by Cook, Lori
His choice of home-base for the biggest event in the financial and commercial life of Strange Tech was the Trump International.
“Pathetic!” she told herself as she arrived at the bottom corner of Central Park, looked up, and saw Trump Tower in all its shiny, overbearing vulgarity.
She’d walked up from Times Square, leaving the Marriot behind, which, although not the city’s most spectacular hotel, held the very best memories for her. It had not only been where she stayed when she had first set foot in the US, but where she had first known the touch of a man.
She walked into the lobby of Trump International, admiring her brand-new hairstyle in the many available mirrors. It was a blond bob and it suited her pretty well, she thought. It was also exactly right for Sandra Wells, the name under which she now checked in.
As she did so, the crushingly powerful air-conditioning reminded her that the life-defining decision she had made ten years ago had been the right one. Since then her existence had been glamorous beyond her wildest dreams, most of it spent in the very best, most thoroughly air-conditioned hotels in the world. There was a streak of self-centeredness in her, and she had never tried to conceal the fact from herself: she loved her life, she loved herself, and she wouldn’t change it for anything. Or anyone. That, at least, is what she thought.
Meanwhile, Jason’s future had not turned out quite so well, his hopes long since withered, his talent exploited and stolen from him. But now, as if to compensate for losing him, and for everything that had happened to the poor guy, a strikingly attractive blond called Sandra Wells was going to take Alex Strange down, quite literally.
She looked around the lobby, still appalled by the place. Alex Strange was about to become richer and more powerful than could easily be imagined, yet this was the kind of statement he was making about his approaching mega-wealth? Trump International! It seemed so uncreative, so undeserving, like he almost wanted someone to burst his bubble...
After about an hour hanging around in the lobby, she saw him come through the front doors. She’d seen him before, ten years ago, just a glimpse of a young, white-haired man in the Marriot. He had the same short-cropped white hair now, and a fabulously attractive woman at his side.
The white hair was still a real attention-grabber (is he an albino? people asked themselves when they first saw Alex Strange; and, inevitably, what about his pubes? are they the same snowy white?). The woman by his side was also getting a considerable amount of attention as the couple made their way through the lobby. Her name was Sai Boynes, Alex Strange’s current girlfriend. She was a mystery, almost nothing known about her, other than she was about the luckiest girl in the world.
Even the Cardinal had failed to unearth very much information on Ms. Boynes. From a comfortable American-Vietnamese family of business people, she had left UCLA after one term as an Anthropology major. Nominally a model, she had never in fact been known to have worked as such, and her only previous known relationship had been with a fellow student back in college.
As the happy couple made their way toward the elevators, Carol followed, slipping in behind them just as the doors closed.
When she’d made her reservation, she’d wanted to be as close to Strange as possible. It wasn’t imperative, but it would be convenient, a convincing means of luring him in. She had not booked a concierge suite, though. Her instincts told her that Alex Strange wouldn’t want some sycophantic guy in a suit hanging about outside the door desperate to get you more towels. He wouldn’t want men doing things for him; Alex Strange was not like that.
She was right. They pressed for the floor below hers. It was a suite, but no concierge. The three of them rode the elevator in silence. The two women looked each other over in the way that women will, casually but critically. And they did it openly, almost ironically, amused and restrained, there in the close proximity of the elevator, as if it was a game.
It only took a few seconds, but there was a spark, a moment’s deep and unmistakable understanding between them. They both knew right away that something had been communicated, although neither of them knew exactly what. Meanwhile, the man next to them was oblivious, wrapped up in his own thoughts. And that just was fine, for now.
Sai Boynes was in her twenties, tall and athletic, with a face which came so close to perfect beauty that people regularly stared out of disbelief, as if it might have been a mask, or the face of a Renaissance sculpture. As for the rest of Ms. Boynes, her body was young and taught, a body that seemed to yearn to be devoured, yet also announced itself as being utterly untouchable. There was an aloofness to her, something that was intended to set her apart, something majestic and unattainable. Carol saw through the pretence immediately. The aloofness wouldn’t last. It never did.
As they left the elevator, Ms. Boynes glanced back behind her, just for an instant. It was enough. Her resolve vanished, replaced by a desire to find out exactly who the blond woman in the elevator was, and what she wanted.
With that they were gone, the billionaire and his lover, back to the dull luxury of their trumped-up suite. Carol watched as the elevator doors came slowly together again. She was also intrigued. But first there was the matter of Alex Strange. First impressions had confirmed what she already knew about him. And she knew quite a lot.
Strange was media-shy, avoiding cameras wherever he could, never giving interviews, and leading a life that was completely devoid of the trappings of the super-rich. The New York Times described him as discreet and infinitely modest, with no skeletons in the cupboard and no bad habits. A coterie of the most expensive defamation lawyers in the country helped to maintain this pristine reputation. Over the years, nothing with even the suggestion of impropriety had been published about the founder of Strange Tech.
This wasn’t just a matter of looking good, either. His software was used by some of the most security-conscious organizations on the planet, and a squeaky clean image gave him a competitive edge, especially when defense contracts and other publically financed initiatives were involved. Also, there was some truth behind it. He had never been known to take drugs, even back in college, he had no interest in politics, and he had no links whatsoever to anybody other than his clients and the faceless coders who worked for him. The only even remotely interesting character trait was a photographic memory, hardly unique among the world’s technological elite.
However, you don’t get to the point of floating your multi-billion dollar business without the kind of scrutiny that goes way beyond a profile in the Times. Several government security agencies held files on him, as did a number of private security firms, all eager to build-up their intelligence on major industrial players.
Of the dozen or so confidential reports that the Cardinal had managed to procure, Carol had read with particular interest about the very selective nature of Alex Strange’s sexual behavior. He had never been known to pick up women, and never mixed business with pleasure, and had no known kinks. Not only had he never had a relationship with a work colleague—not even fleetingly—he was in fact rarely seen out with women at all. Yet he was known to be at least interested in sex. He was also rumored to be short-tempered and intolerant of mediocrity. Finally, he had an extraordinarily high opinion of himself.
The dearth of a long-term partner for Alex Strange had been interrupted by the appearance of Ms. Sai Boynes. After remaining at the great man’s side for more than six months, it was assumed that she would become Mrs. Alex Strange some time after Strange Tech went public. The financial papers had begun to note, in those six months, that Strange had acquired what they called a permanent consort.
The analysis went on and on, and Carol read it all. Security agencies like to have a corruptibility rating for business leaders, an estimation of the extent to which a person is liable to be compromised by his choice of sexual partners, how probable it is that he or she might let their guard down at a crucial and potentially disastrous moment, foiled by their own lust. The verdict on Alex Strange was simple and consi
stent: he could not be seduced.
But as Carol got back to her own suite and stripped for a shower, she reckoned she had already seen a way of getting around that one.
Chapter Nineteen
The wives and girlfriends of rich men spend a great deal of their time doing two things: shopping and waiting around for their rich men. Carol had observed this again and again over the years, hanging out in the very best hotels on five continents and developing a keen eye for how the world’s most privileged people pass their time.
Other than trips to the shops, and dinner at the inevitable trophy restaurant in the evening, these women tend to spend most of their time in their hotels. They invariably put in serious time at the gym, and work their way through the pamper-menu as if the idea of missing out on a mud facial or a Thai massage is simply unthinkable.
However, what they don’t do—ever—is prop up the hotel’s lobby bar on their own. So when Carol ventured down for an early evening drink to find Sai Boynes already there, twiddling the stick in her Perrier and lime and looking bored, there was little doubt as to her reasons for being there.
“Oh, hi,” Carol said, the space of a single barstool between them.
Sai smiled, as if Carol’s casual tone, and the suggestion that they were meeting there by chance, amused her.
“So,” Sai said, sitting perfectly upright on her stool and dropping the amused expression, “what brings you to New York? I’m Sai, by the way.”
Carol introduced herself as Sandra, and ordered a martini.
“Would you believe it, something fantastically boring: work.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’m a lawyer. It sucks but it pays.” She raised a hand, as if showing off the decor of the bar. “As you can see.”
Sai took a sip of her water, considered what Carol had said. Then:
“Is it worth it?”
“What, the boredom of legal work in exchange for five-star luxury?”
“I guess that’s what I meant, yeah.”
Carol shifted on her stool. She had her story all worked out, but she didn’t want to seem too keen to share, not just yet.
“I would say so. I mean, I work on some interesting stuff. It’s just that for every interesting idea, there’s several very uninteresting contracts to scrutinize, and amend, and...”
She let it tail off.
Sai said nothing, but made it clear that she was in fact interested in hearing more.
“OK,” Carol continued, “so I work on cases of plagiarism, mainly music. Sampling? It’s a legal minefield. They sample stuff and never even tell the company where they got it from. Then, when the claim comes in, the record companies throw a million lawyers at it.”
“Any big names?”
“Nah. I work out of our Hong Kong office. Latest case was a German electro group from the eighties. Claimed they’d been ripped off by a Korean rapper twenty years later.”
“And you defended him?”
“Me? Oh, no. I work the other side. I try and prove plagiarism. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, but I guess you do get to talk to musicians, technicians, sound experts, that kind of thing, so it’s not all dull... Anyway, how about you?”
Sai exhaled deeply.
“I’ve just spent the last couple months traveling, I mean, from city to city, hotel to hotel.”
“Sounds grueling.”
“It is. Do you know the thing I can never get used to? The pillows!”
“Really!”
Sai suddenly broke out into what seemed like a genuine grin.
“I mean, they’re all good pillows, obviously. But somehow I can’t get used to a different one every few nights. My neck aches like hell. I need a massage.”
Carol thought for a moment, nodding in agreement.
“I just had one in my room, couple of hours ago. It wasn’t that great.”
“Oh, I was about to get one. Perhaps I won’t bother.”
“The irony is,” Carol added, “I’m a fully trained masseuse.”
“A lawyer and a masseuse?”
“I know!” she said. “Talk about a weird CV.”
She took a drink of her martini.
“You know, if you wanted, I could...”
Sai was already on her feet.
*
The curtains were drawn in the bedroom of Carol’s room, which was in fact a modest suite, the smallest two-room available, in keeping with her profile as a low-ranking lawyer from the music business.
“We’re gonna do this properly, right?” said Sai, standing there, confident, elegant, completely at home in the surroundings.
“Yes,” Carol replied. “You’ll need to slip out of your clothes.”
Their conversation was matter of fact, utterly devoid of any sexual charge. It was as if the two of them were above playing games, and only one thing mattered. Yet it was more than that, as if they’d agreed implicitly that this would be purely transactional, a cold, hard-headed operation between two adults, the very lack of any sort of seduction a turn-on. Seduction without seduction: a first for Carol.
Sai let her thin black pants and top fall to the floor, not bothering to pick them up. She stood there, in a plain black satin bra and a black g-string. For a second Carol had to stifle the desire to stare, such was the almost shocking symmetry and poise of Sai’s body. She was slim, but with the evidence of just enough muscle to give her an electric vibrancy. And her breasts, pert and full at the same time, were more than a match even for Carol’s.
It was the first time that Carol had ever felt so profoundly jealous of another woman’s body, and those pangs of jealousy were tempered only by the knowledge that she was at least going to touch and enjoy the full extent of Sai’s perfection.
“God,” Sai said, “I’m ready for this.”
She got onto the bed and lay face down, arranging the pillows on either side of her head and getting herself comfy.
Carol watched, and just for a moment a doubt entered her mind. Was Sai only interested in a massage? Had she misread the messages? There she was, the fine line of her g-string splitting her fabulous ass, the cheeks as tanned as they rest of her, two mounds of unblemished flesh that cried out to be caressed and stroked. But was that what Sai wanted?
“You don’t have any oil, do you?” Sai said, reaching behind her back and unclasping her bra.
“Yes, it’s in the bathroom,” said Carol, almost sprinting out of the room.
When she returned, she saw Sai’s bra tossed carelessly onto the floor and her g-string with it. The sight made her gulp, a sudden storm of butterflies in her stomach. She had an aching desire for this woman, and it was sending her momentarily dizzy. No, she hadn’t been mistaken; the two of them were here for one reason only.
Slowly, as if savoring the vision of Sai Boynes, naked and prone on her bed, Carol knelt down beside her.
Immediately Sai’s hand reached for Carol, tugging at her clothes.
“Don’t get your things stained with the oil,” she said, like a mom scolding her daughter.
“Oh, yes. Right, I forgot.”
But she hadn’t. She simply wanted to be sure. Whatever else she had to do while she was here in the Trump International, and however much she wanted to avenge the injustice of what had happened to Jason all those years back, she also wanted this woman. And she wanted her badly.
In a second Carol’s clothes were in a pile next to Sai’s on the floor, and she returned to the bed, opened the bottle of oil, and let it trickle into the small of Sai’s back.
Her skin was smooth, and the oil spread across it easily. Carol ran her palms up and down Sai’s back, oiling her lightly, up around the balls of the shoulders, then increasing the pressure a little as she ran her hands all the way down on either side of her spine.
Carol was kneeling beside her, leaning low as she moved up and down the torso, gradually letting her hands work around the sides, her finger tips caressing Sai’s armpits and the very edge of her bre
asts, before moving down to the base of her spine and working the muscles on either side of the vertebrae. The thing was, Carol really was a qualified masseuse, and although she loved to get a good massage, when the body was this good, she actually preferred giving it.
So now, as Sai’s entire torso shone in the half-light of the room, its contours like the rolling hills of some hardly unimaginable erotic paradise, Carol found herself trembling. She poured a little more oil into her hands, trying to remain calm, but feeling a hard knot of delicious anxiety inside her, something more than expectation, as if this really was too much, that the woman lying there to receive her every touch could not have been more perfect in a dream, a wild, wet and ridiculously horny dream.
She let her oily palms sit on those buttocks, which twitched every so slightly. Sai shuffled fractionally, but did not ease her legs apart; that, Carol knew, would be her job, to coax Sai’s body open, part of the game.
So she began to make small circular movements with her hands, watching the butt cheeks as she pulled them slowly and carefully apart, sensing that Sai was a patient lover, but a pliant one: the stillness of her body, the lack of any overt willingness, was her way of letting Carol have her fill. She wanted to be explored, and taken.
Carol now shifted until she was kneeling on Sai’s calves, letting her own naked crotch brush the skin on the back of Sai’s legs, as she dug a little deeper into the dual mounds of Sai’s ass. She squeezed and separated the cheeks, and saw the darkened ring peeping out at her, then disappearing again, as if it was winking. But beneath it, down between the legs, which were almost together, she couldn’t make out anything.
Her hands worked the flesh harder, but still Sai made no attempt to separate her legs. The oil had turned the flesh of her ass slippery, and it moved easily in Carol’s fingers. And as she kneaded and stroked, she resisted the urge to run a finger right down the crack and tickle the butt hole. She wanted to wait, to take Sai beyond her playful passivity to a point at which she couldn’t help herself.