The Ninety Days of Genevieve (23 page)

She knew she could not say any of these things. They would make her look jealous (which she knew she was), and they would also show the extent of his control over her. She had no intention of letting him know that. Her pride would not allow it. Perhaps it was a good thing she did not know his number. He would probably have answered her questions by telling her to mind her own business. She would have ended up looking not only jealous but stupid, because, she had to admit, it wasn't any of her business what he did in his free time, or who he did it with.

But she hated the idea of Jade Chalfont escorting him round Tokyo, impressing both him and the Japanese with her knowledge of the country, the food, the customs and the language. Sinclair would hardly travel out with her and not see her at all during his stay, business meetings or not.

And what else would they do? Genevieve wondered angrily. Jade Chalfont was a sexy woman. If Ricky Croft had been telling the truth, she had not been adverse to buying erotic pictures and offering them to Sinclair as a gift. Would she have sex with him? Genevieve drummed her fingers angrily on the arm of her chair. You bet she would! Anyone would. You'd have to be blind not to find James Sinclair attractive.

She tried not to imagine them together. She had seen Jade in a figure-hugging leotard so she knew the woman had a good body. Although she had never seen Sinclair completely naked, her imagination, and her memory of the many times his body had been close to hers, filled in any gaps in her knowledge. She could picture both of them, without any trouble. And the more she tried not to, the stronger the mental images became. What kind of fantasies would they play out? Would Jade, the kendo sensei, play the submissive role? Why not, Genevieve thought.
She
did, despite her strong belief in equality in everyday life.

Her anger prompted her into another fantasy. Suddenly the idea of acting as a dominatrix did not seem so ridiculous. Mentally, she dressed herself in her black leather corset, her boots, long gloves and the hood. She wore black leather pants too. She was in control now. Sinclair would see only the parts of her body she chose to show him. She armed herself with a nice, pliable whip.

She imagined him waiting for her in a room containing just a bed. A brass bed with a plain mattress covered by a white sheet. He would wait there for her until she was ready. When she came in he would begin to apologise. He had not meant to upset her, to offend her. She would cut off his words with an imperious flick of her whip, and order him to undress.

He would strip while she watched, which, she thought, would make a nice change. Since he had never done it in real life, she took her time over her mental picture show. First the tie, then the jacket. He would have to fold everything neatly. She imagined a table where the clothes could be laid. The shoes and socks would be next. Then the shirt, slowly. The trousers, even slower. She pictured him wearing just his briefs. Black, she decided. He could keep those on. For now.

She pointed to the bed. He went over to it obediently and lay face down. He had done this before. She had taught him exactly what she expected from him. She walked over to him and ran the tip of the whip down his spine, enjoying the reaction it brought. She tapped his buttocks. He knew what that meant and began to wriggle out of the briefs, still lying flat on his stomach. It was a bit of a struggle. She knew he was already getting hard. Finally he tugged the briefs over his swelling erection and pushed them down to his knees, where they stayed, a black restraining band.

She admired the taut muscles of his bottom. Not an ounce of spare flesh here, or round his waist. His thighs were long and lean. She prodded him, stroked him, massaged his shoulders and ran her hands down to his buttocks, kneading them roughly. She heard his breathing quicken. Reaching between his legs she checked his erection. As soon as her fingers touched him, he groaned in frustration.

'I think you're ready/ she told him. 'You know what to dp.'

He reached up and held on to the bed posts. She was surprised at the satisfaction it gave her to imagine the whip landing on his waiting bottom. The first blow would have cracked down hard, and made him yelp with surprise, and probably relief. The following strokes would not be so hard, but they would sting. She was not out to cause extreme pain. She wanted to arouse him, and to humiliate him a little. Each stroke was retribution for the women he had had before her. She was sure there were plenty. And the last five, a little harder than the others, were for Jade Chalfont.

By now the fantasy had aroused her as well. She even considered finding, and using, the vibrator, but she did not want to break her mood by getting up. Instead she leaned back in her chair and imagined Sinclair turning over, his erection massive and upright, ready for her. She would sit astride and ride him, controlling the depth of his thrusting to suit herself. She would not let him touch her with his hands. She would not bother about his pleasure. And if he did not come in time with her, she would slid off him, maybe give him permission to obtain manual relief, or maybe do it herself. Perhaps she would make it a rule that he did not come inside her during these sessions, just to see how good his control really was.

Her own relief came faster than she anticipated. She had barely started to touch herself, and was preparing to enjoy imagining tantalising him still further, when she felt her body shuddering with orgasmic tremors. She allowed the sensations to build up and flood over her. Her body stiffened and shook. She groaned, closed her eyes, and felt her hips thrust forward involuntarily. She wished Sinclair was there with her. She wished it was his hand that was pleasuring her. She forgot all about hating him because he was going to Japan with Jade Chalfont and not her. Or hating him because she suspected he was simply using her, and would never see her as anything other than a dispensable sexual partner. She simply wished she would see his face when she opened her eyes.

'Long time, no see.' Genevieve looked up and saw Ben Schneider standing in front of her, a can of beer in each hand. He put one can down next to her glass of cola. 'What's that rubbish you're drinking? Not on the waggon are you?'

'No. I don't drink alcohol during lunch.'

'Since when?' Ben dipped a fingertip into her glass and tasted it. 'Good God, you're right. It's Pepsi or something. My stomach'll never stand the shock. I know you've turned into a real lady since you joined Barring-tons, but you haven't gone teetotal, have you?'

'Not completely.' She smiled. 'Just at lunch time.'

Ben tapped the beer can. 'Good job I didn't open it. Take it back with you. Remind yourself of the good old days, when you did your drinking with the working classes.' He leaned back in his chair and smiled. 'I like the new hair-style, too. Makes you look older, though.'

'Thanks a lot,' she said. 'Time has not diminished your charm. Are you still drawing comic strips for a living?'

'Time has not diminished your charm either. They're graphic novels. Artistic stuff.'

'You're actually making a living?' she teased.

'I'm surviving,' he said. 'But the thing is, I've never been happier. Leaving advertising was the best move I ever made.' He let his deep brown eyes rove over her. 'And judging from the obviously expensive designer suit, and that ruinously expensive bag,
and
the smart hair-cut, joining Barringtons was a good move for you too?'

'I think so,' she agreed.

He swallowed a few more mouthfuls of beer. 'And do you still see our mutual pal, the frustrated genius, Ricky Croft?'

'Last week,' Genevieve said.

She was wary now. Ben Schneider had been a good friend and a drinking companion when she was just starting in advertising and he was fresh out of art school. Their paths had crossed several times since, but she had

a feeling that this meeting was not pure chance. Ben had never been in this pub at lunch time before.

'Have you given him any commissions?' Ben asked.

'You're joking!' she said. 'You know what he's like. Totally unreliable.'

'I've been told he does some - private stuff. Have you bought anything off him?'

'No, I haven't,' she said. 'What's all this about?' She pushed the capped can of beer aside. 'If you want information, you don't have to bribe me with alcoholic drinks. But I'm sure I can't tell you anything about Ricky that you don't know already.'

'You can,' Ben said. He leaned across the table. 'Who damaged him?'

'Damaged?' she repeated. 'What do you mean?'

'Somebody beat him up.'

'When?'

Ben shrugged. 'I'm not sure. A couple of days ago. He's got a nice black eye and some nice big bruises. He says he was mugged, but no-one believes him. Apparently he hasn't been to the police, and he doesn't want to talk about it, which is unusual for our Ricky.'

'What makes you think I'd know anything about it?' Genevieve asked.

Ben avoided her eyes, which made her even more suspicious. "There was a rumour - just a rumour - that James Sinclair was involved. One of your clients, isn't he?'

'No, he isn't,' she said. She was going to add: not yet, but decided against it. 'And even if he was, how does that tie in with Ricky?'

'You know Ricky's been doing the rounds, trying to flog dirty pictures?'

'Yes/ she said. 'He showed some to me.'

'Rumour has it that he might have also offered them to Mr Sinclair.'

'You're not suggesting James Sinclair was so offended that he beat Ricky up?

'Hardly,' Ben said, grinning. 'From what I've heard,

he'd be reaching for his cheque book. Mr Sinclair does have what you might call a reputation, although a lot of it has probably been exaggerated. I take it he's never made a pass at you?'

'My relationship with Mr Sinclair is strictly business/ Genevieve said, demurely. And, she thought, truthfully.

'You're probably not his type/ Ben said.

'And what is - his type?'

Ben hesitated, considering. 'Slinky, sexy ladies, I'd guess/ he said. 'Rich women. Exotic types.'

'Politician's daughters?' Genevieve prompted.

Ben grinned. 'You heard that story too, did you? I did as well, but I'm not sure I believe it. Well, not all of it, anyway.' He looked at her mischievously. 'I would have said Mr Sinclair was more likely to go for someone like - er - Jade Chalfont.'

Genevieve smiled. 'You may be out of advertising, Ben, but you certainly keep up with the gossip, don't you?'

'Well, I try to/ he said. 'I'm not having much luck with you though, am I?'

'I honestly don't know anything about this/ she said. 'I can't imagine Sinclair thumping anyone without a very good reason. Probably the rumours are wrong.'

'Maybe,' Ben said. 'But most people think they're true. Not that they feel sorry for Ricky. He's been a pain in the arse lately, pestering people for jobs or offering them his masterpieces.'

After Ben had left her Genevieve sat thinking about James Sinclair and Ricky Croft. Why had Ben Schneider come to her for information? He obviously kept up with all the latest advertising gossip, and would know that Sinclair was not yet a Barringtons' client. Were there any rumours going around about their private arrangements? If so, who had started them? Had Ricky been spreading gossip that, although he did not know it, might turn out to be uncomfortably near the truth? Everyone knew she had once given him a commission -although she had regretted it ever since. Had he mentioned her name as a referee, despite her warning? In fact, she realised, if he did go around telling people that she had recommended them as prospective purchasers of dirty pictures there was nothing she could do about it.

If he had approached Sinclair with such a proposition, and used her as a referee, would Sinclair really have punched him? It was a nice thought, especially when she remembered Ricky's last batch of sadistically pornographic drawings. Serve the little creep right. But was it likely? She had to admit that she did not think so. Why should Sinclair care anyway? As far as he was concerned she was also quite willing to use sex as a bargaining tool.

Perhaps the rumours were totally wrong. Maybe Ricky had simply got drunk and fallen down the stairs. Maybe someone had beaten him up because he owed them money which, knowing his lifestyle, was highly likely. Or maybe he really had been mugged.

The idea of Sinclair defending her honour was a pleasant one. What price equality now, she thought wryly. Here you are, a modern, independent businesswoman, in the upper wage bracket, and you're secretly delighted at the idea of a knight in shining armour riding out to do battle on your behalf.

But, she realised, she found the idea of her knight in shining armour stripped and stretched out submissively on the bed, even more appealing. She smiled to herself. No wonder her poor brother Philip claimed not to understood women. She wasn't sure she even understood herself.

A curt message on her answer-phone told Genevieve when to expect the taxi that would take her to the Club Bacchus. Wear your mask, it instructed her. You probably won't have time to put it on when you arrive.

She wondered if she was going to be pitched straight out onto a stage. She imagined a crowded room, men drinking, noise and smoke. Suddenly the idea of performing for an audience did not seem so attractive. But the Club Bacchus, she thought, was not a pub. According to the snooty-voiced receptionist it was a high-class, members-only venue for wine connoisseurs.