Kitabı oku: «Power Games», sayfa 4
What did it take to bag a woman like that? Kevin wondered sadly, absorbing her hip-hugging floor-length gown and the tight swathe of pastel-pink that barely covered her tits and ass. He imagined burying his head in those tits, plunging into her, making her moan, hearing he was the best she’d ever had, and having her admire the broad, muscled shoulders he yearned for so badly, working till he puked at the gym.
As if that was going to happen. What was wrong with him?
Every time Kevin got to second base his cock fizzled and died. No wonder Sandi had run for the hills: she was probably screwing her way across LA this very minute, spreading her damning word as fast as she spread her legs. Kevin’s erections lasted mere seconds before they flaked, and even when his dick did get hard it barely amounted to more than a pickled gherkin. When he thought about screwing Jacob Lyle’s Amazonian angel, the only image that sprang to mind was one of a naked child scrambling over a climbing frame. Even jerking off was like flogging a paper bag.
Jacob Lyle, on the other hand, had it down.
Jacob was a pussy magnet. Whatever it was, Jacob had it in spades.
Kevin wanted it too.
As he was ushered inside, his PR fending off the last of the requests, he resolved that a meeting with the entrepreneur was drastically in order. Maybe if he started affiliating with guys like Jacob, his luck might start to change.
Something had to—fast.
7
Los Angeles
In the back seat of a limo cruising down Sunset Boulevard, Jacob Lyle grabbed his girlfriend’s hips and pulled her down onto his throbbing cock.
She was wet as fuck for him.
‘Jake, oh, screw me, Jake, you feel so good!’
He knew he did. All the girls said it.
Jacob flipped her round so her palms struck the partition glass, soundproofed but who cared if they were heard; it only added to the thrill. In the tinted reflection it occurred to him how easily one hot cunt could be traded for another hot cunt. Creamy ass riding his dick like a jockey, swathe of glossy hair cascading down her back (he supposed the colour was a variant), the moans of ecstasy he could pretty much script by the book … ‘Make me come,’ she gasped, ‘don’t you dare stop till I’ve come …’
Once more, Jacob lifted her waist, supporting her so her drenched pussy was teasing the tip of his cock. He was making her wait, resisting her as she fought to plunge onto his length. Expertly he reached round and located her clit, deciding she was so wet she could put out a burning building, and proceeded to polish the silky bud like a button. Wetter and wetter she became, her moans reaching a mad cry as she bucked and thrashed on the head of his penis. Before he allowed her release, he reclaimed his finger and sucked it, tasting her, salty and sweet. She was wide on top of him now, open to his will, senseless in her desire, and with a growled, ‘You ready, baby?’ he pushed his finger hard into her asshole at the same time as leaning her forward and allowing the entirety of his cock to be consumed by her warmth.
Instantly she pulsed and shuddered on top of him, screaming like an animal. On and on she came, and again when he brought both hands up to clasp her tits, pulling the nipples sharply and whispering in her ear what a dirty sexy bitch she was.
It was the nipples that got him: he fucking loved girls’ nipples. In a blinding burst Jacob ejaculated, slicing through her while he stretched the nipples flat, distending them to the point at which she shrieked in delighted pain, toying the hard plugs between his fingers as he crested the mount and the last waves ebbed into calm.
‘Oh, my God.’ Lilly-Sue, a wide-eyed wannabe actress he had been dating a month, dismounted. She was shaking. ‘You just blew my mind.’
Jacob smirked. He was darkly sexual: dark hair, dark eyes, with the suggestion that he harboured dark intentions. Machiavellian in his appearance, he possessed pale, severe cheekbones and a cruel, yet handsome, line to his mouth. Women found him irresistible. He was the bastard they had been told to avoid.
‘Your turn then,’ he answered. ‘Wanna blow my cock?’
Jacob Lyle was widely regarded as the savviest businessman of his generation. He had embarked on his first transaction aged twelve, when he had uncovered the clever knack of emptying his father’s Lucky Strike filters and re-rolling the tobacco in cheap cigarette papers, bought for a dollar and sold on in the schoolyard for several times that amount. His dad never missed a pack or two, and one Strike stretched up to three smokes if he was careful—most of his buyers didn’t know the difference anyhow. He remembered looking at the Strikes and thinking: I could shift these at mark-up as they are, or I could make more by trebling my profit. So Jacob did more, and the more Jacob pocketed, the more Jacob sold. At a young age he grasped that the world turned on the clean and straightforward principle that money, when channelled to effect, could make a shitload more money. It was simple when you looked at it right.
It was ever since his involvement with a world-changing social network site that his personal profile had rocketed. A young entrepreneur by the name of Leith Friedman had pitched his idea for an online hub whereby friends and followers could travel-share. It was smart, clean and most importantly green: a security-screened, 100% legitimised, twenty-first-century hitchhiking. Jacob had known how to make it fly: money and balls—and since Leith was lacking in both departments (especially the latter, but then he was a computer programmer), he had pushed for a sixty–forty split. OK, so he’d be getting more than half the business, but there wouldn’t be a business without him, just some fat kid sitting in his bedroom jerking off into his babysitter’s panties.
MoveFriends had been born—Join the Ride, ran the strapline—and both Jacob and Leith, in the space of eighteen months, had become billionaires. Since then Jacob had been invited onto every talk show, to attend every party, to speak on every panel, and last month had been summoned to the White House to meet the president. He had addressed a group of post-grad entrepreneurs in a scheme set up by the Republican senator Mitch Corrigan. After the show Jacob had nailed two blondes in the cleaning closet, both of whom had certainly known what to do with his rich investment.
‘You totally messed me up,’ Lilly-Sue purred as they arrived at Hollywood’s Rieux Lounge, patting the back of her head and throwing him a naughty smile.
They exited the car and were hit by a barrage of sound.
‘Jacob! Lilly! Give us a smile!’
Lilly-Sue primed and posed for the cameras, holding his hand and nuzzling his neck. Jacob decided he would dump her. She was a decent screw but way too clingy.
Kiss my cock and tell it you love it. Just don’t tell me.
He dragged her through the doors. The Rieux was LA’s number-one spotlight. Everyone who was anyone got photographed. Many a wasted selfie got tweeted in the small hours, only to be rapidly deleted by management next morning. Heavy beats thrummed. Bodies wound. VIP spaces were roped off, flanked by security.
Without warning Lilly-Sue pulled him into a toilet cubicle and gave him his second blowie of the evening. As Jacob watched her tongue attending to his hard-on, he leaned back against the marble and felt faintly bored. Truth was, he could only operate on half a tank unless there was a camera in the room. Shit, he knew it was wrong but he was a sucker for the buzz. He was as addicted to this as he was to the kick of investment. The one thing that turned Jacob Lyle on more than horny girls was watching horny girls fuck—more specifically, watching horny girls fuck him. As a result he had his personal cars, and several classified suites across town, rigged. He kept a record of every encounter. From Amy through Zara, the library grew and grew.
Was it legal? He wasn’t sure, but Jacob showed them a fine enough time to not feel totally bad about it—always they left with dreamy-eyed avowals that they had never spent a night (or morning, or afternoon, or any time of the day, really) like it.
The girls wouldn’t find out. Nobody would.
After all, he was Jacob Lyle—and Jacob Lyle was invincible.
Lilly-Sue stood, wiped her mouth and kissed his face off, which was kind of gross because she tasted of his come. They emerged from the bathroom and she spotted a friend, from here just a squealing flap of arms, and sprang off to join her.
Jacob headed for his booth, thinking the Rieux was at least a fresher vibe than that stodgy Boston gala. It had been worth it to get the Boy Scout points, but the whole thing had been a ball-ache. Pop embryo Kevin Chase had been up in his grill all night, and now it transpired Kevin’s people wanted to set up a meeting. Was the kid gay? No big wow if so. Jacob affected both sexes. As it went he had dabbled with men, the odd hand job, the odd coked-up grope. One guy at Frat College had even sucked him off—he could still recall the sweat smell in the men’s locker room, the sticky bench, the graze of stubble against his nut sac and the man’s hot, strained breath, and, if he were honest, it still kind of turned him on. End of the day, though, he preferred pussy.
‘Watch where you’re going, asshole!’
Jacob held his hands up. The woman had appeared from nowhere, stepping straight into his path. Her hair smelled like coconut. Her blue eyes were scowling.
Whoa.
Instantly his cock stiffened. Who was that?
But, of course, Jacob already knew. Who didn’t?
Tawny Lascelles. He had thought she was fine, but up close the supermodel was unlawfully gorgeous. He had to have her. There was no question.
Long tanned legs in a pair of cute, butt-clinging shorts, killer black heels and a mane of blonde hair that tumbled round her shoulders. Her eyes were enormous.
Her blouse was loose and he could tell that she wore no bra. He wondered what her nipples were like, and imagined them to be pink and satiny, the sort of nipple that took up most of a small breast, until he tasted one in his mouth and licked till it hardened, shrinking and puckering between his teeth …
‘Sorry,’ he flashed a wicked smile, ‘didn’t see you.’
‘Obviously not.’
She had thick, dark eyebrows and he wanted to know if she had a thick, dark bush to match, and if he asked her whether she’d slap him or let him eat it.
‘I’m Jacob.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Likewise. Wanna get out of here?’
He yearned to film her. Watch it again and again. Get her from every angle.
The scowl hardened. ‘You think I’m easy?’
‘Are you?’
‘Bite me.’
‘Love to.’ He blocked her path. ‘Come on,’ he chanced, ‘let me take you back to mine and I’ll make you come so many times you pass out.’
‘Thanks, I already have a date.’
‘Lose him.’
‘So you can continue charming me out of my knickers?’
‘I don’t think you’re wearing any.’
Tawny was outraged. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Trust me. I’m the best you’ll ever have.’
‘I sincerely doubt it.’
He watched her, black eyes on blue, until she looked away.
‘Hey, baby, what’s going on?’
Jacob flinched as Lilly-Sue returned to his side. On seeing the famous model she raised herself a little taller. Tawny looked between them.
‘Prick,’ she muttered, before melting off and getting lost in the crowd.
Tawny posed for a flurry of photographs before ditching her date, vanishing into the Mercedes and zooming back to the Four Seasons. Her skin was crawling and she scratched furiously, nearly drawing blood, her manicured nails working so fast against her arm that her driver, normally too timid to speak, asked with trepidation: ‘Are you all right, Ms Lascelles?’
‘Mind your own fucking business,’ she snapped back, tugging down the sleeves on her jacket, ‘and keep driving. Isn’t that what I pay you for?’
The dividing glass slid up.
Shit!
Jacob Lyle was a handsome bastard. Just the kind of man she had used to entertain—rich, pampered, polished rich boys with a lust for domination.
And a lust for the rest …
It’s over! Don’t think of it!
But she couldn’t help it. Some men brought it rushing back. They reminded her of the bad times. Jacob Lyle was one of them.
Jacob’s a cocky sonofabitch.
It was the look in his eyes—of greed, of ownership, of entitlement; Tawny had faced it more times than she cared to mention. Though admittedly that sort had been rare for her: more often she would be landed with squalor; dirty, grimy vagrants who demanded all manner of degeneracy. Jacob represented those rare prizes they had all prayed for when the gates opened. Bored money, the girls used to tag them, sailing in after their city dealings and power lunches to splash a few bills on a stripper or three.
Dancer, remember? Not a stripper.
If only that was the worst bit. It wasn’t.
The worst bit was the way Jacob had appraised her.
How it still had the power to turn her on …
Tawny hated herself, but it had excited her: that flash in his eyes, the spark of desire. She would never tire of it as long as she lived. The need for male approval was stitched into her fibre, as vital to her as blood. Where she came from, beauty equalled attention, attention equalled cash—and cash equalled the ultimate prize: freedom.
Was she free now?
Tawny recalled the crisp exchange of bills like it was yesterday, the loose tug of a tie and the hush of material as it fell to the floor. The scent of aftershave and cigars, brandy on breath; and the cold, clammy press of skin against hers …
Back at the hotel, she hurried up to her penthouse and ran a deep bath. She filled it with salts and lotions, syrups and tonics, anything to scrub the horrors away.
Tawny soaked in the water until she met the cusp of sleep.
Forget it.
Those days can’t catch you now.
It was gone, it was over—and anyway, she never had to see Jacob Lyle again.
8
Rome
Eve Harley lifted her head from the toilet bowl in her suite at the Villa Maestro and groaned. Why did she feel so ill? All week she had been waking early, making a mad dash for the bathroom, and it was near impossible to keep food down.
Was it something she ate? Was she sick?
She ought to have consulted a doctor before flying, but couldn’t bring herself to. It was a weak excuse, but still. She had seen too many of them, been inside too many hospitals. The antiseptic, the white coats, the plastic chairs in the waiting room while she and her mum had braced themselves to be seen, armed with a new tank of lies …
‘Are you sure you should go?’ her editor had asked the day before, taking in her waxy complexion and sunken eyes. ‘You look terrible.’
Eve was damned if a bout of nausea was going to stop her doing her job. She was yet to take a sick day in her life; she didn’t believe in them. Often she got teased that she would be working on her deathbed. It was only half a joke.
If there was even a sniff of a lead then she wasn’t letting anyone else reach the payload first. American senator Mitch Corrigan was one such assignment. Last month Eve had interviewed him on an imminent presidency campaign, and she remembered being seriously unnerved by his veneer. OK, so all politicians had one, but there was something about Mitch Corrigan’s that sat more uncomfortably than most. Throughout their exchange Eve had noticed the splinters in his smooth disguise: eyes that darted, a twitchy knee, then the façade would slip seamlessly back into place and he would deliver yet another perfectly rehearsed answer. She didn’t buy it for a second.
Now the senator had come to Italy, and it seemed he was doing all he could to keep the trip under wraps. Orlando Silvers had supplied the tip-off, in exchange for her spinning an effusive piece on Angela’s new label (Orlando liked to make out that he didn’t dote on his sister: Eve thought it sweet that he did). Corrigan’s every move was publicised to the hilt ahead of his White House bid—except for this one. For some reason, the Republican didn’t want them following him here.
The senator was intriguing, no doubt about it. Eve intended to find out why.
She cleaned up, took a brisk shower and snatched her bag.
No time to be ill. There was work to be done.
It was a struggle to keep the Jeep in her sights as they roared east out of the city.
The February sky was slate-grey, the autostrada darker still, throwing up spray from the vehicles in front. Senator Corrigan’s Jeep was going at speed, switching lanes without warning and then abruptly ducking out on the exit to Ferentino. It was important Eve kept a safe distance—she did not want to give herself away.
They peeled off onto a winding, deserted road. She held back, careful only to take a corner once the Jeep had a chance to move out of sight. Hulking trees dripped darkly and the sky thickened, bowed with the deluge it was set to unleash. Her hired Fiat’s wipers jammed and momentarily she was blinded, the taillights up front her only beacons before the feeble swish resumed. She kept her headlamps dipped.
An animal shot out of the verge. Eve swerved, almost losing control, her nearside tyres scuffing the ridge of a ditch. She slammed on the brakes, the steering wheel spinning wildly in her hands, and abruptly came to a stop. The Jeep had vanished. Flooring the gas once more, Eve bombed along the slick road, determined not to lose her trail, and then, just as she was starting to fear Corrigan was long gone, a stain bled out of the mist: brake lights, far ahead. The Jeep was slowing, taking a turn into a bank of trees. As she came close, Eve saw it was a narrow dirt track, concealed behind a screen of leaves and just wide enough for the car to slip through.
Further up the road was another vehicle, a red Golf, parked at an angle.
She slowed and climbed out. The rain took seconds to soak through her jacket, matting her hair and chilling her to the bone. It was silent apart from the steady, gentle patter of raindrops. A bird cawed. Dark wings flapped.
Eve picked her way along the track. It was tricky under her Converse and pimpled with potholes, rocks and foot-deep puddles, but she couldn’t risk being picked up on the sound of an engine. At last, beyond a final twist, she caught the hush of a distant, murmured exchange. She tried to decipher what was being said.
There followed a mechanical scrape, like a gate opening.
Eve gave it several minutes before advancing. Concealed in the trees, she watched from afar. Wherever Senator Corrigan had come to, it was high security.
A hundred yards or so from where she hid, armed guards in military dress were pacing a mesh-wire blockade. Clumpy boots crunched on the wet ground. Every so often their radios crackled and a response was uttered. At each end of the barrier was a makeshift hut, housing further lookouts. The track continued beyond.
What was this place? No signposts off the road, no risk of pedestrians taking a stroll out in the middle of nowhere and stumbling across a hidden garrison.
And even if they did …
It was clear that nobody was getting past this—unless they had been invited.
Senator Mitch Corrigan had been invited.
Eve spent all afternoon trying to locate the building at Veroli. She scoped Google Maps, her own GPS, hunted any scrap that might get thrown up via a search, but according to the web the house did not exist. The only clue she hit on was a record, infuriatingly brief, connecting the Veroli Estate to the Casa Rocca in Rome. Eve knew of the auction house, had once met its famous jeweller Celeste Cavalieri, and she made a note to renew the contact. Her memory of Cavalieri was of a quiet, uncertain woman, a thousand miles from herself, and she was confident she could bleed enough from her to get her story off the blocks. What had Mitch Corrigan been doing there?
Lying back on her hotel bed, Eve tapped a pen against her teeth.
She was onto something big, she was sure of it.
Her BlackBerry beeped. She reached for it, taking news from her assistant of Kevin Chase’s forthcoming trip to London, and stifled a ripple of disappointment that the email wasn’t from Orlando. Why would it be? They never exchanged messages unless it was to plot their next encounter—and that had been her decision, remember?
Eve didn’t admit the anticlimax, even to herself.
The first time they’d fucked she had been strict on the rules: it was physical, nothing more, and she wasn’t getting into it for a boatload of emotional mush or sentimental phone calls. Orlando had laughed. Told her she was a tough cookie.
Eve allowed herself a rare moment of reflection and smiled, thinking of him. Normally she kept Orlando in his Orlando-shaped box, there when his body was joined with hers and gone when it wasn’t. But sometimes, just sometimes …
They had met at an industry party three years ago. The attraction had been immediate, the kind of magnetism that Eve, a born cynic, had dismissed as Hollywood garbage. She hadn’t known who he was, this arrogant man in Versace pinstripe and expensive aftershave, but it soon became apparent. He was the Orlando Silvers, successor to the empire: son and grandson to a legendary man, brother to heiress Angela. He was at the helm of one of the most powerful families in America.
After that first time, she hadn’t expected to see him again. She had been taken aback when, a week later, he had got in touch to say he was in London, and did she want to meet? Orlando travelled as much as she did, and when they crossed cities it made sense to hook up, no strings, no commitment, just straight-up sex.
Before long they were exchanging more than sweat and kisses. He was useful to her, accessing as he did circles she could never hope to penetrate, and she useful to him, a muscle in the UK media that could change perceptions overnight. Never did they discuss anything deeper—Eve knew little about Orlando’s life and he even less about hers. If they took other lovers it was never mentioned, if they made the mistake of falling asleep in each other’s arms it went unsaid, and they never had a dialogue that began with anything like the words, ‘So where do you see this thing going?’
It was the perfect arrangement.
Orlando Silvers was a stellar fuck and that was all there was to it.
What did it matter that he hadn’t been in contact? Eve knew the clan was in Vegas; she had seen Angela pictured there at the weekend with her father. Orlando would be with them. She would ask him when they next met, and depending on Orlando’s mood he would either elaborate or tell her gruffly, ‘Business.’ After three years she had learned to read him directly, knew when to push and when to leave alone. Maybe it wasn’t so far from a real relationship after all.
Eve swung her legs out of bed and padded to the bathroom. She stopped at the door. Just do it, she told herself. Then you’ll know. You’ll know it’s a stupid idea.
Her eyes fell to the rim of the bath, where the little white stick stared back at her, frank and unapologetic.
She did what she had to do, left it and returned to the bedroom.
Crazy girl. You’ve always been careful. It isn’t anything, you’ll see.
At the window, Eve parted the blinds. From high above the city she could see across the spires and rooftops and make out the bitten-down curves of the ancient Colosseum. The rain had cleared and tentative sunlight filtered through the clouds, soaking the amphitheatre in tender light. The bulbs in its arches were starting to come on, glowing hubs that grew against the stone with quiet, timeless dignity. In the violet sky, the evening’s first stars were beginning to appear.
She returned to the bathroom and checked the result.
It didn’t surprise her.
Fishing her phone from her bag, she dialled a number.
He picked up on the fourth ring, brusque voice announcing his name.
Eve took a breath. ‘Hi. We need to meet.’
