Lust on the Loose (5 page)

She couldn't
have been more than five foot tall and her hair was piled messily
on top of her head, with blonde corkscrews escaping haphazardly
from beneath the cap. In her fluffy pink mules and bulky robe she
was far from a picture of nubile temptation. On the other hand, the
amateur photographer in Billy recognised the potential of her
enormous blue eyes and high cheekbones, the flawless complexion and
the pouting lower lip.

He handed her
a glass of champagne which she downed in one gulp.

'Right then,'
she said, 'where shall we do it?'

'Well—'

'I rather
fancied the bathroom, meself. Come on.' And she thrust her empty
glass at him and set off, leaving him to follow.

Somewhat
bemused by the turn of events Billy grabbed the bottle and headed
after her through the door of the sitting-room and into the
bedroom. The room was empty but the sound of running water from
behind the door in the far corner betrayed Ms Pert's whereabouts.
The door opened a few degrees and Tracy's head popped out.

'Have you ever
interviewed anyone in the bath before?' A slim naked leg appeared
from behind the door, the foot prettily pointed, fuscia pink
toenails gleaming. 'Give me a minute,' she said, 'then I'm all
yours.' Head and leg then vanished.

Billy looked
frantically round the room. Evidently he had been mistaken for a
reporter about to do an interview and in that capacity he was
missing a couple of vital accessories. He put the champagne and
glasses amongst the clutter on the dressing-table and searched his
pockets in vain. Whatever the virtues of Gio. Armani suits they do
not come equipped with pencil and paper.

'OK, Maurice,'
came Tracy's voice, 'I'm ready.'

Billy grabbed
the phone pad and pen from the bedside table, snatched up the
champagne and stepped eagerly into the bathroom. Whoever this
Maurice was, he was missing out.

Tracy Pert, Britain's Bustiest Beauty (according to the
Dog
), was reclining in an
enormous bathtub filled almost to the brim with steaming froth.
Only her beaming face rose impishly above the bubbles and, to
Billy's heartfelt disappointment, of the National Treasure Chest
there was no sign. Yet the thought of what pink and succulent
feminine delights were concealed by a mere carpet of foam set his
imagination racing. As he sat on the stool at the side of the bath
he smiled his best wolfish smile and handed her a replenished
glass.

'What do you
think?' she said, stretching out one rosy arm to take her drink. 'I
read that all the big stars do this so I got some bubble bath
special. Only don't tell Pandora. Cheers!'

They clinked
glasses conspiratorially, Billy ogling the dimpled hollows of her
throat as the steam rose and the bubbles popped around them. What
Maurice may say to Pandora he had no idea but he, Billy Dazzle, was
on a separate mission and so far he was doing brilliantly. All that
he desired was in his grasp, so to speak.

'Right, Tracy,' he began, 'tell me all about your role
in
Two-way Letch
:
That was the title of the TV sitcom she was shooting - he knew that
much.

'Oh Gawd,' she
moaned, 'must I? It's only a walk-on, more of a wobble-on, if you
ask me. They didn't hire Tracy Pert the actress, they hired a pair
of charlies. As I see it, I'm being exploited.'

'Oh dear,'
said Billy sympathetically, recharging her glass. The bubbles were
bursting fast now. Delectable areas of Tracy-flesh were gradually
inching into view. 'But if you think that, how do you feel about
the glamour photos that have made you famous?'

'Oh, I love
them, they brought me millions of fans. But that's all in the past,
now I want a proper career to fulfil me as an artist and a
woman.'

Billy loosened
his tie. The heat in the small room was stifling. He was sure he
could just make out the tip of one delicate pink nipple bobbing in
the surf. He continued his Maurice act, pretending to scribble
notes as he did so.

'I understand
your agent is about to launch you into a whole new career.'

'Oh yeah? On
my fat fanny! She's the one who's holding me back. She's got all
these fancy people on her books and they get all the high-class
gigs. Me, I just get the wobble-ons.'

And Tracy
polished off her third - or was it her fourth - glass of champagne,
banging the receptacle down on the tiles dangerously as she warmed
to her theme. Billy had spotted the second nipple now, its pretty
crinkled nose peeping out of the foam, while beneath the suds the
bulk of her entrancing bosom lay as yet unseen.

'Do you know,' she said, 'she's organising this big charity
gala in aid of dead cats or something. It'll be a real nobs' night
out at some mansion in the country, diamonds and tiaras on show,
you know. And she's got all her posh clients in on it, that Italian
singer Melissa Whatsit and the composer Sebastian Silk and Brick
Tempo - I love Brick Tempo, I'd die to be on the same stage as
Brick Tempo - and that smartarse cow won't let me in on it. If you
ask me, she's the worst exploiter of the lot. She'll take fifteen
per cent of my boobs till they drop to my belly button and then
I'll be on the scrapheap. I'm a woman and an artist and I'm
not
just a pair of
tits!'

Tracy shot
bolt upright in her fury and suddenly there they were, the Nation's
Number One Knockers, dangling in front of Billy's pop-eyed gaze in
all their swollen rosy-pink free-swinging glory. Enough to make a
man's mouth water, his palms itch and his trousers swell - all of
which reactions hit Billy at precisely the same moment.

'Well,' demanded the steaming nymph, 'what do
you
think?'

'I think,'
replied Billy, goggle-eyed, 'that those are the most fabulous
breasts I've ever seen in my life—'

As soon as the
words were out of his mouth he knew he had made a mistake. He was
cut off by a wall of water as, furious and spitting, Tracy lunged
for him, catching him by the collar and plunging his head into the
bath.

Despite her
extravagant proportions Tracy was only a small woman, but she was
fit, energetic and fighting mad. A few minutes before Billy would
have died for the pleasure of getting into the tub with her, now it
looked as if he was going to do just that. She held his head under
with manic fury, at the same time trying to bash his skull against
the side of the bath. Then there came a terrible ringing in his
ears and it was this that saved him.

Billy lay
panting and spluttering on the floor for a full minute before he
realised Tracy was talking on the telephone. He had noticed the
receiver hanging above the bath during the interview. Thank God for
ritzy hotels, he thought.

'But he's
here, Pandy,' Tracy was saying, 'and I think I've half drowned the
bugger.'

Still shocked,
Billy listened in a daze. And, despite the evident dangers in so
doing, he openly admired her dripping curves. She stared right back
at him as she spoke.

'No he hasn't.
No beard, no hair except on his head, lots of it, curly black, blue
eyes, broad shoulders, about six foot and not bloody bad if you
like that sort of thing.' Just as he had concluded he ought to take
it on his toes out of her delectable presence she winked at him and
plonked the handset back on its rest.

'So,' she
said, 'you're not here to do an interview.'

'No.'

'And your name
is not Maurice.'

'No.'

'But you like
my tits and you're soaking wet.'

'Yes.'

'Well, why
don't you get out of your clothes and do something useful? Like
soap my back.'

What man could
refuse an invitation like that? Billy wondered. And though there
had to be a catch he began to strip.

'MY DANNY IS A DIRTY DOG' blazed the tabloid headline. 'By the
Woman He Left Behind' read the more modest sub-heading. Sophie
devoured the story on sight, her hands shaking as she leafed
through to its continuation on the centre pages of the
Blizzard
. Her gin and
tonic stood untouched on the shelf just by her chair and the
panoramic vista of the Thames at dusk, as seen through the window
of Ambrosia Spicer's Docklands apartment, no longer held her
admiring attention. She only had eyes for the stirring prose of Mrs
P Fretwork, as told to Pandora Britches.

Though I
sussed in those early days that my Danny was on the fiddle, I knew
he couldn't be up to anything really bad. I thought he might be a
little late with his VAT or taking advantage of loopholes in the
tax laws but nothing more serious than that. He was, after all, a
bright young businessman keen to make his way in Margaret
Thatcher's Britain of the early eighties.

Nor did I
believe the rumours that he had a string of girls on the side. We
used to laugh together at these attempts to blacken his name by
those envious of his entrepreneurial talents. Of course I was madly
in love with him back then and completely blinded by his phenomenal
powers as a lover.

'This is
garbage,' said Sophie, 'Patsy Fretwork must be bloody hard up.'

'And fed up,'
said Ambrosia, eyeing her protegee keenly as she reclined on the
sofa opposite her. 'Wouldn't you be if your two-timing husband had
kicked you out of his villa on the Costa del Sol to shack up with a
stable of bimbos? And you were left minding the fort in Ilford with
a Keep Off sign on your back?'

'I thought
they no longer cared what the other got up to.'

'Don't be daft. They're husband and wife. They've been married
ten years. They may leave each other stone cold but you can bet
they are
very
interested in who the other is bonking.'

'And who
is
Patsy bonking?'

'No one.
Danny's boys keep an eye on her and she's off limits to anyone who
wants to stay healthy. The poor thing is very frustrated, I hear.
They say she's turned to girls.'

Sophie looked
at Ambrosia sharply. Ambrosia smiled back and said, 'Why don't you
finish the article?'

It turned out
he was wanted on one count of murder, three of manslaughter and a
whole string of protection and racketeering charges. But what
really hurt was the revelation that his gang would regularly meet
up at a house in Kent for wild 48-hour sex orgies. These were
attended by society groupies and show-biz personalities together
with specially selected high-class prostitutes who made sure things
went with a swing. There were always plenty of beautiful people who
got a thrill out of rubbing shoulders and a whole lot more with the
criminal element.

Don't miss
tomorrow's sensational instalment when I name names and expose what
went on at these poolside sex parties.

'I have a
hunch,' said Ambrosia. 'Once Danny reads this, I think he'll be
back.'

'But why
should he? Surely he's got people here who can sort it out?'

'So? This is very personal, it requires hands-on
attention.
His
hands on
his
wife. I don't think he'll trust some third party to do it
right.'

'But if he
comes back he's risking a life sentence.'

'First we've
got to catch him, Starkers.'

'Please don't
call me that.'

'Why not? It's
very appropriate. It is, after all, the condition you were in when
you let Danny Fretwork get away last time.'

'Ah.' Sophie
blushed. 'So you know about that?'

'I know,
Starkers, that you attended one of these so-called poolside orgies
posing as a high-class tart - one of your regular disguises, I
suppose. I know that you took part in the entertainments there,
presumably with the intention of getting your hands on Dirty Danny
but the evening ended in fiasco and members of your back-up team
barely escaped with their lives. The next day Danny popped up in
Spain and two years' worth of painstaking investigation by yours
truly and many other dedicated officers was put on hold. And quite
possibly consigned to the scrapheap.'

'But I nearly
had him! I was at the point of luring him into the bushes where
Sergeant Bacon was waiting to make the collar when that bloody
idiot fell out of a tree.'

'What bloody
idiot?'

'I don't know.
Some man. He was hidden up a tree, out of sight. He nearly fell on
Sergeant Bacon. When he ran off we all saw he had a camera. A lot
of Danny's boys gave chase but he got away.'

'Unlike
Sergeant Bacon.'

'Unfortunately. But Mark is very brave. I've tried to make it up to
him.'

'I'm sure you
have, Starkers.'

Sophie
squirmed with embarrassment. 'Ma'am, give me another chance. He's
the only one who's ever got away from me. Let me try and put the
record straight.'

'Don't worry,
that bastard won't get away this time. My team will maintain a
watch on all points of entry into the country and on his known
haunts. We'll turn over our informants and dig up what kind of
information we can. You, however, are not a team player. It seems
to me your presence spells potential disaster to all those around
you. I'm going to turn you loose to employ your special skills as
you think fit. You report directly to me.'

'Oh, ma'am, I
don't know how to thank you.'

Ambrosia,
stretching one trim leg elegantly along the sofa so her skirt rode
up her thigh, said, 'Actually, Starkers, I think you do.'

Billy was not
the kind of fellow who was generally averse to a spot of
striptease. His experience of it in pubs, clubs and, more than
once, at boozy parties was almost entirely pleasurable. But then,
it had never been him doing the actual stripping.