The Ninety Days of Genevieve (18 page)

'Very much, thank you,' Genevieve admitted, wondering what Margaret would say if she knew exactly what kind of enjoyment she had experienced that evening.

'Everything went very well,' Sinclair said. "Thanks to you, Margaret.'

'I may be old,' Margaret said, "but I haven't lost my touch.'

They both laughed, and Genevieve suspected they were sharing a private joke, but she had no idea what it could be. She waited until she was in Sinclair's car before confronting him.

'You broke the rules of our agreement.'

He slipped the Mercedes into gear and moved smoothly away from the kerb. 'I never break agreements.'

'You promised that whatever you made me do no-one would recognise me,' she reminded him. 'And then you stripped me in a public corridor and - well - ' she faltered, remembering that she reached a point where she had all but forgotten the chance of discovery. 'You know what you did,' she finished lamely.

'Gave you one of the best orgasms you've ever had,' he agreed. 'Made even better because you were so tensed up about being seen. Because secretly you wanted to be seen.'

'I did
not/
she snapped back angrily.

'Oh, not recognised,' he admitted, 'but seen. That really turns you on. Admit it.'

She was not going to admit anything of the sort, although she knew it was true. 'You promised I'd never be put in that position,' she accused.

'I kept my promise,' he said. She started to protest but he silenced her. 'There was no chance of you being seen or recognised. The whole first floor was booked for members of the Order and their guests.'

'And I suppose you'd asked them all personally not to appear in the corridor while we were there?' she challenged acidly.

'I didn't,' he said. 'Margaret arranged it. And made sure no-one came up the stairs until we were safely in our room.'

'Margaret?'
Genevieve could hardly believe it.

He smiled. 'Didn't you get her reference to tradition?'

She stared at him. 'What exactly
is
this Grand Order of the Knights of the Banner, Mr Sinclair?' It was her best boardroom voice.

He slowed down at a set of lights and stopped. 'A genuine charitable order that does a lot of good work,' he said. 'The story is that when the Order was founded, over ninety percent of its members were so straight and conventional you could have drawn squares with them. The others', the Mercedes slid forward again, 'were maybe a little less so. When these particular Victorians grew bored with too many long meetings, they arranged to slip away for some fun and games upstairs. All very discreet. The girls were well paid if they were pros, and those that weren't just had a good time. Over the years it became a tradition. It still is. We always use the first floor and all the little conveniences that those Victorian adventurers arranged for their personal entertainment.'

'Like the spy holes?' Genevieve kept her voice cool and disapproving. 'I just can't believe Margaret approved any of this, let alone helped you.'

'You've misjudged Margaret,' Sinclair said. 'She loves to be involved. She's the one who recommended Bridget.' He turned his head slightly and grinned. 'She also thought you might make a pretty good stripper, with practise. She loved your other performance, too. And don't worry,' he added quickly when he sensed she was about to protest, 'Margaret's the soul of discretion. She's had a lifetime's practise. She was a star performer on the first floor in her youth.'

The package that fell through Genevieve's letterbox the following morning contained a single cassette tape with two words printed on the cover: REHEARSAL MUSIC. When she slipped it into the hi-fi the first tune to beat out from the speakers was the David Rose classic: "The Stripper'.

Chapter Five

A
lone in her flat, Geneviere was practising her striptease. Pictures of Sinclair filled her mind, and when the phone rang, she was certain that it would be him. The thought of speaking to him while she was stripping made her feel sexy. She strutted over to the table, one hand behind her back searching for the hook on her bra.

'Hallo, big sister. How's life?'

'My life's fine,' she said, taking her hand off her bra and making an effort not to sound disappointed. 'What's your problem, little brother?'

There was a pause. 'Why should I have a problem?'

'Why else do you ring me?'

'Well, that's charming,' Philip said. 'I think I'll ring off.'

'OK,' she said. And waited.

'It's my girlfriend,' Philip said. 'She's ditched me.'

"The one you had the nice cut and dried sex contract with?'

'Well, I wouldn't put it like that. The one I thought I'd squared things with, yes.'

'What was wrong this time? Not politically incorrect again?'

'Worse.' Philip paused dramatically. 'She said I was boring.'

'But I thought you agreed on a programme of fun and games?'

"That's why she said I was boring. She said it was like having sex to a timetable. She said I wasn't spontaneous.' Philip sounded genuinely hurt. 'And I thought that was what she wanted. To be consulted. I respected her opinions.' He added accusingly: 'What exactly
do
you women want from men? You're a woman. Tell me the secret.'

'If I could answer that I'd write a book and make a fortune/ Genevieve said. 'We're all different, little brother. You have to play it by ear.'

'That's a great help/ Philip said. 'How do I get some decent sex, that's what I want to know?'

'Pay for it/ Genevieve suggested. 'You're joking!' Philip sounded horrified.

'I'm sorry,' Genevieve said innocently. 'Is that politically incorrect too?'

'It's disgusting. That's what dirty old men do. Or wimpy nerds who can't get a woman any other way.'

'Actually it isn't,' Genevieve said. 'It's often what men do when they've got a special need that they can't find anyone to satisfy. Which sounds a bit like you.'

'You make me sound like a pervert,' Philip said. 'All I want is a no-strings relationship with a girl who's willing to lie there and let me do tilings to her while she's helpless. Or pretending to be helpless. I'd even tie her hands very loosely so she could get away easily if she wanted to. And I don't want someone who's doing it for money, or playing let's pretend. I'd actually like her to enjoy it too. I'm sorry of you find that a bit shocking, but I don't think it's too much to ask.'

'I don't find the tying up bit shocking,' Genevieve said. 'It's the fact that you seem to be more interested in sex than a loving relationship that bothers me.'

'Don't get all old fashioned on me, sis. I know women have got minds and feelings and all that. I'm surrounded by female students all day, for God's sake, and most of them are feminists. But there are times when I don't want to discuss political theory or environmental problems. Or be a shoulder to cry on. Or be good friends. There are times when I just want to - well - have sex.'

'Perhaps when you want to make love/ Genevieve said, 'you'll have better luck.'

'A lot of help you are/ Philip said. And rang off.

Genevieve put the phone down and smiled. But she did wonder if she was really a hypocrite to lecture her brother on love. What would he say if he knew the kind of relationship she was currently involved in? Sinclair had already accused her of selling herself, and she supposed that it would look like that to Philip too. The fact that she now felt comfortable with Sinclair, and couldn't imagine indulging in any of the sexual adventures that he arranged with anyone else was a bonus. She had been lucky. Her business arrangement had turned into a pleasure filled adventure.

But would it last beyond the ninety days?

The morning had dragged on longer than normal. Genevieve had been closeted in with a particularly argumentative client who disagreed with virtually everything she suggested and whose ideas seemed to Genevieve to be 50 years out of date. She sighed with relief when he had gone, and went to get herself a cup of coffee.

On the way back she passed two colleagues gossiping about their holiday. Snippets of conversation followed her.

'... there were bare boobs everywhere ... so I thought, why not? I felt silly with my top still on.'

'My boyfriend didn't want me to strip off with all those gorgeous Latin types around, the jealous sod! So of course, I did ...'

Genevieve continued on down the corridor, trying not to spill her coffee. Would she go topless? Before she met Sinclair she would have known her answer to that. But he had given her a strange new of confidence in her body. Because he was turned on by her, she felt powerful and sexy.

When she reached her office and sat down again she carried on her fantasy. She was on a golden beach, wearing only an indecently tiny white triangle of cloth held up by narrow ties, one round her waist and the other pulled between her buttocks. She was walking, confident strides, her feet sinking into the warm sand, her breasts jiggling provocatively, her hair loose. She was walking towards Sinclair.

He was lying down, watching her, wearing a brief black posing pouch made of silky material that accentuated the shape of his balls and his semi-erect penis. It was held together by tiny silver buckles on each side. As she drew closer she saw his penis move and swell, straining to be free.

There were other men on the beach, all wearing bathing trunks or posing pouches as brief (but so not well filled) as Sinclair's. They whistled at her as she passed, told her in detail what they'd like to do to her, reached out for her. She ignored them. She knew where she was going. When she reached Sinclair - and she took her time - she stood over him, astride him. The other men gathered round, silent now, forming a circle, watching.

Genevieve loosened the thong, removed it, tossed it away. She ran her hands down her thighs, then smoothed them over her buttocks, palms flat. Below her, Sinclair released the buckles on his posing pouch, and when he peeled the cloth away his erect penis was every bit as excitingly massive as she remembered. He slowly got to his knees, the muscles in his slim and powerful body moving under his tanned skin. He knelt in front of her, reached out to touch her. She knocked his hands away and pointed. She wanted his mouth, his lips, his tongue. She reached out and grasped his head, pulling him forward. The image in her mind was so arousing that she almost groaned. She felt moist and uncomfortable. On an impulse she got up and locked her office door.

Back in her chair again she let her mind return to the fantasy. Her hand slid along her thigh. She had always preferred open-top tights and now her fingers moved from their silky smoothness to her warm skin, and under the elastic of her panties. She touched herself, gently at first, then urgently, rubbing her wet sex, her finger sliding, finding the rhythm she wanted. It wasn't as good as Sinclair's tongue, but it was good. She groaned again.

The picture in her mind changed. Now Sinclair was standing over her. He watched her, smiling that exciting, possessive smile, his eyes travelling over her body, taking their time, down to her open thighs. She rubbed faster, imagining the pleasure and sexual excitement that would show in his eyes. She caressed her swollen clitoris, its sensitive tip begging for release, and then her body shuddered as the orgasmic spasms rolled over her, claiming her, for a moment making time stand still.

Afterwards, she lay relaxed and limp in the chair, wishing Sinclair was with her, and wondering exactly where he was, who he was with. She did not want to think about Jade Chalfont, but deliberately trying not to do so was like being told not to think of a pink elephant.

She pictured Sinclair with other women. She pictured them dancing for him, and stripping. She pictured them tied to the door in his study while he tortured them to a frenzy with his tongue and his hands. She pictured women lying beneath him, or on top of him; women moaning in sexual delight as his strong, slim body forced them to new heights of pleasure. She groaned softly. The pictures were infuriating, but arousing.

She told herself she was not jealous. There was no future in getting serious about a man like James Sinclair. It was ridiculous to be jealous. She knew she could please him sexually, but their partnership was a business deal. And she also knew that if she was sensible she would keep it that way. If he knew her feelings were starting to get personal he would either drop her or take advantage of her. Either way she would get hurt. She would lose control.

She stood up, smoothed her skirt and went down to the washroom. When she returned George Fullerton was sitting on the edge of her desk.

'I brought you a coffee,' he said.

'Thanks George, but I've just had one.'

'You haven't,' he said. He pointed to her cup. 'It's gone cold.'

Genevieve felt herself blushing. 'Oh, yes. I forgot it was there.'

'Thinking about work?' Fullerton asked.

'In a manner of speaking,' she said.

"Thinking about Mr Sinclair?'

A warning bell began to ring in Genevieve's mind. She knew George too well not to realise that this was leading up to something. 'Why should I be?' she countered, lightly.

'I heard you'd been seeing him,' Fullerton said. 'Socially, that is.' He paused. 'An antiques fair? Am I right? Rather an exclusive one. Something to do with one of Sinclair's super-rich pals?'