted tale. Porn, terrorism, greed—’
“And sex, please tell me there’s sex.’
“Oh, yes. Plenty.’
“That’s my girl!’ laughed Helena. “We are going to celebrate. I’m having a party in your honor at the house—I’ll make it two days after your flight so the jet lag won’t spoil it for you. Leave all the details to me—thanks to this debacle, I now have contact numbers for your friend, Jiro, and a dozen other people you always talk about and I’ve never met. You can give us the whole saga when you get home.’
Plane ticket sitting on the coffee table. I needed to put it away in my handbag.
“Helena,’ I said nervously, not sure how to say what I needed to tell her.
Graham walked into the room, passing behind the sofa and idly taking my hand. I kissed his fingers as he leaned in to nuzzle my neck. Then he went on with what he was doing. Packing. He boasted it took him literally five minutes to pack, and my counter to that was: Of course, it does, you’re a guy—you don’t carry as much as we do.
I got up with the cordless receiver and walked to the balcony, enjoying the view of the bay. I felt strong enough to say it now, but Helena was my closest friend in Britain, and it would hurt.
“Teresa?’
It would be even harder when I called Daddy and then Isaac.
“Helena, I’m not coming home.’
Girl’s got a right to change her mind.
The ticket on the coffee table was for my seat next to Graham’s—business class to Johannesburg. I was going with him back to Africa.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LISA LAWRENCE lives and works in London as a freelance writer, contributing to newspapers and various women’s magazines. She blames an early boyfriend for inspiring her to write fiction after he regularly dragged her into the West End’s various bookshops for mysteries, science fiction, and comics. She went looking for erotica all on her own. Her first novel, also featuring Teresa Knight, was Strip Poker.
SEXILE
A Delta Trade Paperback / February 2009
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2009 by Lisa Lawrence
Delta is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,
and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lawrence, Lisa.
Sexile / Lisa Lawrence.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33835-2
1. Sex-oriented businesses—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6112.A989S49 2009
823’.92—dc22
2008037651
www.bantamdell.com
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