Power Games

Her blouse was loose and he could tell that she wore no bra. He wondered what her nipples were like, and imagined them to be pink and satiny, the sort of nipple that took up most of a small breast, until he tasted one in his mouth and licked till it hardened, shrinking and puckering between his teeth …

‘Sorry,’ he flashed a wicked smile, ‘didn’t see you.’

‘Obviously not.’

She had thick, dark eyebrows and he wanted to know if she had a thick, dark bush to match, and if he asked her whether she’d slap him or let him eat it.

‘I’m Jacob.’

‘I know who you are.’

‘Likewise. Wanna get out of here?’

He yearned to film her. Watch it again and again. Get her from every angle.

The scowl hardened. ‘You think I’m easy?’

‘Are you?’

‘Bite me.’

‘Love to.’ He blocked her path. ‘Come on,’ he chanced, ‘let me take you back to mine and I’ll make you come so many times you pass out.’

‘Thanks, I already have a date.’

‘Lose him.’

‘So you can continue charming me out of my knickers?’

‘I don’t think you’re wearing any.’

Tawny was outraged. ‘Fuck off.’

‘Trust me. I’m the best you’ll ever have.’

‘I sincerely doubt it.’

He watched her, black eyes on blue, until she looked away.

‘Hey, baby, what’s going on?’

Jacob flinched as Lilly-Sue returned to his side. On seeing the famous model she raised herself a little taller. Tawny looked between them.

‘Prick,’ she muttered, before melting off and getting lost in the crowd.

Tawny posed for a flurry of photographs before ditching her date, vanishing into the Mercedes and zooming back to the Four Seasons. Her skin was crawling and she scratched furiously, nearly drawing blood, her manicured nails working so fast against her arm that her driver, normally too timid to speak, asked with trepidation: ‘Are you all right, Ms Lascelles?’

‘Mind your own fucking business,’ she snapped back, tugging down the sleeves on her jacket, ‘and keep driving. Isn’t that what I pay you for?’

The dividing glass slid up.

Shit!

Jacob Lyle was a handsome bastard. Just the kind of man she had used to entertain—rich, pampered, polished rich boys with a lust for domination.

And a lust for the rest …

It’s over! Don’t think of it!

But she couldn’t help it. Some men brought it rushing back. They reminded her of the bad times. Jacob Lyle was one of them.

Jacob’s a cocky sonofabitch.

It was the look in his eyes—of greed, of ownership, of entitlement; Tawny had faced it more times than she cared to mention. Though admittedly that sort had been rare for her: more often she would be landed with squalor; dirty, grimy vagrants who demanded all manner of degeneracy. Jacob represented those rare prizes they had all prayed for when the gates opened. Bored money, the girls used to tag them, sailing in after their city dealings and power lunches to splash a few bills on a stripper or three.

Dancer, remember? Not a stripper.

If only that was the worst bit. It wasn’t.

The worst bit was the way Jacob had appraised her.

How it still had the power to turn her on …

Tawny hated herself, but it had excited her: that flash in his eyes, the spark of desire. She would never tire of it as long as she lived. The need for male approval was stitched into her fibre, as vital to her as blood. Where she came from, beauty equalled attention, attention equalled cash—and cash equalled the ultimate prize: freedom.

Was she free now?

Tawny recalled the crisp exchange of bills like it was yesterday, the loose tug of a tie and the hush of material as it fell to the floor. The scent of aftershave and cigars, brandy on breath; and the cold, clammy press of skin against hers …

Back at the hotel, she hurried up to her penthouse and ran a deep bath. She filled it with salts and lotions, syrups and tonics, anything to scrub the horrors away.

Tawny soaked in the water until she met the cusp of sleep.

Forget it.

Those days can’t catch you now.

It was gone, it was over—and anyway, she never had to see Jacob Lyle again.

8 (#ulink_e6078652-eb9e-5d28-9689-01cb9d5dae6a)

Rome

Eve Harley lifted her head from the toilet bowl in her suite at the Villa Maestro and groaned. Why did she feel so ill? All week she had been waking early, making a mad dash for the bathroom, and it was near impossible to keep food down.

Was it something she ate? Was she sick?

She ought to have consulted a doctor before flying, but couldn’t bring herself to. It was a weak excuse, but still. She had seen too many of them, been inside too many hospitals. The antiseptic, the white coats, the plastic chairs in the waiting room while she and her mum had braced themselves to be seen, armed with a new tank of lies …