The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) (26 page)

I give a residuary shiver remembering what those naughty dancers did to me. Maybe it counts as going behind Gustav’s back, but I only allowed them to seduce me and film it because I thought it would be a little visual treat to turn him on when he gets back from his trip.

The theatre cleared almost miraculously when the director called ‘Cut’. The spectacle was extinguished, like a candle flame. The auditorium swifly emptied of orchestra and cameramen, the lights changed to flat, bright electricity. Pierre was gone, deep in conversation with his colleagues, and even the dancers, nimble at changing out of their costumes, had mostly melted away, swanning off the set in their wild combination of jeans, hoodies and full theatrical make-up.

As the performers bustled round me I tried to check today’s shots, but it was no good. I’d have to wait till I could go over them with Pierre. So I went up on to the stage to find my clothes and other cameras, and without warning two girls pulled me behind a flimsy Japanese screen.

‘Can we have some quick pictures with you, on self-timer? We want to celebrate being together a whole month! It would be so cool, the white, the black and the redhead!’ One of them, an almost translucently pale girl with white-blonde hair and slanting grey eyes, was standing by my tripod, wearing nothing but her sparkly thong. Her friend, also in just her thong, was an Amazonian black girl with huge breasts and long, spindly legs like a gazelle. Their huge Bambi eyelashes, rouged cheeks and dolly-painted cheeks gave them the look of a cartoon.

I shrugged shyly, trying not to stare at their breasts. ‘I prefer auburn, if you don’t mind!’

‘You’re a trouper!’ The pale girl expertly set up my camera and timer and pulled me over to a battered chaise longue beneath an old hatstand. The other girl draped a feather boa round my neck and then round her friend’s throat, which brought our faces closer together, and as I heard the first whirring shots the pale girl framed my face with her white fingers to pull me close and flicked her tongue across my mouth.

The black girl cackled. ‘I think I prefer the movie setting. That OK with you, madame photographer?’

As she took her turn to fiddle with my camera I wasn’t able to reply because the other girl kissed me again, her hands stroking my breasts, which were still straining against the red corset. My mouth opened to the delicate flicking of her tongue.

‘No. Keep the dress on her. I’m not having you going the whole way with her!’ ordered the black girl, settling behind me so that I was sandwiched between the two beauties. She ran her long fingers up my legs and under the tattered red skirt of my costume while her pale girlfriend pushed herself closer to me, her white breasts rubbing against mine, her breath soft and scented as she moved her mouth down my throat and licked my cleavage, making my nipples perk up against the stiff whalebone.

The black girl had lifted my skirt and was grinding her crotch against my bottom. The scratching sensation of the tiny crystals of her thong against my bare crack made me wriggle. The thong slipped sideways so that I could feel her wetness against my skin, and at the same time her fingers hooked themselves inside me. She started to buck harder and pushed her finger in deeper, and as I began to gasp with surprise and pleasure the other girl cupped my breasts out of the corset and sucked them.

The camera whirred and filmed as the girls moaned and the first pulsating throbs reverberated through me, too quick, taking me by surprise. These girls knew what they were doing, and as I my head went loose with pleasure they withdrew their fingers and lips, leaned across me, squashing me between them, and proceeded to kiss each other’s brightly painted lips as they fingered each other to climax.

‘All on your one clever camera,’ sniggered the black girl after a few moments. ‘You’ll email us a copy? How about a meal out with us one night, as payment?’

‘Sure. I’d love to. I’ll keep a copy for myself, obviously. All good for the portfolio!’ I pulled my jeans on quickly under the dress, feeling the wetness snag on the denim as I buttoned them up. Yet another pair of knickers gone missing. ‘Here’s my card, girls, but I’ll be seeing you again back here, I’m sure!’

‘The boss man Levi said we could take the extra time with you after the show, but now he’s waiting for you at the Gramercy. Don’t want to keep him waiting. You can collect all your other stuff later, he said,’ announced the pale girl, switching off all the lights. ‘Hey, Miss Photographer. You sure you’re not the sweet thing on his agenda for tonight?’

They laughed throatily, waiting for me to grab my coat and scarf before pushing me through the dark auditorium, out into the lobby. Then, leaving me on the theatre steps, they ran off down the street in the other direction.

Now I hurry round the garden square. No, I’m most certainly not Pierre Levi’s after-hours pickings.

The fading winter light, the sharp edges and silhouettes of rooftops and trees, the railings, the dark clothes of the people hurrying past, all make me feel more dazed, not less. The throbbing behind my eyes speaks of the input from an extraordinary day spent in the midst of sumptuous, exquisitely organised chaos.

I don’t realise until I step inside the grand hotel where we’re to meet that my scarf is dangling round my neck and I haven’t zipped up my green leather jacket. Even my hair is still coiled up as if I’m about to dance out in front of the footlights. I managed to take out the feathers before I left the theatre. But over my jeans I’m still wearing the ripped red dress.

I must look like Orphan Annie as I shuffle through the huge foyer, but the tall Scandi-guy behind the desk doesn’t bat an eyelid that I seem to be wearing nothing but a red corset, my breasts barely concealed.

The butterflies doing somersaults in my stomach after my encounter with those girls should be for Gustav. I would much rather be meeting him here. I wish I could catch sight of him in a corner somewhere, see the amused arch of his eyebrows as his messy girlfriend tries to compose herself amongst the expensive, classy people mingling beneath the vast chandeliers. I wish his dark eyes were resting on me possessively like they did earlier, for Pierre’s benefit. Most of all I wish I could just walk into his arms, continue with that long, wet kiss and forget everything else.

I pull my jacket round me to hide my theatrical costume, although it seems that anything goes in this bohemian haven. Anything goes even more when I tell the staff that I’m meeting Pierre Levi in the Rose Bar and they direct me knowingly.

I’m not going to get the few minutes I need to compose myself, because Pierre is already here, hitting some balls around the pool table. He doesn’t see me at first. He looks slicker than ever. He’s changed out of the period costume and into a dark-red shirt that sets off his dark Levi skin. The sleeves are rolled up and show the ripple of muscles in his forearms as he leans across the pool table and strikes a ball.

Pierre spots me and I shake my head when he holds the ball up for me to have a shot. I walk past him, past the dusty velvet chairs with the flickering candles, drawn by the flames in the old-fashioned grate at the far side of the room.

‘Allow me,’ he murmurs behind me, turning me by the shoulders. He knows those dancers were going to get their hands on me just now. I wonder if he can smell them? He reaches to take off my jacket, lifts the golden locket on the tip of one finger and presses it back against my throat. ‘It’s very warm in here.’

Pierre stares unashamedly at my revealed cleavage, pale and burgeoning out of the tight bodice, and I realise that several other people are staring at me too. No good wishing Gustav was here to see me. Best just to enter into the theatrical spirit. So I put my hand on my hip coquettishly, sweep my hand over my own contours as if this is exactly the effect I intended. Pierre nods approvingly as I sit down as elegantly as I can, arranging my scarf over my shoulders to cover the expanse of pale flesh.

‘I ordered you a Watermelon Mint Martini, heavy on the Reyka vodka,’ he says, flinging himself down in the velvet sofa next to me. He hitches his jeans up to get comfortable. ‘The cocktails here are legendary, and very strong. You need it, after everything you’ve had thrown at you today!’

I raise the wafer-thin glass by its stem, letting the grassy pale liquid tip in the triangular cup. ‘Thank you. Just one for the road, before I get on home. I could really use a long hot bath.’

‘Oh, no rush, is there? Gustav’s on his way to Canada, so there’s no one waiting for you. As promised I am ready to face the firing squad regarding your cousin Polly. And I was hoping to take my time going over the shots you took today.’

‘Couldn’t I just send you the contact sheet? I can get it to you tomorrow morning when I’ve got all the cameras in one place.’

‘You’re very jumpy all of a sudden, Miss Folkes. I thought we were getting on like a house on fire earlier. Is jumpiness your default mode? Or is that the effect I have on you when we’re alone together?’

‘Not you. Your dancers,’ I reply casually. ‘They are a demanding lot, aren’t they? The artistic temperament, I guess. I’m sorry I’m late, by the way.’ I look down, switching on my camera. ‘And I’m tired. It was a lot of input today. I just want to unwind.’

Pierre leans forward and takes the camera out of my hand.

‘And what better place to unwind than here? And what better company than with me? So. I’d prefer to go over the images now, if that’s OK. I want to see if you caught the essence of the show, my girls, the music, their costumes.’

‘Any girl in particular? The one you were dancing with just now perhaps?’ I ask quickly. ‘I’m guessing dark and menacing leading lady is your type?’

‘Ah, yes. The diva from the deep. I don’t have a type actually, Serena. Anything with a pussy and a pulse will do. I mean, surely you can see that dark and menacing is the opposite of Polar Polly?’ To my astonishment he is smiling, his tongue running lazily over his lower lip. ‘Oh, loosen up, girl. I’m kidding!’

‘You most certainly are not!’ I stand up so quickly that some of the cocktail spills freezing vodka onto my chest. ‘You really don’t give a damn about my poor cousin, do you?’

‘I just meant that when you’re surrounded by gorgeous women it’s impossible to choose. Black-haired temptresses, ice-white blondes, unruly redheads – someone has to come home with me tonight if I can’t have the woman I really want.’

‘Which isn’t Polly. That’s increasingly obvious. But she’s had my back all my life. And now I’ve got hers. I promised her I would ask. Yes or no. Is your relationship definitely over?’

‘A simple answer, for a simple question.’ He keeps his eyes steady on me. ‘The woman I want isn’t Polly. And if she’s asked you to see if there’s any going back, the answer is no.’ He looks down and starts to scrolls through my shots as if I’m suddenly invisible. ‘Now, do you mind if I go back to the business in hand?’

‘By all means take a look at the shots I’ve brought with me, but I think Polly deserves a little bit more of an explanation than that. I’m not done with you yet.’

I need to go to the bathroom all right, but not to freshen up. It’s to stop me slapping his arrogant young face.

This guy is a monumental pain in the ass and the worst thing of all is that just then he sounded like a cockier version of Gustav.

‘Before you lay into me again, these are brilliant pictures, Serena. The management are going to love these.’ Pierre stands up chivalrously as I return from the ladies and take my seat next to him – realising too late I should have sat down opposite him. ‘You’re hired.’

He holds his glass up, and reluctantly I chink mine against it. Reluctant, because I’m secretly pleased that the pictures have worked out. And there’s a tiny flash of annoyance that Polly’s upset is getting tangled with my work. Pierre sits down again, beside me but not touching me. I scroll silently back through the images, wonder if he’s played the video of me and the dancers. But if he isn’t going to mention it, nor will I for the moment. I take a deep breath, repeat the words ‘focus, focus, focus’, and decide to paddle to safer waters.

‘Today got me thinking again. You remember we were talking about Venice at New Year’s?’ I remark as the sweet-sour liquid hits the back of my throat. ‘Your theatre, the stage, the music, the costumes, the feathers, the girls, all reminded me of La Serenissima. The whole city as an operative backdrop. I can’t wait to go back.’

‘You have a trip planned?’

I take another sip. ‘I’ve been asked to go over there for some clients called the Weinmeyers. Actually I have a meeting with them to discuss it tomorrow.’

‘Ah yes. Ernst and Ingrid,’ Pierre replies thoughtfully. ‘Long-standing business acquaintances of my brother. I remember them in London. They’re notorious in this town for being swingers, amongst other things. They make Gustav and Margot look like Hansel and Gretel. Not really suitable company. Maybe I should come with you. Keep you safe.’

‘To the meeting?’

‘To Venice. And source finery for my masquerades theme at the same time.’

‘Oh, that would really thrill Polly, the way she’s feeling at the moment.’ My cocktail goes down the wrong way as I realise how quickly I’ve been steered off course, and I start to cough. ‘She’d never forgive me.’

‘I’m not talking about moving to the place. Just a short business trip.’ Pierre thumps me between the shoulder blades, making my scarf slide off. He takes it with one hand and runs it under his nose. The way he’s sniffing for my scent is an extraordinarily sexy, Levi thing to do. ‘We could run the idea past Gustav, if that’s what’s worrying you. Make sure he’s cool with the prodigal brother travelling to the most romantic city on earth with his girlfriend.’

I shake my head too sharply, and there’s a nasty twang as a button on Pierre’s sleeve catches my hair. ‘Oh, no. I’ll only go if Gustav comes with me!’

‘Hold still.’ Pierre laughs softly as he brings his arm down carefully and starts to pick at the strands stuck in the cotton thread. ‘Your hair really is amazing. Sunset pouring over your shoulders.’

His face is unnervingly close. He has shaved again since we were at the theatre. Not a trace of the determined stubble that pushes through his brother’s skin. And his cologne is very different, too. Heady, and musky, the kind that wraps around you like an embrace then gives you a headache.