Sin Tropez (19 page)

‘I’ll keep you warm, darling,’ he whispered, wrapping his toned arms around her, a brazen, nearly naked figure in a marquee of men and women dressed in their most formal
attire.

She should have been mortified, but in his arms she felt deliriously happy.

****

Gregory’s bitches were out of control. His wife had grown even fatter and lumpier in her pregnancy, and today he’d received a postcard from the strangely addictive
young slut he’d been juggling for the past five years. The picture on the front had shown the port of St Tropez, and the message on the back had been short and clear.

‘Natalyaaaaaaa. Natalyaaaaaaa.’ Gregory howled her name through his sobs. Who else would indulge him like she did? He’d booked himself into a hotel, telling
his wife he was off on a work trip. He didn’t give a shit that she deserved his support; whoever said women glow with pregnancy was a lying toad. He just needed to be alone. Curling his weedy
body up into a ball, he rocked back and forth on the bed. He had been to the little tramp’s apartment but she didn’t seem to be back from France. Well, he could wait. He was going to
find her. And when he found her he was going to ruin her. He was going to make her scream louder than she’d ever screamed for him in bed. No designer would dream of paying her to model again,
and no man would want to fuck her after he was through with her face.

Tara climbed into the driver’s seat of Harry’s Jaguar XKR, snorted the last of her charlie off the top of the dashboard and sped off down the M40 towards
Gloucestershire and her ancestral home. She thought back to how she and Harry had fallen into this clandestine kinkfest in the first place.

It had started with an email. ‘We’ve got a problem here, Tara, can you come into my office.’

Uh oh, she’d thought. She knew she’d been rude on reception. She’d had a terrible day, was fed up with being a receptionist and so, when someone with a nasal, whining voice had
called up and said ‘I wonder if you can help me?’, Tara had drawled ‘Sweetheart, there’s no helping
you.
’ It had turned out to be Harry’s biggest
client.

The client must have complained, and now awful Harry wanted to see her. Crap. She crept to Harry’s office door and he beckoned her in.

‘The bad news is, Tara, you’re fired. The good news is we’re now no longer breaking company policy if I do this …’

He pressed a button on the remote control he was holding and the projector screen in the middle of the room rose to reveal a desk piled high with a selection of sushi, strawberries and cream,
and chilled champagne, some of it already poured into two glasses.

He dialled his PA’s extension. ‘There’s a problem to be dealt with here, Karen. I’m not to be disturbed for the next hour.’

He walked over to the door and locked it. Then, turning to face Tara, he quietly and calmly said, ‘Remove your dress.’

When she stood there open-mouthed, he raised his voice an octave. ‘Do it.’

Something compelled her to comply. Perhaps it was the sheer crazy unexpectedness of his request. She had no time to take in the situation, let alone consider it rationally, so in unthinking,
auto-pilot mode she did as she was told.

‘And the rest,’ he whispered. Then Harry lifted her up on to the desk, dipped his forefinger in a glass of champagne and slid it into her mouth. He moaned softly as her lips closed
around his finger. Afterwards he reached for a piece of sushi and fed it to her. One by one he fed her every piece of sushi on the plate until she’d consumed the lot.

Despite the bulge in his trousers Harry had still not touched her anywhere other than on her mouth. As he moved on to the strawberries, Tara suddenly came to her senses. What in God’s name
was she doing sitting naked on her boss’s desk? But it was too late to turn back. No matter, she would just have to assert herself instead. With the back of her hand she smacked the platter
of cream across the room, where it splattered all over the wooden floor. She stared defiantly at Harry, who ran his eyes all over her body, boring into her in a way that made her shiver and
thrill.

‘A Care in the Community type spent all day scrubbing that floor,’ he said, his moist lips forming a twisted smile. ‘Get on your hands and knees and lick it off.’

And so there she was, butt naked and spread-eagled at his feet, licking cream from the floor and desperate for him to reach out a sweaty palm and touch her. But he never did.

‘Get up,’ he smirked. ‘Put your dress on and go. I’ll be at your house at 8 p.m. tomorrow to take you for dinner.’

Still speechless, she had done as he’d told her and for the next twenty-four hours had been unable to think of anything but him. He was a smug, repulsive dwarf in his Sad Friday Outfit,
and yet he’d managed to manipulate her like that, to get her tingling and wet between her legs, excited to be sitting there naked in front of him, gagging for him to touch her.

After their dinner, the orgasm he’d given her had been her most intense ever. But afterwards she had wanted to barf. She knew she could never love him, never date him, never even enjoy his
company. Alex was the sort of man she needed to be with.

It was time to end this dalliance with Harry – she needed more from a man than just a freaky orgasm. It was no big deal. She would return his car. When he called her she’d be busy
then forget to call him back. This would anger him at first and he’d pursue her more, spurred on by her lack of interest. Soon afterwards the calls would slow down. He’d get bored, give
up, meet somebody else. Someone on his level. She had no particular desire to hurt him; the fling would simply fizzle out by itself, with no need for a dramatic or emotional break-up. In the
meantime, his car was proving useful.

She glanced at her watch and groaned. Poor Connie hated it when she was late for Sunday lunch. Her faithful old nanny and now housekeeper had worked for the Wittstanleys for as long as Tara
could remember and was virtually family. She and the gardener were the only permanent staff the Wittstanleys retained. Both of them septuagenarians, they stayed out of loyalty and were paid
virtually nothing, though they did enjoy free lodgings. Tara stepped on the accelerator. Ignoring angry hoots behind her as she swerved, struggling to control the powerful Jaguar, she turned the
radio on loud to wake herself up. She had called Tina earlier to warn her that she would be late but her mother’s mobile had been off. When she phoned home instead, her father had snapped
that Tina hadn’t yet returned from dinner at her sister’s last night, claiming to be too drunk to drive – which seemed odd to Tara because Tina had, at Papa’s request, cut
off most of her family after her marriage and hadn’t seen her sister for years.

Tara reached Willowborough Hall in record time. Driving through the gates, she was struck, as she always was, by the drama of her imposing home. The vast, stucco-fronted, pale grey Regency
mansion was built in neo-classical style, spread over three storeys, with two symmetrical wings leading off the main section. Tall mullioned widows glittered in the sun, and through the lower
bay-windows she could see the mahogany-panelled Great Hall, designed for entertaining on a palatial scale. Stone statues of grave-looking ancestors and other notables gazed imperiously down as she
climbed the curved marble steps to the huge front doorway.

Those Regency walls had seen so much over the centuries. An intricate painting in the Great Hall, one of few remaining original artefacts, portrayed Willowborough Hall and the surrounding
village as it had been all those years ago when her family had been gloriously influential. She loved to study it whenever she returned home at weekends. But these days the house was no longer in
its prime. The ivy and wisteria were out of control, the furniture had been patched many times over, and the fountain, whose magnificent spray had once reached almost to the window of her
third-storey bedroom, now stood dilapidated and dry.

Lady Tina rushed out of the house, letting the heavy front door slam behind her.

‘Hello, darling!’ She took Tara in her arms and hugged her, standing on tiptoes to kiss her cheek. ‘Gosh, you have grown thin, are you sure you’ve been eating properly?
And gosh, Tara, where on earth did you get that car?’

‘Oh, it’s just a friend’s. Is lunch served? I’m starved.’ Tara raced past her mother and into the house.

‘Papa, Papa, I’m home.’

She ran down the hallway, shivering. The cost of adequately heating the house was something her father had never been prepared to entertain, but it now seemed even colder than she
remembered.

‘Tara-Bara. Welcome darling.’ Lord Bridges emerged from the library where he had been reading the
Telegraph
, followed closely by Ferdy and Lamb, the two little
white-and-brown-flecked Jack Russells. ‘You look well, got a bit of colour to your cheeks. Have you been spending more time outdoors?’

‘Yes Papa,’ lied Tara, glad she’d added some extra blusher. ‘Is it just us today or are we having anybody over?’ She bent to scoop up Lamb, who was yapping at her
feet, and he licked her sunken cheeks worriedly.

Hugo’s jaw stiffened. ‘Your mother has invited somebody from the Committee over. A young chap, goes by the name of Orlando or—’

‘Orlando heads up the National Trust Committee,’ Tina cut in. ‘He’s been an invaluable help with the sale.’

‘What sale? You didn’t tell me you were selling anything?’ Tara said accusingly, dropping poor Lamb in her surprise.

‘We’ve had to sell four hundred acres of the estate to the National Trust, darling, there was simply no other option,’ Tina pleaded.

‘What! I can’t believe you didn’t even see fit to consult me! Well, how much did you get for it anyway, can you at least pay off my student loan now?’

Hugo was becoming irritated. ‘We received £2 million for the land, Tara, just part of what is owed to the bank. We’ve paid off a little of our debt and the rest has already
been spent on restoring this dump. Now be quiet.’

Not for the first time, Tara felt a deep sadness that came with the knowledge that she would probably be the last Wittstanley to grow up at Willowborough. Even if the family could find a way to
avoid eventually having to sell the entire estate, there was no way she or any of her cousins would be able to take on the burden of its maintenance.

Connie crept in, sensing tension. Then she cleared her throat and announced, ‘Lunch is served.’

‘Well, what of Orlando? He’s late.’ This time Hugo snapped at his wife.

Tina was spared from having to fabricate an excuse when the doorbell rang. She rushed to open the door and Tara shuddered as her mother’s most flirtatious giggle echoed around the
hallway.

‘What do you know of this Orlando guy, Papa?’ Tara whispered. For an innocent Sunday lunch there were more sequins on her mother’s outfit than in an entire series of
Strictly Come Dancing
. ‘Do I have to be nice to him?’

‘Staff’ was her father’s curt reply. ‘I’ve never met him, but your mother said he is simply staff at the National Trust.’

‘Well,’ Tara retorted, sensing her father’s indignation, ‘if Tina says he’s “staff”, then I shall bloody well treat him as such.’

‘Do behave yourself, dear,’ Hugo admonished, but not before shooting his daughter an approving smile.

Hugo took his seat at the head of the large table and Tara sat at his side. As Tina entered the room Hugo rose slightly to acknowledge her then seated himself once more, barely even nodding at
Orlando. When all where seated, Hugo said grace. The meal kicked off awkwardly but drink soon raised Lord Bridges’ spirits and Orlando and Tina seemed unable to stop themselves giggling like
schoolchildren over Committee jokes. The only person present who remained unamused was Tara.

****

Natalya felt as though she was walking on air as she boarded her flight back to London. ‘A glass of champagne please,’ she said to the air stewardess. She had good
reason to celebrate. The weekend had flown by and she was secure in the knowledge that Claude was besotted with her. It was sooner than she had anticipated, but the decision to end things with
Gregory had been the right one. The rent for her apartment was paid in advance for the next three months and Claude was finalizing the purchase of a London home for himself, which she could no
doubt move into afterwards. She wondered how Gregory would take the news. He had never loved her. She knew that. For him it was a sexual thing. When she’d wanted him to leave his wife he
would not even consider it. She was glad of that now, but at the time it had hurt. When you are sixteen and alone in a new city you cling to the first person who happens to find you. After five
years alone, however, you adapt to your situation and you exploit it in any way you can. There is no choice but to do so.

Natalya’s plane arrived on time and she hailed a taxi back to Knightsbridge. She picked up her letters from her mailbox, nodded at the concierge and took the lift to the fifth floor.
Scrabbling in her bag for her key, she paused. Was she imagining things, or could she hear someone in her apartment?

She opened the door.

A hand grabbed her through the darkness and she screeched, dropping her bag and the letters in terror. Gregory put one hand over her mouth. The other was still clamped around her neck, his body
pressed against hers. She could smell his sweat and stale breath. Had he been waiting there all weekend?

‘Who is he?’ Gregory yelled. ‘Who is he?’ He dragged Natalya to the kitchen and reached for the bread knife, letting go of her mouth.

Holding the knife to her throat, he whispered, ‘If you scream again, I’m going to use this.’

Natalya whimpered, then started to cry. Would he do this? Would he really hurt her? He had been violent before, but a knife?