by Lulu Taylor
‘You know your business, Mr McCorquodale,’ Mitch said, smiling, as he followed suit, dipping his foccacia into the balsamic vinegar and oil. ‘And you obviously love it as well.’
‘Of course. I couldn’t devote my life to it if I didn’t love it.’
‘Let’s order. I’m hungry.’
David started with grilled polenta served with mushrooms and thyme, while Mitch had pea and prosciutto soup. Then they each had a small amount of fresh tagliatelle, dressed very simply with truffle oil and well-aged Parmesan.
‘Delicious!’ pronounced David. ‘I really am impressed. Your chef is good. I must think about stealing him for Colette’s.’
‘Please don’t,’ Mitch said with a smile.
They talked about food, restaurants and the industry, all very cordial and always avoiding any mention of themselves, over pan-roasted pigeon stuffed with cotechino sausage for David and simple grilled sea bass with fennel for Mitch.
‘No, no pudding, thank you. Well, that was an excellent meal,’ David said happily as their plates were removed. ‘I do feel so glad when that happens. It’s one of life’s ineffable pleasures. I love parties, and I love good food and wine. How lucky that I’ve been able to turn those things into my living.’
‘And still do.’
‘Still do.’ David sighed slightly. ‘Up to a point. I expect you’re wondering why I asked to meet you.’
‘I was a little curious,’ Mitch replied. Now we get to the heart of the matter. I bet you didn’t come just to sample my balsamic vinegar … ‘I supposed you wanted to tell me to my face what your niece said to me the other night.’
David frowned. ‘What? What did she say? Allegra met you?’
‘Well, yes. I would have thought you’d know about it.’
‘No.’ The old man’s expression turned icy. ‘I didn’t.’ He clenched his fists and his knuckles turned white. ‘It seems I don’t know much these days.’
‘I offered to buy Colette’s and the other clubs,’ Mitch said easily, watching the other man’s expression with interest. ‘But, of course, she turned me down.’
‘Did she? On whose authority, I wonder?’
‘She was sure it was what you’d want, sir.’ Mitch spoke carefully. He wasn’t sure where this was going. Why was the old man so angry with his niece?
‘So sure she didn’t need even to consult me!’ David’s face had flushed dark pink. He leant towards Mitch, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘This is what I have to put up with! I’m undermined at every step! And those dens of smut she’s opening …’
Mitch raised his eyebrows, astonished though he didn’t show it. He’d assumed that the old man wanted to turn him down to his face. But if what he was saying was true, then this could be just the opportunity he’d been looking for … ‘I thought Oscar’s was a fine and innovative place. Something you could be very proud of.’
‘But it’s nothing like what I dreamed of! It’s full of celebrities, the members are obsessed by the famous, and they’re letting in anyone who wants to join! It’s not true to my ethos … my vision. For me, my clubs are places for friends to gather, to be among like-minded people. Not tacky pick-up joints for actors and actresses, or footballers and pop stars.’
How ironic, Mitch thought. Allegra’s only doing what David himself did all those years ago, when he broke new ground and turned away from the older generation and towards the younger. But he can’t see it. He’s a fool. She’s his only hope.
‘No!’ The old man’s eyes bulged with fury. ‘She’s betraying me and destroying my company. I should never have asked her to join me. And here’s the thing … If this is the way things are going, I would rather no McCorquodale be associated with Colette’s ever again! I would rather a complete stranger had it than that one of my family should bastardise it.’
There was a pause while Mitch absorbed the inference behind David’s words. Then he said quietly, ‘Are you saying you’re willing to sell the clubs to me?’
His guest said shortly, ‘Perhaps. I’m considering it, let’s put it that way. What’s your offer?’
Mitch said, ‘What’s your price?’
‘A hundred million. For all three. With Astor House completed.’
Mitch whistled lightly. ‘That’s quite a price.’
‘And there’s a condition. You must promise to keep Colette’s just as I have made it, and to bring Oscar’s and Astor House into line with my vision. Would you do that?’
Mitch fought to control himself. Elation was coursing through him. He wanted to punch the air in triumph. Yes! I can’t believe it! It’s fallen into my lap! His mouth twitched with the effort of keeping a broad smile from appearing. ‘Sir, I can assure you that I would maintain everything you created in just the way you’d want it maintained.’
David fixed him with a steely glare. ‘I think you would. I believe I can trust you. Allegra is trying to oust me, to take over my most precious possessions. She must learn that what I have given, I can easily take away.’
‘Sir,’ Mitch said, a gleam in his eye, ‘that is quite a harsh lesson.’
‘Well, I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’m still thinking about it. Send me whatever you think will convince me.’
The minute David had left, after promises to meet again soon, Mitch was on the phone to his lawyer. ‘I need you to draft documentation to buy the David McCorquodale Group. He’s asking for a hundred million so I want you to start work right away on due diligence and valuing the assets, OK? I want to know everything about the clubs, right down to the cost of the mustard pots. But I’ll tell you this: he could ask two hundred million and get it, if that’s what it takes. This is sweet, my man, very, very sweet.’
When he’d finished that call he took his phone outside and made another, where he could be absolutely sure of not being heard.
‘Listen, it has to be done as soon as possible. The time is right. Go now. It will never be better than this.’
Chapter 56
THE HOUSE JUST off Green Park was lit by thousands of candelabra, which was perhaps a little dangerous considering the amount of silk wafting about, but plenty of staff were on hand to make sure that the flickering candle flames were kept well out of the way of swishing skirts. The party, given by an ambassador to celebrate one of his country’s important anniversaries, was in full swing.
It was already late when Romily arrived so there was no one to make a fuss of her, which was exactly how she’d planned it. She checked her reflection in a full-length mirror in the marble hall. This dress was one of her particular favourites of the season. Marchesa always made gowns she loved, and this was no exception: a dream of crimson silk chiffon, halter-necked with a ruffled collar, a plunging V-neck and a waterfall of ruffles running down the front. It floated around her, making her feel feather light as she walked through the black-and-white marble entrance hall, greeting friends and nodding to acquaintances. The party was full of familiar faces – friends from all over Europe – but she didn’t want to stop. She knew exactly where she was going.
She walked easily through the large rooms with their polished parquet floors and huge windows. Most of the furniture had been removed, with only spindly gilt chairs lining the walls, so that the rooms were left airy and spacious. Later an orchestra was going to play and there would be dancing, but for now people were still emerging from the dining room.
Romily stopped to talk to her hostess, who was dripping with diamonds and dressed from head to foot in Christian Dior couture, then made her excuses and carried on her walk through the house, the crimson silk floating lightly with every step. Back in the hall she ascended the great curving staircase, greeting people as she went and murmuring, ‘Would you excuse me?’ as she pressed on, determined.
At last she came to a long, quiet corridor and went quickly along it, counting the doors as she went. When she reached the sixth she stopped, looked briefly back the way she had come, then opened it and stepped inside into the darkness, closing the doo
r behind her.
Blinking, she waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness but even then could make out nothing but shadows and dark shapes. She put her hands out in front of her and took a step forward, and the next moment she gasped in surprise as someone grabbed her wrist. ‘Hush, now,’ a man’s voice whispered close to her ear. ‘We don’t want anyone to know you’re here, do we? It’s better not to talk at all.’
Her heart began to race. The man pushed her gently back against the wall and turned her round so that she was facing what she thought must be bookshelves. He came up close behind her, pressing against her without using any force. Then he put his hands around her waist, running them up and over her breasts. After a few moments, he reached down and gathered up her silk skirts, pushing them up around her waist and revealing her bare bottom underneath, which he ran his hand over with a low moan of pleasure. He put his trousered leg between her bare thighs and prised them part.
She tried to control her breathing as he deftly dealt with his fly, and the next moment felt the head of his cock pushing against her, searching for her entrance. She was tight after so long, though she’d been smooth with juices of arousal since the moment she’d entered the room. The tip of his penis rammed against her until she felt herself slide over its head and he was in. With a hard thrust, the man went deep into her, almost lifting her off her feet. He grasped her round the waist and thrust again and then again.
She shuddered and cried out. It was so deep within her, she seemed to feel it in her belly. The man fucking her grunted with excitement, increasing the strong rhythm of his movement. She never wanted it to stop, thrilling to the sensation of him pounding up inside her. She slid a hand down to her mound, pressing down where the delicious tingling was begging her to rub and play with herself. Then, with a muffled shout, the man thrust hard and climaxed. They stood together as they were for a moment, her pussy still gripping his cock, and then he pulled gently free.
‘Thank you. That was beautiful,’ murmured her lover. She felt her skirts float back down around her legs and the warm trickle of his spending slide down her inner thigh. Then she heard his footsteps, there was a flash of light as the door opened, and the next moment she was alone in the darkness.
The driver opened the door for her and Romily climbed inside. She’d left the party as swiftly as she’d arrived, dying to get home. She was knotted inside with frustration. The experience in the darkened room had been wildly exciting, but it had left her desperate for more, eager to release the spring of lust coiled tightly inside her.
As the driver shut the car door, returned to his place and began to steer the car smoothly towards the west, she rested her head against the cool window pane, wondering how she could dampen down the heat inside her. It was all she could do not to lift her skirts right there on the back seat and bring herself to another shuddering climax.
Rocco, her bodyguard, sat in the front seat beside the driver and she glanced at his broad back, wondering for a moment if she dared ask him to perform quite another kind of service for her. She needed a man, and she needed one soon.
Damn this frustration! It’s killing me!
Back at the Notting Hill apartment she went quickly up the steps, Rocco following her as usual while the driver took the car away.
Inside, she brushed away enquiries from the housekeeper as to whether she needed anything. ‘No, no, I’m fine. I need to be alone.’ She hurried to her bedroom and from there to her bathroom, turning on the bath taps and letting the hot water gush out at full speed. She added a splash of costly bath oil and then got out of her dress, abandoning thousands of pounds worth of silk chiffon in a heap on the floor.
She unclipped her bra and tossed it on to the bed, then stood in front of her full-length chiffonier glass wearing only her silver high-heeled Jimmy Choo sandals, staring at her naked body. She ran her hand over her small, dark-rose-nippled breasts and then down to the strip of brown fur between her legs. She ran her fingers through its softness for a moment or two, then shivered and sighed, wishing she had the man from the party here with her now.
Not much longer, she reminded herself. Things were going well – damn it, they were going brilliantly! Everything was in place. Her business today had gone exactly as she’d hoped …
She went through to the bathroom. Perhaps a hot bath would help to douse her lust.
When she emerged an hour later, wrapped in a fluffy towel, she felt better: the fire had burned down to a kind of languour. She rubbed at her damp hair and wondered if she felt like something to eat.
Just then there was a knock at the door. She opened it to see her housekeeper outside, holding a large brown envelope.
‘Yes?’ Romily said.
‘This was just delivered for you, madam.’ The housekeeper held out the envelope, looking worried. ‘The courier said I was to hand it to you without delay.’
Romily took it. ‘Thank you. Oh, and could you send supper to my room, please? Something light.’
‘Yes, madam.’
Romily took the envelope over to her bed and sat down. She opened it and pulled out a clear case full of photographs, large black and white prints like something taken for a newspaper. The first showed her walking through Heathrow as she had done only recently, dark glasses on, her luggage being pushed on a trolley beside her, Rocco at her side.
The next showed her getting into her car at the airport. She flicked faster and faster. Each photograph showed her in the recent past: coming and going from the apartment, entering shops, getting into the car or out of it. The last thing in the file was a piece of paper with printed letters in a large font that read: YOU ARE BEING WATCHED. BEWARE.
Romily felt herself turn cold all over, the warmth of the bath quite gone. Oh, God, she thought. What the hell is this?
Ten minutes later she came out of her room, dressed in jeans, a white shirt and navy cashmere jumper, and a pair of Prada patent boots. With her, she had a small overnight bag and a briefcase. She had packed as quickly as possible; she had to get away, then she would make contact. As she dashed out, she almost collided with her housekeeper who was carrying a tray with a dish of smoked haddock and poached egg arranged on it.
‘Madam!’ gasped the housekeeper, keeping her balance with difficulty. ‘What is it?’
‘Get my guard for me,’ Romily ordered abruptly. ‘Tell him to be up and ready to leave immediately. And call the car.’
‘Your supper …?’
‘Don’t worry about that now. Just do as I say.’
She went into the sitting room and over to the sash window. She looked down at the Notting Hill street, quiet in this area at this time of night, only the odd figure passing by, illuminated by the nearest streetlight. Is he out there right now, with his camera trained on my house? What the hell does he want with me, whoever he is?
A moment later Rocco came bursting into the room, pulling on a sweater over his T-shirt. ‘What is it, madam? You want to leave?’
‘Yes, Rocco. Look at these.’ She pulled the photographs out of her bag and thrust them at him. ‘I’m being watched. Stalked.’
He flicked through them quickly, taking in every detail. ‘Yes,’ he said roughly. ‘Your every move for the last week is here. They must be expert at remaining hidden.’
‘We’re leaving right away.’
The guard frowned. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere safe. I can’t stay here, you must see that. We’ve got to get away as soon as we can. I know where we can go.’
‘But where?’
‘I don’t want to say,’ Romily said quietly. ‘But we’ll be welcome there.’
The bodyguard looked agitated. ‘For your own safety, you must keep me informed, signora. I can’t do my job if you don’t.’
‘Just get your things – and don’t forget your passport. We’ll be safe soon enough.’
Rocco went out as ordered, as the housekeeper came back in. ‘I’ve summoned the driver,’ she said. ‘He’s b
ringing the car round now.’
‘Good.’ Romily went back to her vigil at the window.
Moments later she was climbing into the car, Rocco on high alert, his hand hovering near the gun in his armpit, his gaze flicking about, looking for trouble.
‘We’re going to Chelsea,’ she instructed the driver. ‘I’ll tell you exactly where when we’re closer.’ Once she was in and the car was pulling away, she sighed with relief. Taking out her phone she tapped out a text: I’m on my way to see you. Will explain when I arrive. Then she leant back and watched the night-time city glide past the window.
Romily didn’t know London well but she knew enough to be sure that they weren’t heading for Chelsea as she’d instructed. From Notting Hill it was a quick journey down towards High Street Kensington and from there into the heart of Chelsea. Twenty minutes, perhaps, if the traffic was average. A little more if they were unlucky and caught all the red lights. But before long, she was sure that they’d veered off somehow and the next minute they were crossing one of the bridges and heading south.
She pressed the button that allowed her to communicate with the driver. ‘Where are we going? This isn’t Chelsea. We’ve crossed the river.’
Rocco’s voice came back. ‘I think we’re being followed, signora. Trust me, we’re taking a long route to lose them.’
She looked out of the back window: some cars and motorbikes were behind them but she couldn’t see anyone specifically tailing them. That’s because I’m not SAS-trained, I suppose, and Rocco is. But as they went ever further south without turning back for Chelsea, she became anxious.
‘I want to go back,’ she commanded. ‘I don’t care if we are being followed. They’ll give up when they realise where we’re going.’