Guilty Pleasures (38 page)

‘I’m going upstairs,’ said Fernandez seductively. ‘Come up when you’re ready.’

Roger glanced at Ricardo.

‘We travel to Bahia tomorrow and look over the business plan. In the meantime I want you to have some fun.’

Roger pushed away his thoughts of Rebecca. After all, it was rude to refuse – it might even damage the deal. He stood up and headed towards the stairs, a small smile on his face.

Dressed in nothing but a cream silk Sabbia Rose dressing-robe that skimmed over every curve, Cassandra watched Max pour two glasses of wine, determined to make every minute of his flying visit to her apartment count. It was 9 p.m. on a Monday night and he’d already told her he couldn’t stay much after midnight without Laura asking questions. Padding across the spacious living room she pressed a remote control so that the open fire set into the wall roared to life, feeling its warmth through her gown. She rarely drank alcohol at home but she was grateful for the Chablis that Max handed her. The last two months had been hectic. Not only had there been the Georgia Kennedy shoot to organize, she’d been busy planning her empire. Her latest project was researching the feasibility of a Cassandra perfume, for which she had visited a perfume manufacturer in Paris and flown out to visit their factory in Grasse, all of which had been written off as researching brand extensions for
Rive.
Max had taken off his shoes and tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He picked up a black leather portfolio on the glass coffee table and flicked through. Inside were a dozen mocked-up covers for Cassandra’s magazine,
Grand.

‘Just a few ideas I’ve been throwing around with an art director friend.’

She didn’t need Max to tell her they were good. They were fabulous in every sense: classy, intelligent and commercial all at the same time. Cassandra was more excited about the prospect of having her own magazine than anything else in years. Except perhaps the prospect of getting Max all to herself.

‘Speaking of work, come here,’ said Max, fetching his briefcase and taking a document from it.

‘What’s that?’ asked Cassandra, curious.

‘A proposition for you.’

‘Really?’

He strode over to her by the fire and Cassandra thought how glorious he looked in its glow: powerful thighs under fitted Brioni trousers, light casting shadows on his face so that he looked mysterious, almost feral.

‘We’ve been tracking a medium-sized French holding company with a view to acquiring it,’ he said.

Cassandra’s interest began to wane.

‘Darling, you’re a partner in a private equity company. Isn’t that what you do every day?’ she sighed.

‘This company is largely involved in the paper and timber industries; those are the divisions of the group we really want, but they have other interests – a tyre company, an insurance brokerage – things we’ll probably sell on if we buy the holding group.’

Cassandra took a sip of wine to hide her yawn.

‘Why are you telling me this? A share tip-off? Because being CEO of a tyre company isn’t exactly what I had in mind.’

‘The company has a textile division which contains a little jewel,’ continued Max, his dark eyes boring into her. ‘Clochiers. What do you know about it?’

Cassandra’s eyes opened wide.

‘Clochiers? Of
course.
They were a 1930s couture house, smaller, less influential than Schiaperelli or Madame Vionnet, but well known for their beautiful day dresses. Maria Clochiers died young before the label could ever really take off, but fashion historians believe that had she lived she could have been as big as Coco Chanel.’

Max grinned, swilling the Chablis round in the bottom of his glass.

‘That’s what my analysts told me too,’ he smiled. ‘I think you could do something special with Clochiers.’

‘Me?’

She immediately thought of discussing it with Giles. He was an expert on French design houses of the 1920s and 1930s and would know all there was to know about Clochiers. Max nodded.

‘It’s still a working company, but clearly off fashion’s radar,
manufacturing small-scale evening wear – scarves and the like – to an aging client base. In the right hands I think it could be brought back to life.’

Cassandra was practically salivating. Clochiers! Her mind raced ahead, thinking of the things she could do with a brand of this heritage, of this class.
Who needs Milford?

‘What are you proposing?’ she asked, trying to be as businesslike as her semi-sheer robe would allow.

‘When we break up the holding company, we could sell Clochiers to you. Obviously not you by yourself, unless you have large reserves of money I don’t know about,’ he smiled. ‘You’ll need to bring some equity yourself to the table, but I can arrange additional debt financing and I’ll be an investor myself along with other well-matched partners.’

‘It sounds very interesting,’ she replied, trying to keep her cool.

Max placed his wine glass on the table.

‘But that’s enough talking shop for one evening.’

Cassandra smiled and beckoned him over.

‘Well, are you just going to stand there or are you going to fuck me?’

‘Beg me for it,’ he said taking a step towards her and untying her gown so her round breasts sprang lose. He took his palm and placed it over her nipple, circling it slowly until it became rock hard.

‘Beg me,’ he repeated.

‘Never,’ she whispered, her pupils dilating with need. Right now she wanted nothing more than to feel his cock deep inside her. The excitement of the proposal still buzzing through her, she was desperately, painfully hungry for him.

He licked two fingers and she parted her legs in readiness. She groaned as his fingertips curled into her wetness, her breasts pressing against the cool cotton of his shirt as he planted soft butterfly kisses on her neck. She pulled him down onto the rug as he scrambled out of his clothes. His body positioned over her, his strong hands parted her legs so far apart she could feel cool air on her ripe clitoris. His hands moved up her body, gripping her hair and she could smell herself on his fingertips. After a few maddening moments he inched his cock into her, so slowly that she screamed out in frustration. And when he’d filled her entirely, he increased his thrusts faster and faster until she came in white-hot release, the climax
still shuddering through her body as she felt Max erupt inside her. They didn’t move for a few seconds afterwards.

‘You do realize you’re very stubborn,’ said Max softly, pulling her into the crook of his arm. Cassandra didn’t reply, biting her lip to stop herself from speaking, suddenly frightened by the force of the feelings that Max stirred to the surface, feelings that were fighting to make themselves heard.

‘I love you,’ she whispered, but her mouth was pushed against his shoulder and the words were lost in the folds of his cotton shirt.

The Feathers was unusually busy for a Saturday night, thought Emma as she stepped into the warm pub. She looked around anxiously – she hated going into pubs on her own. She saw that Ruan was at his usual corner table, a pint of Guinness in front of him, chatting to some boys from the factory. Standing behind them was Rob. Even in a room crowded full of people, bodies pressed up against each other, she could hear his voice and his laughter. He seemed to know everyone in the place; talking, winking or back-slapping everyone who walked past him. It irritated Emma. She hadn’t been into the pub in weeks, whereas Rob had obviously been virtually living there. These days she seemed to spend Saturday nights asleep on the sofa, too weary to do anything except read or listen to music. She was certainly too tired to go out, especially when the nights were short, cold and debilitating. But tonight Stella had some friends down from London and attendance at the Feathers was apparently compulsory. So despite the fact that she’d been feeling under the weather all day she’d popped down, her cherry red jumper making her look more perky than she felt. She was at the bar vainly trying to get served when she felt someone squeeze in beside her.

‘Do my eyes deceive me or is this Miss Emma Bailey in the pub?’

Rob casually waved at the barmaid who immediately stepped over.

‘You make it sound like the passing of Halley’s Comet,’ said Emma after she had ordered. ‘A once in a lifetime’s sighting.’

‘Well, you don’t come down that often.’

‘I come down plenty,’ she said defensively. ‘You’re only here
three nights a week so you’re hardly in a position to monitor my every move.’

‘I have my spies,’ smiled Rob.

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Emma. Realizing he wasn’t going to be so easily shaken off, Emma sighed.

‘I think Stella’s in the back snug,’ she said. ‘I hear she has some pretty London ladies in tow.’

‘In that case, Ruan can fend for himself,’ said Rob.

The back part of the pub was bursting at the seams. It was so hot that the windows were dripping with condensation and Irish music was playing loudly.

‘Emma. Over here,’ shouted Stella from a corner table where she was sitting with three beautiful girls who all had that fashionable metropolis polish, aided by the flattering addition of candlelight. Emma was not at all surprised when Rob went and squeezed himself in the booth next to Petra, Stella’s prettiest friend.

‘We’re waiting for Johnny to drop in, then we’re going over to his parents’ place,’ said Stella, pulling her hair up into a ponytail.

‘What’s it like?’ asked Emma. ‘Isn’t it the biggest house in Oxfordshire?’

‘Something like that. You can come and see for yourself. His mum and dad aren’t around his week and we’re all staying over. Come.’

Curiosity tempted Emma, but her hands felt clammy and her heart seemed to be beating faster than usual.

‘I’d love to, but I feel a bit crock,’ she replied, taking a sip of wine and wishing it were water.

‘Rob?’ asked Stella.

Emma stole a look at him, willing him to turn them down. It wasn’t as if she was interested in Rob, but she had come to know him and he was a more complex man than he pretended. She wished he could be something other than a womanizing Peter Pan when he was around her.

‘I can’t,’ he shrugged. ‘I have an early start tomorrow. I’m having to go visit a recording studio in Devon.’

‘What? To see a band?’ asked Petra, balancing her chin on her hand prettily.

‘Yeah, actually. Kowalski.’

‘Wow,’ Petra’s enormous aquamarine eyes lit up. ‘That’s impressive. Stel said you were a big cheese in the music biz. Can I come too?’

Emma glanced up to see Rob looking at her, giving her a complicit smile.

‘Rob. You coming?’ shouted a voice over the music.

They all looked up to see Ruan standing by the snug door. He was tapping his watch and motioning towards the exit.

‘They want me to go to this pub music quiz somewhere,’ said Rob, glancing longingly at Petra. ‘Apparently I’m their secret weapon. Sorry, ladies.’

‘Make him stay!’ whimpered Petra as he left the pub. ‘In fact, make that other good-looking one stay too,’ she added, turning to look at Ruan through the window. Emma was feeling worse by the minute. A group of rugby players had moved into the snug and were cheering and singing songs. One of them stumbled over a stool and fell against Emma.

‘Sorry, love,’ he laughed, spilling beer over her jeans.

Emma’s heart was racing now and she could feel her forehead bead with sweat. The pub walls seemed to be closing in on her and the jukebox music and songs echoed around her head.

‘I just have to step outside,’ she mumbled to the others, but they were gossiping and laughing and hadn’t seemed to notice Emma’s distress. She pushed her way through the crowd until a blast of cold outside air hit her. She staggered into the car park and sank down onto a freezing cold stone step, put her head between her knees and forced herself to take deep breaths. She felt a little better with cold fresh air in her lungs.

‘Em. Are you OK?’

She looked up to see Rob leaning down to take her arm. He led her over to a bench opposite the pub.

‘Sorry, I don’t know what that was,’ she said slowly, still trembling. ‘It felt like a panic attack.’

Rob sat down on the bench besides her keeping his arm wrapped around her. Two men were climbing into a taxi and Rob waved them on, indicating for them to leave without him.

‘A panic attack?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Emma, squeezing her eyes shut. ‘Maybe it wasn’t. I feel like shit, though.’

‘I think you’re working too hard,’ said Rob, shaking his head.

‘Your body is crying out for you to stop.’ The tone of his voice was stern but concerned.

‘I’m fine, honestly, I’m fine,’ insisted Emma. ‘I shouldn’t have
gone to the pub, that’s all. It was too noisy and busy and I just felt I was being crushed. You go to the pub quiz. I think I’ll call a taxi home.’

‘I’m worried about you.’

‘Don’t be, really. It’s passed, whatever it was.’

‘Seriously, Em,’ he said, real concern in his voice. ‘You need a break. Have you had a holiday this year? Stella said you never went on that Costa Rica trip.’

‘I’ve been too busy.’

‘And it’s killing you.’

He dipped his hand into his pocket and called a taxi from his mobile. Feeling less wobbly now, Emma was actually enjoying the feeling of someone taking care of her. It was something she wasn’t used to.

‘You’re right,’ she said softly when he’d come off the phone. ‘I think I do need a break.’

‘Why is work so important to you?’ he asked seriously, studying her face.

She shrugged.

‘It’s all I have.’

‘OK, that’s it. I’m picking you up at 10 a.m. tomorrow,’ he said suddenly.

‘I suspect I might be in bed.’

‘If you’re ill, then fair enough and I’ll send Morton round with the Lemsips. If not, you’re coming with me to Devon.’

‘Devon?’ laughed Emma weakly. Rob had such a decisive look on his face, she knew she was going to have to humour him.

‘Kowalski are recording their third album. I usually swing by when my big acts are in session to see how things are going and I’m flying down tomorrow.’

‘Don’t be silly. I don’t want to intrude on your work.’

‘It’s not really work. I just lurk in the background, checking they’re not doing anything too experimental,’ he grinned. ‘Anyway, the studio is in a great spot, right by the river, and I know a fantastic place nearby for dinner. Before you ask, I have to be back in work for Monday too – that’s why I’m taking the chopper. We’ll be back for midnight and then you can carry on working yourself to death. Is it a deal?’

The taxi had arrived and was tooting its horn.

Emma put her hand nervously on Rob’s and nodded.

‘Are you feeling better?’

She nodded. ‘A lot better. See you tomorrow.’

‘So you’re going to come to Devon?’ he replied, a note of surprise in his voice.

‘If some deadly virus hasn’t got me in its grip, yes. I think Devon might be just what I need.’

‘Consider it part of your continuing musical education.’

‘In that case, count me in.’

The Brintons’ Oxfordshire home, Greywood, was the most sumptuous property Stella had ever seen. Grander even than Winterfold, it was an enormous Jacobean mansion recently revived by a multi-million pound makeover courtesy of Astrid Brinton’s design flair. The ground floor contained Greywood’s most formal rooms including a wood-panelled library and a banqueting hall with beamed ceilings and a table that comfortably seated forty. A less formal wing of the property contained a billiards room, media room, farmhouse kitchen, gym and playroom – there were even ‘servants’ loos’, although Stella hadn’t quite worked out if the term was a relic from a more distant era or whether that was how the Brintons regarded their vast team of home-help. And fittingly for the master of the house, there was a 48-track recording studio and a certified organic dairy in the grounds, which delivered ice cream, cheese and milk to the house.

Stella sat curled up on an egg chair in the playroom, a shag-piled pleasure palace that contained a bank of vintage video games and a 60-inch plasma television, wishing she was alone with her boyfriend. Johnny had only finished filming principal photography of his latest film two days ago, but instead of having a quiet weekend with Stella he’d invited his mates to Greywood and suggested Stella invite some of her own mates to make up numbers. The boys had arrived at the Feathers, just after Emma’s abrupt exit, with two friends called Jamie and Piers, who had recently returned from a long hot summer in Ibiza and they had all quickly returned to Greywood to take advantage of Blake Brinton’s extensive wine cellar. Now she was here, Stella was feeling uncomfortable. In the company of his posh London friends, Johnny had turned a little boorish, opening bottles of expensive claret at random and then leaving them uncorked and barely touched. It didn’t help that Petra had been flirting so outrageously with Jamie; she thought they were
going to have full sex up against the Space Invaders machine. It was already past 2 a.m. and Stella was feeling tired, with no desire to keep herself pepped up with the cocaine that was circulating around.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she smiled at Johnny, expecting him to take the hint.

‘I’ll see you up there in a little while, hon,’ he said kicking back on the sofa, a bottle in his hand.

Against her better judgement Stella went upstairs. The Brintons still kept a bedroom for their son which had been redecorated as part of the house’s tasteful overhaul. Grey silk wallpaper hung on the walls, along with a framed selection of magazine covers featuring Johnny. There was a vast, oak, sleigh bed against one wall and a claw-foot bath in a large bay window. Stella undressed, switched off the lights and slipped into bed in her bra and thong waiting for Johnny. She lay back on the pillow, her eyes wide awake, straining her ears for sound.
Where the hell is he?
Outside she could hear the screech of an owl. She struggled to stay awake, but the bath tap was dripping and its hypnotic sound pulled her eyelids closed.

Suddenly Stella awoke with a start. It was pitch black and she turned over to find the bed beside her empty. She turned on the bedside lamp: 4 a.m. – Johnny should have been here hours ago. She slipped out of bed, pulled a towelling robe from a hook nearby the bath and went out into the corridor. The dance music that had been blaring through the house earlier was gone and now it was so still that she could hear a violent snoring coming from one of the guest bedrooms. Stella crept through the house feeling on edge, but angry.
Where the hell was he?

The playroom was empty and dark, the kitchen too. Perhaps he was playing snooker, she thought, trying to remember where in this labyrinth of rooms the billiards room was. She thought she heard faint laughter and followed the noise, unconsciously walking on tiptoes. As she drew closer, she had a sudden sense of foreboding as she remembered what Emma had said about Johnny in the summer:
You know he has a bad reputation.
There had been other things too; a blind piece in the
Sun
about a hot young actor having an on-set fling with his older co-star. That couldn’t have been Johnny and Lisa Ladro? She wanted to turn back and hide. The truth was what she feared most.

She pushed open the billiard room door a crack and saw Petra
sitting on the edge of the pool table, her legs apart, Johnny standing between them, their faces were inches apart, Petra’s head tipped suggestively to one side.

They sprang apart when they saw her.

Stella could feel her cheeks burning red with embarrassment and fury.

‘I was just telling Petra the differences between billiards, pool and snooker,’ said Johnny casually. Stella turned and fled. With nowhere to go – home was ten miles away and she was stuck without transport in the middle of one thousand acres of estate – she ran back to the bedroom and locked the door behind her. Seconds later Johnny was banging on it furiously.

‘Stella! You’re being an idiot. We were just playing pool.’

‘Playing away, more like!’ screamed Stella, hot, furious tears flowing down her cheeks.

‘Stella, if you don’t open the door, I’m going to break it down.’

He banged on it insistently, the door rattling alarmingly in the frame.

‘Stella! I mean it! Open it
now
!’

Reluctantly, she unlocked the door. Johnny ran in and tried to hold her, but she fought him off.

‘Get away from me!’ she shouted, slapping him across the face.

He pulled back and rubbed his cheek.

‘I deserved that,’ he said quietly. ‘But she threw herself at me. I get that Stella, you know I do. But nothing happened.’

‘Oh yes, it’s so fucking tough, being Johnny Brinton, isn’t it?’ she spat.

He grabbed her shoulders and held her tight.

‘I love you, Stella. Honestly,
nothing happened.
’

She wanted to believe him. They hadn’t been actually kissing, or even touching. But it was enough. The tears started rolling down again.