Chastity Flame
A Ravenous Romance™ Breathless™ Original Publication
C. Margery Kempe
A Ravenous Romance™ Breathless™ Original Publication
Chastity Flame
Copyright © 2009 by C. Margery Kempe
Ravenous Romance™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 123A
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-223-1
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
Chastity Flame stood in front of Les grandes baigneuses waiting for her phone to ring. The National Gallery was nearly empty. Of course, it was a beautiful day. It figured that Monitor would send her here for the contact. She looked at the bathers and envied their frolic. It would feel marvelous to strip and relax with a few friends on the beach.
Except her line of work guaranteed that she had no friends to speak of anymore. No one knew her real name; no one even knew her favourite drink. Chastity lived in a building with corporate owners. Monitor took care of the bills—rent, discreet dry cleaning and regular hampers of food from Harrods whenever she was in town.
She could almost hear the laughter of the women in the painting. They were probably discussing their lovers. Chastity sighed. Maybe that was all she needed. It had been days. The last one had been a quickie on the flight back from Kiev, a young Ukrainian with laughing blue eyes and golden curls like a pop star. When his hand brushed her thigh, Chastity had been quick to respond. Work always left her with an itch. While the flight crew were busy handing out breakfasts, the two had slipped into the tiny toilet, where the eager young man had pushed her skirt up around her waist, ripped down her panties and lifted Chastity onto his swollen prick with such enthusiasm that she had come almost at once despite the pressure of the faucet in her back as he thrust up into her. She had had to cover his mouth with her hand to muffle his ecstatic groans. Nonetheless, a few of the other travelers smirked as they tried to slip unobtrusively out of the rear of the plane. She had the painful imprint of that faucet on her spine for the rest of the flight. Mental note: Next time, use the handicapped stall, Chastity reminded herself, because there was more room to maneuver.
"Cezanne is so sensual," a deep voice murmured beside her. Chastity turned to see a tall young man with mocha skin of velvety softness that made her at once long to touch his cheek. His warm smile matched well his deep brown eyes. He wore a green linen shirt that looked casually elegant under his grey jacket.
"Or else he just liked to paint naked women," Chastity responded, guessing this was her contact. He was definitely a fine-looking guy. She would definitely like to explore that torso for an afternoon or evening.
"Oh, look at the way he shapes those bottoms," he insisted, chuckling at her remark. "He's caressing them with the colours."
"I prefer Van Gogh's bold ambition," Chastity said, hoping to bring the conversation to a close rather than prolong her sense of disappointment. Contacts, after all, were off limits. But he failed to respond to the contact script.
"Van Gogh is wonderful, but you shouldn't overlook the nuances of Cezanne's brush. Look at the flow of the blue skies. He wants you to fall into the scene and share the warmth." He gestured to the sky, the smile still on his face, and Chastity realised he was not the contact. So it was all right to enjoy him.
Well, well, the day was improving.
Chastity considered the painting more seriously. "I can see the warmth, all right. A bunch of girls talking about their lovers, complaining about them, or maybe even praising them."
"The sacred female space," her companion said with another warm chuckle. "The safety of that privacy, the comfort of that familiarity."
"I envy them," Chastity said simply.
"You need more female friends." It wasn't a question.
"My job keeps me moving." She shrugged.
"It's good to stay connected." He looked at her with frank interest, judging her receptiveness. Apparently, he liked what he saw.
"I like connecting," Chastity said, looking him in the eye. "What do you do?"
"I'm a historian. Damien Michelet." He stuck out his hand.
Chastity took his hand in hers and enjoyed its warmth. Definite possibilities here, she thought. But before she could offer him one of her many pseudonyms, another hand reached for her arm.
"There you are!" The contact was a pale bureaucrat with damp hands and an adenoidal whine. "You've got to see the Gaugins. They're quite exciting."
"I prefer Van Gogh's bold ambition," Chastity said dryly, feeling her irritation rise swiftly.
"Gaugin is really the master of bold colour, though," the contact remarked with a flat tone of irritation. He looked like a man with a lot of errands to run, impatient that she was slowing him down. She could almost hear the list being ticked off in his thoughts. His head inclined toward the exit, as if to push her along.
"Excuse me a moment," Chastity said to Damien, who was looking a bit startled by the abrupt exchange. She steered the contact toward the stairwell, continuing their stilted conversation with the remark, "Gaugin knew when to fuck off when he wasn’t needed, too."
"You have a job to do," the contact hissed as quietly as he could as they climbed down the white marbled stairs. "Monitor is concerned. There's been a breach of some documents online and we need to know how extensive the leak has been." They moved along toward the ArtStart room, blending into the gaggle of chatting espresso drinkers. He handed her a business card, palming a compact syringe along with it. "This one needs correcting, but we need to know how much he knows, and where he is in the chain, before you do so."
Chastity nodded. Her mind, however, still lingered on Damien Michelet and whether he might like to get some espresso or better yet, a drink.
The job was old hat. Damien was something new and interesting.
"Top priority," the contact reminded her, as if he sensed her drifting thoughts.
"Yes, I see," she snapped and turned on her heel. Officious little prick! She climbed back up the stairs. Looking around the room at the top, she didn't immediately see the dishy Damien. Damn it! She looked at the card in her palm, tucked it and the syringe into her pocket, waited a tick and then walked through to the next room. Only a few minutes and then I'll give it up, Chastity thought. It's not a big deal.
She found him by a Degas. He was leaning in as if to catch a scent of the paint itself. Chastity couldn't help a smile, and not just because the posture showed off his great ass. "Are you going to tell me about Degas's employment of colour now?"
Damien returned her grin. "I'm always amazed at his controlled use of reds." The pleasure in his eyes was apparent.
"Are you a painter as well as a historian?" Chastity asked with genuine curiosity.
He laughed. "No, I appreciate it all, but I can't even draw, let alone paint. If I could, I know a brilliant subject I'd try." Damien let his eyes drift appreciatively down her frame. He definitely liked what he saw, and she warmed to his scrutiny.
And she was charmed by his frankness. She didn't have time for slow movers or shy boys. "I've got a really boring meeting to attend that my colleague reminded me about, but I wonder if we might get together for drinks later?" If he was put off by assertive women, it was time to find out.
"That would be wonderful. Do you know the Greenman on St. Martin's Lane?"
They made plans to meet at five and Chastity turned to head toward the Trafalgar Square exit, her attention now focused intently on the man in chinos and a black jumper who had been following her since the contact. Damn! There was no hope but that she would have to deal with this. Best to get away from the crowds, but where?
Chastity pushed open the glass doors, pausing to leave a donation in the collection box outside so she could cast her eyes back to check out the man tailing her. He was trying to blend into the crowd of moms and kids, but his furtive glance in her direction only cemented her suspicions. She took the set of stairs down with rapid steps, crossing to the top of Trafalgar Square, which, as usual, was teeming with tourists. The guy in the black jumper crossed diagonally and moved into a gaggle of Americans poring over a map.
After a second's consideration, Chastity headed across the square toward the stairwell that led into the Tube station and the subway across to the rail station. Pushing past a knot of exiting tourists, she hesitated at the bottom of the step, then turned toward the passage leading to the railway. For a moment, she was disoriented, but she shook it off. She wasn't herself today. Maybe it was just the thought of straddling the gorgeous Damien, which had suddenly leapt into her imagination.
Stepping to the end of the passage, Chastity went just far enough up the steps to be out of sight of anyone exiting the tunnel. She waited for a moment, listening. For a time all she could hear was the tuneless chatter of the people in the passage, but then she heard hurried steps and braced herself. As the man in the black jumper came around the corner, Chastity swung her arm up to clock him in the throat, leaving him gasping and choking as he grabbed his windpipe in agony.
"Who do you work for?" she demanded, ignoring the alarmed passersby who nonetheless, like all city dwellers, seemed to assume the matter was none of their business. "Who do you work for?" she repeated, nudging him with her booted foot.
"I work for BT!" he choked out at last. The man looked at her with genuine terror and Chastity realised she had made a mistake.
"Why were you following me?" she asked in somewhat less peremptory tone.
"I—I was going to see if I could hit on you," he said, gulping and continuing to rub his sore throat. "Don't worry, I won't." He looked angry now that he figured she wasn't going to kill him.
"You should know better than to follow women down dark corridors," Chastity said with a laugh. "You never know what you might find." Moron, she thought. At least maybe he'd think better of trailing after another woman that way. He looked like he would recover momentarily, so she turned on her heel, climbed up the steps and crossed over the Strand. The guy might try to call a policeman, but she doubted it. The world may have changed in many ways, but it was a rare man who could admit to being hit by a woman, let alone complain about it.
She glanced at the card once more as she walked toward Waterloo Bridge. The name on it meant nothing to her, but she recognized the address as one of those ugly corporate piles. Bit of a risk to enter, as they always kept a close watch on their employees—thieves never trusting anyone, after all—but people paid no attention to what they didn't think they saw, and anyway, no face recognition software would ever be able to identify a woman who didn't really exist.
Chastity had a distinct advantage there.
A memory bubbled up from that lost past, something she usually tried to keep buried, but it had surfaced before she had a chance to think better of it. It might have been her tenth birthday, or even ninth. Her parents had brought her up to London from Devon, where they were visiting her mother's family. While she enjoyed being the adored child among all those women—in her recollection, the only men ever there were her father and grandfather—Chastity had been most happy alone with her parents in the swirl of the city. She had not been Chastity then, of course, but no passing nostalgia could make her pronounce her true name, even in her own mind.
The day that now swam into her thoughts had been a perfect one: afternoon tea at the Savoy. The waiters were especially kind, her parents happy and loving, and the cakes absolutely and indescribably delicious. She was too young to know that a painter, as her father claimed to be, could not afford teas at the Savoy without some sort of backlog of royal commissions. Chastity only knew that his Castilian accent never failed to charm all who met him, yet he never had eyes for anyone but her mother. Her mother had been so plain, Chastity could never understand how he had become so smitten, particularly when she saw some of the international beauties who tried to flirt with him. As an adult, however, she recognized the power of that devastating wit and intelligence her mother had wielded both in conversation and in her columns. Chastity had been lucky to inherit her mother's intelligence, if not her wit, as much as she had been blessed by her father's good looks. They were useful tools in her work, Chastity thought bitterly.
She did not look at the Savoy as she walked past. Time to concentrate on the job. The card led her to one of the monotonous office blocks, which, as anticipated, had a security desk at the front. No problem.
Chastity fished in her pocket for a well-used press pass. "Hello, there," she said, flashing a winning smile at the receptionist. "Eleanor Brown, Financial Times. I have an appointment to interview, ah, let's see." She pulled out the card for full effect. "James Clark Hall, acquisitions."
"Do you have an appointment?" the young woman asked, her eyes on the computer screen rather than on Chastity's face.
"Yes, my office made it last week." Would she go for it? Or were they strict here?
"Fifteenth floor, see the receptionist."
"Thanks ever so," Chastity said with genuine warmth.
Up the lift and another desk waited. The woman behind this desk looked more fierce and far more harried than the one in the lobby. She would not be as easy to blow past. Chastity counted on the ego of the "interviewee" to get her where she needed to be, particularly if he looked out here. Most men—and not a few women—found her appealing. Chastity knew her curvy figure didn't appeal to everyone, but many seemed to think it promised luscious rewards. She was fit, if not skinny, and her olive skin and chestnut tresses radiated the glow that good health brings. Few could resist remarking on her amber eyes, a rare enough color, but years of training had made them even more expressive—when she chose to have them reveal anything.
"Eleanor Brown, Financial Times. I'm here to see John Clark Hall—"
"What time?" The reception did not look up or meet her gaze.
"Three fifteen."
The woman flipped a page in one of the six diaries on her desk. Impressive, Chastity thought. "No, sorry, not here."
"Oh, but it must be! My PA made it last week and she's an absolute wonder. She would never steer me wrong."
"Sorry, not here." The receptionist looked up only to emphasize the fact that Chastity was wasting her time.
"Is there any chance—"
"He's booked up the rest of the afternoon." The receptionist turned back to her diaries, implicitly dismissing Chastity, but she wasn't willing to throw in the towel yet. She sensed that the "we're all working girls in this together" wasn't going to fly with this overworked woman, so she tried another tack.
"Pity. Well, I'd like to rebook now, but chances are by the time he has a free spot, my editor will already have asked me to move onto the next name on the list. Perhaps you shouldn't mention it to him…"
The receptionist tapped her fingers for a few seconds, then resignedly offered, "He is back from lunch, but his three o’clock hasn’t turned up yet. I could buzz him and see if he's got five minutes."
"That would do nicely," Chastity purred.
The receptionist tapped the numbers and spoke into her headset. "Eleanor Brown, Financial Times, is here to see you. Thought she had a three fifteen with you but I see the Ayers Group representative is supposed to be here at three. Yes," she added, flashing a quick look at Chastity, "I think you'd like to see her."
His grin, when he stepped out of his bland office, told Chastity everything she needed to know. Well, that and the fact that he looked like Nigel Havers's little brother with a loud tie. Vanity would undo him, probably had done in the first place. "Ms. Brown," he said too warmly, taking her hand in both of his. "Do step into my office. I'm sure Ms. Perkins has made a mistake about the appointment. I remember it clearly." Chastity made sure to roll her eyes at poor Ms. Perkins, who made no sign of recognition at the attempt to forge solidarity, but she didn't regret the gesture. Chances are she was all too aware what a jerk she worked for—one of six, no less.
Chastity sat down in the proffered chair, making sure her skirt hiked up as far as possible without being too obvious. It wouldn't take much with this guy. His eyes were nearly popping out of his head already. She saw the pause as he decided to sit on the edge of his gigantic desk rather than go behind it. His hands couldn't grope her cleavage, but his eyes did a good job of it. She was glad she had decided to loosen another button in the elevator, which had drawn stares from her fellow passengers.
Chastity took out her handy digital recorder. Good thing Monitor had pressed it on her last week. It was much more convenient than slinging around a pad of paper, particularly as she preferred to travel light and hated carrying a bag. Looking every inch the professional, she pressed the record button and said into the mic, "Profile, John Clark Hall." Chastity leaned forward as if eager and the target smiled down eagerly. "I don't suppose we could go out for coffee and do the interview there?" Chastity asked as if the idea had just occurred to her. "It's so nice to be away from the office for a little…privacy." She smiled up at him adoringly.
He seemed genuinely regretful, but shook his head. "I can put off the next appointment, but I can't squeeze too much time right now. But we can be sure to have some privacy." He leaned back and picked up the phone. "Ms. Perkins, ask the Avery guy to wait when he gets here. Just buzz me once when he arrives." He looked back at Chastity with another maddening grin. "All alone now."
"Oh, Mr. Clark Hall," Chastity said, trying to look blushingly innocent even as she thrust her chest out, "You make it sound so…suggestive."
"Just think, you should get to know the real man," he said, and leered. "And I'm all man."
Oh brother, what a fucker, Chastity thought. At least that made it easier. She slipped her free hand up to stroke his thigh. "I bet you are."
The target hopped down from the desk and unzipped his pants, fishing his knob out from the stripy boxers. It was unremarkable. "How would you like a taste of this, Miss Brown?"
"Oh, mother, may I?" Chastity had to smother a desire to laugh. She reached out to take hold of his erection, gently at first, then pumping it a little more assertively to make him close his eyes with pleasure, as if on cue. She dropped the recorder into her pocket and instead took up the syringe. Taking a firmer grip, Chastity thumbed off the syringe's cap and brought it up to his groin.
"Hey, take it easy there, missy," he said irritably. "You don't need to pull it off." But then his eyes flew wide open when he saw what she had in her other hand. It was telling, thought Chastity, that his cock only got harder.
"I have a few questions for you,” she said, “and if you answer them quickly and truthfully, I won't have to shoot you full of potassium chloride. You probably don't know what that is, but it will bring on a heart attack in minutes."
"All right, all right, let's just relax," he said, the panic evident in his face, the erection all but gone in that instant. Yet Chastity tightened her hold. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Jesus, I didn't know the Financial Times was so cutthroat!"
Chastity laughed out loud. "I'm not from the FT," she said at last as he stared at her, disbelieving. "You sold some information to a hacker. Information that has put the security of this nation into jeopardy." A slight exaggeration, but what would he know?
"I don't know what you're talking about, honestly!" His eyes pleaded convincingly, but Chastity didn’t loosen her grip.
"Information about an encryption system used by your company?" Chastity prompted him. Suddenly he looked a little more worried—and slightly embarrassed.
"I, uh, I don't think—"
"Clearly it's not your strong point," Chastity cut in. "Thinking. You certainly didn't think about why someone might be interested in cracking a system, that protected data might be compromised?"
"He said it was just for money, you know, he was just going to skim the system a little, get a jump on the competition. Everybody does that!"
"Not everybody," Chastity said. He actually had the good grace to slink back, ashamed. "Who was it?"
"I don't know his name!" He grimaced as Chastity gripped him tighter. "Ouch! I really don't. He just came up to me at one of the Friday functions and started chatting." His eyes were wild, pleading for her to let him go. "I don't really know anything about how the computers work, really! I'm just an administrator of the IT department. He told me he just needed a certain set of files. We have daily passwords that expire at midnight. I just let him use mine."
"So you have no idea what he actually took?"
"Well, he said he wanted—that is, he was after—" He swallowed hard. "No, I guess I don't."
Chastity knew all she needed to know. "They say ignorance is bliss," she muttered, looking into his eyes. His gaze fastened on to hers, full of hope and a desire to please. "If so, you must have been happy."
But it was too late. They both jumped when the phone buzzed loudly. Chastity took advantage of his distraction to pump the contents of the syringe into the skin at his groin. Betrayal and fear alternated quickly across his face, but in no time he was seizing up with the pain of his overworked heart. Chastity let him slump to the floor where he continued to gasp like a beached fish, clutching his chest. A final shudder wracked his frame, then he lay still. She bent down to touch his neck and felt no pulse. Retrieving the syringe cap from where it had fallen on the carpet, she slipped it back in her pocket.
She reached up to fluff her hair, put on a practiced look of alarm, then turned to the door. As if breathless with fear, she ran out into the corridor announcing, "Mr. Clark Hall has fainted! I don't know what's wrong with him!"
His three o'clock appointment jumped up from his chair and Perkins, the receptionist, paused to consider whether she should leave her station. "I think you better call an ambulance," she suggested. Perkins nodded and dialed 999 while other heads poked out of office doors.
"My God, I think he's dead!" the man from Avery shouted as he kneeled at the side of the prone body, penis curled sadly from the fly of his boxers. As alarm spread through the complex, murmurs arose and the crowd grew. Chastity slipped out the door and took a quick turn to the right, where she had spotted the exit stairs. Stepping through the door, she stopped to do up her buttons and smooth her hair back down. She went down three flights, then stepped into the corridor to take the lift down to the main floor. The car arrived with three other people in it, all paying more attention to their mobiles than they were to her, although the tall man in the back sneaked an appreciative look at her ass.
On the ground floor, Chastity spotted the door to the toilet with relief. She couldn’t wait to wash her hands. Before she threw away the paper towel that dried her hands, she palmed the syringe into it, along with Clark Hall's card. She checked her look in the mirror. Her loose black linen jacket looked exquisite as ever, her black top buttoned up looked businesslike and modest. The skirt was a bit wrinkled, but sitting at a desk would accomplish the same thing.
When she came out of the ladies room, the ambulance crew had just arrived, shooing people away from the lifts to commandeer them to the fifteenth floor. Chastity gawked at their retreating bustle like everyone else in the lobby, then turned and exited to the street again. She had some time before her appointment, but not enough to contact Monitor safely. It would have to wait. Instead she walked back toward Charing Cross, then idled in some bookshops as she made her way toward the Greenman.
Chastity was certain she was a few minutes early, but she saw Damien was already waiting for her, an eager look on his face. She sat down beside him at the small table he had found and touched him lightly on the thigh.
"Business taken care of?" he asked, a broad smile leaping across his face.
"All done," Chastity said with satisfaction. "I'm free for the rest of the day now."
Damien placed his hand over hers and pressed it lightly. "Wonderful. Let's see if we can think of something interesting to do with that time." He took a sip from his beer. "So what is that you do, anyway?"
Chastity smiled. "I'm a chartered accountant," she said evenly as her hand slipped up that muscled thigh with its promise of riches to explore. It was going to be a good night, all right.
Chapter Two
"Do you want a drink?" Damien asked, his hand slipping down Chastity's back, caressing the fabric of her jacket and examining the shape of her spine.
"I find I'm not all that thirsty anymore," Chastity said, looking up at those deep brown eyes. "Why don't we find someplace a bit more private?"
Damien smiled and downed the rest of his beer. "Let's go."
They stepped outside and without thinking, turned right up St. Martin's, arms linked. At the corner with New Row, Chastity pulled Damien abruptly around. "One last test," she murmured, reaching up to draw his face down to hers. Their lips met in a soft exploring kiss which quickly grew in force and warmth. Chastity felt his tongue probe her mouth, tasting her delights with savour, and she let her own tongue dart back in response as her hand caressed that cheek she had been longing to touch since the first moment she saw Damien.
When at last they drew apart, both faces wreathed with smiles, she let herself admire those handsome features. "I don't know where we're going," Chastity finally said, pressing against Damien to feel a very promising bulge in his pants, "but I think we ought to get there very soon."
"My flat is on Garrick," Damien said quickly, pulling Chastity tightly against him and letting his hands roam from her shoulders to the small of her back, then to the curve of her ass while her eyes closed in a pleasurable reverie. "Just around the corner," he breathed in her ear. "Why do you think I chose this pub?"
They both laughed, untangled, and set off at a brisk pace. Chastity couldn’t resist using a darkened doorway as another chance to grope Damien's fit physique, which seemed quite unlike what she expected in an academic. Not that she was complaining as she stroked his muscled thigh; surprises could be good. Her panties were already wet and clinging. She longed to feel one of those big hands exploring, the long fingers thrust inside her. She could hardly bear the wait.
"Touch me," she whispered in Damien's ear.
He drew back slightly, looked sheepishly up and down the street, then crouched slightly to reach under her skirt, two fingers sliding along the wet fabric at her crotch and beginning the orgasm that exploded when his fingers slipped around the elastic to plunge inside her. Chastity moaned and Damien covered her open mouth with his as he continued to milk the shaking orgasms from her cunt.
"You greedy girl," Damien murmured when at last her tremors had subsided, releasing his busy fingers, which he raised to his mouth for a taste. "Just for that, you are going to have to hum me the very finest tune known to man."
"Singing for my supper," Chastity said, her body glowing with satisfaction. "I think I might be able to manage that."
"Well, let's hurry because I don't want to have to wait any longer to find out what your lips feel like wrapped around my cock. He's very jealous of my fingers, too, you know," Damien continued as they clattered around the corner. "Won't let them go anywhere he can't go, too."
Jackpot, Chastity thought, as they stopped in front of a nondescript door. Smart, funny and sexy as hell. She would have been willing to settle for sexy. Damien got the door open and gestured Chastity inside, giving her ass a playful slap as she headed up the stairs before him. At the top, Chastity looked around a small neat flat that showed exquisite taste, from the Rothko print on the wall to the overstuffed shelves of books.
She didn't have much time to dawdle in thought, however. Safely off the street, Damien no longer hesitated, but wrapped her in a tight embrace that molded her body to his as he kneaded the curving richness of her ass and groaned with pleasure. Chastity pried her way to his shirt and pulled it open to lick his chest and seek out a nipple to nip between her teeth, and felt him jerk slightly while grinding his throbbing groin into hers.
She dropped to her knees and grabbed the top of his trousers. Unfastening the snap, she slipped down the zipper and rubbed her face against his straining erection, hot against his trendy boxer briefs. She grinned up at Damien, but his eyes were closed. Roughly she pulled down both trousers and pants to free his nice thick cock, which bobbed invitingly toward her mouth. She twined her fingers around the base, snuggling into the coarse hair and pressing her thumbs into the base of the taut organ.