She navigated
the rooms and reached his locked office. She used the key-card
again, and opened it easily.
Now for the
computer.
In her days of
working for him, when she had been infatuated like Julia was, he
carelessly made her privy to many secrets. She recalled how she sat
on his knee while he punched in files, although at that time she
had been more concerned in wriggling her fanny against his cock,
than in observing what was happening online.
But Pete had
given her the password, and she winged a prayer to LA. Damn Vincent
Gabor, she thought savagely. Damn him; her friend could have been
dead because of the stuff he smuggled.
Controlling her anger, she calmly booted up one of the
machines and searched through the files. This showed her nothing
vital, merely linked to business accounts pertaining to Hunter's
Moon. She had noticed another standing on Gabor's desk, a
high-powered personal computer. This seemed promising, so she
opened up the system and found that most of the files were
protected by a password. She logged on under
Incagold
. It worked and she began to
investigate the secret documents, and her pulse quickened as she
found everything she needed; records of monetary transactions,
dates, times, and destinations, Swiss bank accounts and offshore
accounts and the means by which he laundered the money. There was
enough evidence to send him down for fifteen years or more. His
contacts were all there, men with names like Juan Lopez and Ali ben
Hamal, and Russian ones, too - Anatolii Pashenka, Sacha Rurik and
suchlike.
'You've been
careless, dear Vincent,' she chided him quietly. 'This is what
comes of having too high an opinion of yourself and your abilities.
You've landed everyone up shit creek without a paddle.'
Now she
clicked the mouse and opened another file. It listed the locations,
phone numbers, e-mail addresses and residential districts of every
property he owned in England. There was one strong possibility, and
the more she scrolled and read about it, the more convinced she
became that this was where Julia was being held.
It was a manor
house called Wylde Court, situated in a remote corner of the
Suffolk coast. It sounded perfect for a hideaway; ancient, rundown,
of little interest to local authorities, and right on the edge of
the sea. What could be better for smugglers, and as a handy prison
for a kidnap victim? Theona had a gut feeling about it.
She'd had the
forethought to bring a packet of floppy discs with her, and it was
a matter of seconds to begin downloading all the information. Every
one of her suspicions had now been confirmed and she knew she had
to tell Will, then go to the police.
Will would
want to go rushing off like a knight-errant to save Julia, and
Theona realised she'd have a hard job stopping him. But if the
police knew, then they'd send a posse after him. Rather like an
old-style western, she mused, and then sobered immediately when she
remembered that this was for real and Julia was at risk.
The computer
buzzed and clicked and took its time. She glanced around nervously,
and then caught sight of herself in the darkened plate glass
window. She was dressed entirely in black - black trousers, black
anorak, a black balaclava. What, she thought suddenly, was she
doing there? She should be off gigging and entertaining the masses,
not prating about playing at being a private eye.
The download
complete, she slipped the last disc out of the slot and tucked it
into her pocket. Then as silently and swiftly as she had arrived,
she left Abbey Reach.
'Is that Marty? It is? Good, this is Arlene Murphy.' The phone
was tucked under her chin, her fingers coiled nervously in her
black, Irish tinker hair, as she liked to call it. 'No, don't hang
up,' she added quickly, instinctively putting her free hand up as
if to halt someone. 'I want to apologise for the fracas at your
last collection. I was wrong to kick up such a fuss. I see that
now, and I'd like us to meet and talk about it. After all...' she
purred in her most seductive tones, 'we got on rather well at the
Cloth Show, didn't we? I was
very
impressed. Everything I've heard about you was
true...'
She judged him
to a nicety, smiling as she heard him fish in his most charming,
conceited tones. 'And what have you heard, Arlene?'
'Rumour had it that you're
seriously
well hung... and now I
know...'
There was a
silence for a moment, and Arlene wondered if she'd somehow messed
up, but then he went on. 'Tell me more.'
'Well, you obviously remember our little
tete-a-tete
in the
storeroom?'
'I do indeed.'
His voice had thickened and she wondered if he was stroking his
cock through his trousers, even as they spoke.
'Shall we
meet, then? I could do with your advice about my work. Who knows,
we could even indulge in a repeat performance? Would you like me to
come to yours, or would you rather come to mine?'
He hesitated.
Her call had obviously thrown him. Perhaps he was feeling guilty
about Julia? Not for long, she thought. Will was already en route
to Wylde Court and the police had been informed.
'Let me deal
with Blake,' she had begged Theona during the meeting when they
read the printout of Vincent Gabor's chicanery. 'It doesn't seem
that he knew what was going on, being too concerned about his own
fame and fortune. Keep his name out of it and please, let me have
him. He owes me one.'
'Well, if
you're sure,' Theona had said doubtfully.
'Quite sure,'
Arlene insisted, a calculating look of intent in her eyes.
'Must you?'
Eugene asked, looking troubled. She knew him to be jealous, but
nothing would shift her from her purpose.
'I must,' she
said, slipping her arms around his neck. 'It's a matter of
honour.'
'What are you
up to?' Will wanted to know, though he was abstracted, already
planning his Suffolk rescue operation.
'You'll see,'
Arlene said, tapping the side of her nose mysteriously.
Now Marty
Blake and she agreed that she should go to his apartment later that
day. He seemed eager, intrigued, and she felt a hot itch within her
when she recalled his spectacular good looks, his lean body, long
legs and dark wavy hair. And she had only slightly exaggerated his
development in the genital area; he had a most impressive cock.
His warehouse
home was impressive, too. So this is one of the perks of being a
famous dress designer, she thought, strolling through the wide hall
and into the lounge with its polished teak floor and stylish chrome
furniture upholstered in black leather. The few ornaments were the
original works of well-known sculptors, as were the surreal
paintings on the original brick walls. It breathed money, fame and
fortune, and Arlene intended to have all three.
Blake led her
outside. The garden was beautiful, filled with greenery, sunshine
and birdsong. Though made safe by high wire fencing draped in
flowering climbers, she found it hard to remember that they were
several floors up, and that every ounce of earth, each plant and
shrub, even the water feature had been placed there artificially,
not by nature.
'Would you
like a drink?' he asked, but she hadn't come there to exchange
pleasantries over gin and tonics.
'I'd rather
you showed me your bedroom,' she answered frankly, giving him an
impish glance with her green eyes. She had practised this look, and
found few men could resist.
'Didn't you
want to talk about your work?' he said, but was already moving back
inside. She could see the shape of his hardening cock within his
baggy white cotton trousers.
Her nipples
peaked and her clitoris thrummed. There was no denying that she
still fancied him, unprincipled bastard though he was. She was fond
of Eugene, might even make a go of it with him, but weren't the bad
boys always the most exciting?
When they
reached his bedroom her anger was still simmering dangerously, but
she moved close and slipped her arms around him. His response was
immediate, though he looked cautious. 'So, are you still accusing
me of stealing your designs?' he asked.
'Oh, let's not
talk about that,' she murmured seductively, and reached up to kiss
him. It was as pleasant as she remembered; firm lips and an active
tongue.
She could feel
his cock, vertical against his belly, the stem pressing through her
flimsy cotton frock. She had dressed herself for seduction - his,
more than hers. His hand delved beneath the skirt, lifting it high
and caressing her bare thigh and then her bottom crease. She
started and raised her hips towards him as his fingers edged round
the tiny tanga which barely covered her mons, then wormed their way
between her dark bush and landed unerringly on her clitoris. Lust
poured through her, making it hard to remember her purpose
there.
She raised a
leg and hooked it round his thigh, wriggling against the large
bulge tenting his trousers. He responded by gyrating his pelvis,
his hand going to her breasts, tweaking the nipples through the
fine fabric, but even then his trade impinged as he said, 'This is
cotton voile, isn't it? Did you make it?'
'Yes, and
yes,' she replied, ready to yell with frustration as he continued
that delicious manipulation.
Still holding
her, he led her towards his bed. She felt the edge of the mattress
against the backs of her knees. But she didn't intend to fall
across it, legs wide, arms embracing him while he fucked her. Oh
no, she had other plans for Mr Marty Blake.
'Lie down,'
she commanded dominantly.
His eyes
widened. 'What?'
'I said, lie
down,' she repeated, implementing her words with a sharp rap across
his tight muscled arse. The delicious feel of it was almost her
undoing, but she hung on in there. 'You enjoy dishing it out, don't
you? Well, how about if we experiment a little. I'll be tops to
begin with and you'll be bottom.'
His face
cleared, and he grinned boyishly. She tried to ignore the brilliant
charm of him. 'Okay,' he said. 'I'm game if you are. Do we have a
safe word?'
'Yes,' she said, testing him. 'Let's use
Incagold?
'
He looked
genuinely surprised, and not in the least guilty. 'That's an odd
one, but yes, I agree, though I'll bet you say it before I do.'
'You first,'
she said, with a determination that stopped any argument.
Soon she had
him where she wanted him, naked and spread on the bed, his arms and
legs spread and tethered to the posts with silk scarves and belts
she had found in the chest-of-drawers, and the glorious sight of
him almost swayed her from her intentions. His body was so
beautifully proportioned; wide shoulders and a muscular chest, a
flat belly, a nest of dark curls and that magnificent cock rising
stiffly upwards, his balls in their taut sac resting on the sheet
between his thighs. He had an all-year-round tan, his skin
contrasting with the snowy whiteness of the pillows.
She had
retained one of the leather belts and suddenly brought it down with
full force across his thighs.
'Bitch!' he
yelped, his cock jerking, crimson marks forming on his sinewy
flesh.
'Now, now,
that's not the way to address Mistress Murphy,' she reproved and,
just to remind him of her power, she flicked his helm with the
belt. Pearly dew oozed from the single eye, and he groaned through
gritted teeth.
She knew she
was right. This wasn't the first time his passion had been roused
through pain. Her control was slipping; she wanted to yield to
temptation and have him penetrate her. First though, there were
other things she must do.
Standing where
he could see everything but was unable to touch, she undressed
slowly and languidly. First her button-through dress, then her
icing sugar-pink bra, though she took this off with the
tantalising, cynical skill of a professional stripper using men's
lusts to support herself and her dependants. She paused then,
retaining her panties and high-heeled shoes. This had the desired
effect on him and he writhed on the bed like a landed fish. He
tugged at his bonds, swore at and cursed her. She smiled, enjoying
seeing him roped there, helpless. It was unusual; he was always so
confident and full of himself.
'I wonder what
your fan club would make of you now?' she remarked. 'That American
woman, Mrs Hooper-Jones. I thought she was going to have an orgasm
when she spoke of you.'
Hooking her
thumbs in the ties each side of her tanga, she partially pulled
them down, giving him a glimpse of her crisp pubic hair. Then,
disappointing him, she turned her back and shimmied towards the
tallboy to find her supposition was correct. Inside one of the
drawers was an array of sex-toys, almost as comprehensive as her
own. She took them out, one by one. There were oriental eggs for
anal or vaginal insertion, a mock plastic vagina, penis rings to
delay orgasm, and several lifelike vibrators.
'By all the
saints, Mr Blake,' she drawled. 'What a collection! It's nearly as
large as mine.'
She stood
close to the bed and dropped her panties, then placed one foot up
on a chair, giving Blake an uninterrupted view of her cleft. She
played the tip of the vibrator round her salmon pink inner lips and
stroked it over the puckered anal mouth. Then she switched it on
and held it against her clitoris. She gasped, coming in a rush, and
Blake groaned with longing.
Returning from
the blissful realms of orgasm, she snatched up the belt and
belaboured him furiously. Stripes marred him from thighs to belly
to chest. She even lashed him once across the veined length of his
cock. He squealed, but didn't use the safe word.