THE FARCREEK TRILOGY
3
LADY CHANCE
CARO FRENCH
COPYRIGHT CATRIN COLLIER
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY SIMON & SCHUSTER 1988
Caro French only wrote 3 books. Lady Luck, Lady, Lay and Lady Chance, which together make up the FARCREEK TRILOGY. I will be eternally grateful to her. The year I was given the contract to write “raunch” as Caro French I wrote five books, One Catrin Collier, One Katherine John and the three Caro French. As a result I was able to resign my full time job and become a full time writer.
Perhaps the most imaginative paragraph concerning Caro French was the biography I constructed for her.
About the author
Caro French has always loved and lived within sight of the sea. A member of two yachting clubs, she has taught sailing in America, and has since developed a taste for sailing the warmer waters of the Aegean. She now divides her time between English and Turkish waters, which she sails with her third husband.
Believe it or not – I did once teach sailing in America. As for the rest . . . pure fiction.
Chapter One
Roy lingered in front of the window in his new office absently caressing the sensuous curves of the eighteenth century bronze of Circe and the swine that was the most valuable, and consequently most valued of his business ornaments. Since the interior designer had persuaded him to buy the sculpture he had become inordinately fond of it, so fond, he now couldn’t envisage a life without its presence. Hooking his fingers around its base he lifted it, blanching at its weight. His yacht, Earned Enough I, was already packed to the water-line with possessions he was loathe to abandon. Some, like the “investment” jewellery he’d bought his wife Esme before she’d run off with a barman half her age, took up very little space, unlike his collection of object d’art.
The Victorian watercolours, amber chess set first editions of classics, antique glassware and ceramics - every time he walked around his house he found more to take, and all of it required careful packing that was proving both bulky and weighty.
One more day - and night - of his employee and new mistress Carol Cook to enjoy before he’d leave Farcreek and Traceport behind him forever.
Were there any details still waiting to be attended to?
The mortgage he’d taken out on his wife’s house by the simple expedient of forging her signature had already passed through his hands. Two million pounds that he’d wired to a secure and secret bank account in Switzerland. He’d also cleaned out his current account to the overdraft limit - in cash. Four hundred thousand to cover his immediate expenses. Tomorrow he’d set sail with the other competitors in the annual
Farcreek to Ireland yacht race, but, unlike the others, he wouldn’t be returning.
A chest of instantly identifiable but superfluous items to the safety of the Earned Enough I was stowed on deck, ready to be jettisoned at an opportune moment. A storm would be useful, but not essential, and when the oil soaked lifebelt, plastic bathroom fittings and other flotsam was discovered bobbing out at sea, it would be assumed that the Earned Enough I had gone down, and him with it. He’d bought paint and brushes to change the appearance and name of his yacht in a secluded Breton bay before entering Mediterranean waters.
The Greek Islands were swarming with yachts of all nationalities at this time of year. He’d lie low, soak up the sun and ouzo, perhaps even pick up a nubile young backpacker. An American, or Australian? Both nationalities had the reputation of being uninhibited when it came to sex, and when the winter rains came and the Greek Islands, palled, he’d go wherever fate or caprice took him.
He glanced at his safe, making a mental note to remove the documents it contained. It had been ridiculously easy to acquire a new passport. His cousin, Colin Morris had fortuitously died a few weeks ago. Colin had been younger than him, but he didn’t mind losing a few years. He and Colin had been born in the same hospital and the same town. Getting a copy of Colin’s birth certificate had been simple, filling in the passport application form even simpler. Forging the local doctor’s indecipherable scrawl on the back of the photograph and the form to testify to his identity, he’d driven to the passport office in Newport, browsed through a book on Greece while he’d queued, and walked away a new man.
He looked down over the rooftops of the town to the twin headlands that marked the entrance to Farcreek. Life had been good before bankruptcy had loomed its ugly head to threaten his private and professional worlds, but he was confident that wherever he eventually settled it was going to be better. If he’d had to pick a time to begin afresh he couldn’t have chosen a more opportune moment. Going now, meant he wouldn’t have to watch Esme continue to make a fool of herself with John Chin, the half Chinese boy younger than her own son. And all three of his children were adults. Piers was a successful vet, and although he felt a slight pang of conscience at leaving his twin daughters they were of age, and he’d given them everything money could buy. It was probably time they learned to stand on their own feet.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Morris.’ His secretary, Marcia Neilson, knocked before walking in with the Traceport Argos and his afternoon coffee.
‘On the desk, Marcia,’ he ordered abruptly, repositioning the bronze as she attempted to lay the tray on the coffee table in front of the window.
‘Yes, sir.’ She did as he asked before backing out with uncharacteristic haste. He noticed her legs as she left. They weren’t bad. Pity she had no dress sense. For a twenty four year old with basic material that could, with a little flair and imagination have been turned into something quite passable, she looked like a middle aged frump.
He pushed the pile of work on his desk aside and sat in his chair revelling in a delicious sense of freedom. There was absolutely no point in writing new sales and promotion brochures for MMS that would never be printed. He wondered how the staff would take the news of his demise, not just Marcia but the consultants, Dan Pike, and Carol Cook . . . Carol!
He recalled what he’d done to her in his bedroom that morning causing more than just memories to rise. Checking his intercom, he pressed the button for her office.
‘I’m having trouble with these brochures, Carol. Are you free to help?’
‘Be right along, sir.’
He put his hands on his desk recalling the time an ex-mistress had strapped him to it before subjecting him to indignities he’d rather forget.
‘I’ll bring the brochures to you.’ Releasing the button he buzzed reception. ‘Marcia,
Miss Cook and I will be in conference for -the next half hour, see we’re not disturbed.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Dan Pike who was dumping a pile of Dictaphone tapes on to Marcia’s desk, winked at her. ‘Conferring again? He can’t have seen it.’
‘I hope I get out of here before he does.’ Blushing at the implication Dan had managed to intimate in "conferring" she pushed her copy of the Traceport Argos aside.
The headline,
MULTI MILLION POUND DEAL FOR TRACEPORT
glared at her. Turning the paper over, she picked up the first of Dan’s tapes and slotted it into the Dictaphone.
‘Carol?’ Roy smiled as he leant against her office door and locked it.
She left her desk and walked across the room to meet him. He slid his hands up her thighs lifting her skirt to her waist.
‘The best thing about summer is bare legs, and . . . no knickers?’
‘Since you’ve begun to pay attention to me, Mr Morris, I haven’t been able to keep a pair on for more than an hour.’
‘This is a private time; you can call me, Roy.’
‘We’re in the office, Mr Morris.’
‘So we are.’
‘And,’ she breathed in sharply as his probing fingers became less gentle. ‘As you pay my wages you have the right to tell me what to do.’ Kicking off her shoes, she reached up and kissed him. He pushed her away. ‘Bend over the desk face down.’
She did as he asked; reaching out to the far corners she gripped them tightly. In the bedroom she occasionally dictated the pace. In the office Roy did. It was a game they played, and one she enjoyed. It had taken her a long time to find a lover whose sexual drive matched her own, and who also had the same capacity for fantasy.
‘This is the kind of office work I really enjoy.’ running his hands over her naked buttocks, Roy remembered the bronze. The contours of warm female fresh were much more exciting. Perhaps he didn’t need to take the sculpture with him after all.
Closing her eyes, Carol tensed herself. Roy’s office lovemaking was invariably rough bordering on savage, but always exciting. As though he deliberately allowed the persona of ruthless businessman to spill over into what he called “private times.”
Parting her legs with his knee he unzipped his trousers and bent over her, pulling up her cropped top. Squeezing her breasts he entered her. She gasped as he thrust forward, slapping her against the unyielding surface of the desk. Her knuckles whitened as he continued to pound into her, his hands moving from her breasts over her bunched up skirt to her thighs.
The telephone buzzed at Carol’s elbow. She reached out.
‘Leave it,’ Roy commanded brusquely. ‘I told Marcia we weren’t to be disturbed.’
‘Then it must be important. Much to Roy’s chagrin she pressed the button.’
‘Traceport Argos for Mr Morris. I told them he was in conference, but they were most insistent.’
‘Tell them I’ll get back to them,’ Roy barked angrily. Moving away from Carol he pulled the plug on the phone.
‘Don’t ever do that to me again.’
‘Just being the good employee.’ Carol tried to pull down her top, but he stopped her.
‘Up on the desk.’
She lay back. Running his hands over her flanks he yanked both her top and her skirt over her head. He tossed them aside, knocking a pile of papers from the desk.
‘The Peggotson Report,’ she demurred.
‘This is the only kind of work I’m interested in for the next half hour.’ He leered smugly.as he studied her. Naked she was irresistible. He played with her, teasing her, rousing her to a pitch of moaning passion, before lunging into her again and again. She was an exceptionally good lay. In the heat of the moment he debated whether he should ask her to join him. His planned “death” could’ easily accommodate two corpses. But as he withdrew he noticed the clenched muscles in her thighs. She was a trifle too athletic for his taste. He preferred softer, plumper more feminine females.
Cruising the Mediterranean, with time and riches to spare, he’d find women enough, even to satisfy his appetites. So why limit himself to one bite of a cherry when he could have a whole bowlful to savour, relish and enjoy.
John Chin sat alone in the cabin of the Freedom. Esme Morris, his live in lover was working, busy running the gallery she managed for Bert Marner. The air was still, stiflingly hot, but he didn’t attempt to open the cabin door to the light breeze that ruffled the surface of the creek. He sat poised, immobile, the only sign of animation in his eyes as they read the clock on the wall. Five-ten minutes passed. He knew what he should do. What he had planned last Christmas - the worse Christmas he had ever spent.
A phrase sprang unbidden to his mind. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Whoever had said that had got it wrong. He should have killed Roy Morris the day he’d set eyes on him. Instead he’d sought to hurt him first by seducing his wife, only to have all his carefully laid plans shattered when he’d fallen in love with Esme.
Pushing back the table, he peeled the carpet from the floor. A safe was set flush with the boards. Dialling the combination he lifted the heavy door and removed a file thick with newspaper cuttings. He closed his eyes momentarily when he opened it and saw the photograph of his father on the front page of a tabloid. When he opened them again the headline glared at him.
SUICIDE OF FOUNDER OF NATUROPATHIC EMPIRE.
He could recite the article printed below word for word, but that didn’t stop him from reading it again.
‘Mark Benchley Hazard, the founder of the Green Lime chain of naturopathic shops was found dead yesterday in his fume filled car. Mr Benchley Hazard was recently ousted from the board of the company he founded following a successful take-over bid by Heddington Conglomerates. Heddington employed the services of MMS, the Traceport based management consultancy, to streamline the staff of its newest acquisition and shock waves resounded in the West Country business world when Mr Benchley Hazard fell victim, the first casualty of the cutbacks. Spokesmen for Heddington Conglomerates and MMS declined to comment on Mr Benchley Hazard’s death. The former tycoon is survived by his wife, a former Hong Kong beauty queen and one son, a student at Cambridge University. ‘
John turned the page and continued to sift through the cuttings. The last one was dated December 2nd. No headline this time. Just a footnote at the bottom of a column.
The former beauty queen, Lei Tschang, widow of the Green Lime tycoon, Mark Benchley Hazard, died yesterday after jumping off the Bristol suspension bridge. It was the second suicide at the spot this month, and calls for stricter policing of the bridge have been made by local councillors.
Lei Tschang’s husband, Mark Benchley Hazard was found dead in a fume filled car six weeks ago. The coroner recorded a verdict of suicide. The Benchley Hazards will be remembered for their tireless fundraising for child related charities. They are survived by one son.
Pinned to the back of the article was a photocopy of a confidential report prepared by MMS. A report that damned Mark Benchley Hazard’s business abilities and implied he was suffering from premature senile dementia. A report Roy Morris had dictated, signed, and received a quarter of a million pounds for, from the man who had taken his father’s place. Closing the file John continued to sit and stare. It had all seemed so simple when he had plotted vengeance after his mother’s funeral. First he killed the new Managing Director of the Green Lime chain, Ashley Cotton-Potter, then Roy. Only Cotton-Potter had eluded him by dying in a plane crash, which left Roy Morris.
He tried to block Esme from mind, remembering only that Roy had ended his parents’ lives, and ruined his own by taking the only family he had.
He looked down into the safe. The gun was still there, the box of bullets beside it. He had delayed long enough. Roy’s name was on the board in Farcreek yacht club as a competitor in the Irish race. The Freedom was faster than the Earned Enough I, all he had to do was dog Roy’s wash and wait until there were no other yachts in sight. Picking up the gun he closed his fingers around its cold, hard weight, recalling the time his father had taught him to use it.
He’d settle his score with Roy Morris on the open sea, and let the waves take the evidence.
The coffee still stood cold and congealing on his desk when Roy returned to his office. He buzzed Marcia.
‘Bring fresh coffee, and return the Traceport Argos’s phone call.’ Swinging back in his chair he folded his hands behind his head and propped his feet on the desk, feeling satisfied with himself, the world in general and Carol in particular. She deserved a treat. They would leave work early and visit a jewellers. He’d allow her to pick out whatever piece she wanted, to the limit of one of his many credit cards. He could afford to be generous when he wouldn’t be around to receive the reckoning:
And afterwards they’d dine at the Harbour View. He had nine credit cards. It would be fun to stretch all of them to the limit. He’d buy her a dress in Betsy Crawford’s ludicrously expensive boutique as well. Then she could wear it and nothing else. The thought of sitting in the decorous, elegant surroundings of the Harbour View with a woman who was wearing no underclothes excited him.
Tonight was going to be fun - a taster of the years that lay ahead.
‘Traceport Argos for you, Mr Morris.’
‘Roy Morris.’
‘Thank you for returning our call, Mr Morris. Do you have any comment to make on today’s news?’
‘No.’
‘That’s very generous of you, considering what you’ve lost.’
‘Lost?’
‘You have seen today’s Argos, Mr Morris?’
Roy unfolded the issue of the Traceport Argos Marcia had brought in with his coffee. As he scanned the headlines his hand began to shake.
‘Mr Morris ... Mr Morris are you there?’
Roy slammed down the receiver to disconnect the line before picking it up again. ‘Get me Betsy Crawford!’ He shouted.
Dan Pike who was still in reception, looked up from his own copy of the evening paper. ‘Looks like he’s finally seen it. Bet that took the gilt edge of his conferring with Carol.’
Marcia rang the number she’d looked up when she had first seen the headline. She spoke for barely a minute before pressing the intercom button. ‘Ms Crawford is not taking any calls, Mr Morris.’
Abandoning the phone, Roy stormed out of his office, walking past Marcia and Dan without a word.
‘I wouldn’t like to be Betsy Crawford,’ Marcia commented, relieved that Roy had taken his wrath elsewhere.
‘I would.’ Dan closed his newspaper and propped his feet on the corner of Marcia’s desk. He re-read the first paragraph of the lead story.
JAPANESE INVESTORS PAY ONE AND THREEQUARTER MILLION FOR WATERFRONT SITE THAT CHANGED HANDS FOR THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND LESS THAN A MONTH AGO.
‘Betsy’s going to make over one million pounds profit, give or take the odd hundred grand. That’s got to be worth braving a few harsh words from Roy.’
John Chin heard the light tread of a footstep on the gangplank of the Freedom, replaced the gun, ammunition and cuttings in the safe and rolled back the carpet. He was sitting- reading an old copy of the Reader’s Digest when Esme burst breathlessly through the door.
‘God it’s hot in here,’ she complained opening the porthole. ‘The meeting with Keith Flynn finished early. I have half an hour to spare.’ She pulled the pins from her hair. Auburn curls veined with silver cascaded to her shoulders.
‘Half an hour?’ John rose to greet her.
‘I might manage another few minutes. She kicked off her shoes and started on her shirt buttons. ‘I just couldn’t bear the thought of lasting until midnight without you.’ Wriggling free from his arms she ran out of the cabin into the bedroom. .
He followed. As their lips sought one another’s they tore off their clothes indiscriminatingly, tossing shirts, shorts, skirt, underclothes into disorderly piles.
‘I never want to go through a day without this.’ Esme divested herself of her last garment and pulled John even closer.
He entered her standing up. Lifting her legs she encircled his body with her own. He fell back on to the bed as their love-making became more urgent, more frenzied. She teased him to the brink of orgasm then slowly, almost lazily drew back.
‘You’re getting too good at this.’ Planting his hands on her back he held her securely, rolling until he was on top.
‘It’s all the practice I’ve been getting.’ She kissed his throat as his fingertips explored her lips, her hair, her breasts. Lingering over her nipples he teased them, as he pierced her again, kindling a frenzied consummation that left, no energy for further thought or action.
Finally they lay naked and exhausted side by side on the bed, hands and legs touching, as their pulses slowed to a less frantic rate. Esme turned her head, saw John looking at her and smiled. Moving his arm he lifted her head on to his shoulder.
‘You know what I’d like . . . ‘
‘It’s too soon,’ he interrupted.
She laughed, a throaty chuckle of pure happiness. ‘I was going to say a week of this. Some people take holidays. Go away together. Do nothing except eat, sleep, and . . . ’ she explored the promise of another erection with her lips. ‘. . . make love.’
‘I’d never survive a holiday of this with you. I wouldn’t have enough strength left to crawl off the floor.’
‘You wouldn’t have to. I’d chain you down and turn you into my sex slave.’
‘I’m already your sex slave.’
Cupping his testicles, she reached upwards.
‘I’m a spent force.’
‘A fire that needs lighting,’ she contradicted.
‘And you always know where to find the matches.’ He lifted her arm, long, slim, covered with the faintest of golden tans. ‘I love you.’
Sensitive to a serious note in his voice, she propped herself on her elbow and looked down into his eyes, dark mulberry in the muted light of the cabin. ‘We said until love do us part.’
‘It has been good between us, hasn’t it, Esme?’
‘You make it sound as though it’s over. Is there someone else?’
‘I confess, I keep her under the bed and bring her out, every afternoon when I have a whole hour and half to spare between shifts in the yacht club and you’re running the gallery.’ He stroked her face, gently, tenderly. ‘I hope it will never be over between us. But whatever the future holds, I want you know that at this moment I love you, totally, completely, and absolutely.’
‘I love you too,’ she whispered, bewildered by the gravity in his voice.
He buried his face in her hair, clinging to her as though he could make the moment last forever, simply by holding on.
‘Ms Crawford is in conference.’
‘I don’t mind addressing her before an audience.’ Roy marched past Betsy’s secretary’s desk and pushed open the door to Betsy’s office. Jeremy Walsh, Traceport’s self appointed property developer and owner of the largest estate agency in the County was sitting next to her, both of them assiduously pouring over a large scale map of the Marina laid out before them.
‘Roy, what a delightful surprise.’ Betsy rose from her chair and extended her hand.
‘I wish I could say the same;’ He threw the Traceport Argos down on to the map.
‘I’d better be going, Betsy.’
‘Don’t leave on my account, Jeremy,’ Roy said coldly. ‘It’s interesting to see you two locked in conference. The woman who suggested I cut my overheads by exchanging my mortgaged premises for her unmortgaged one on a straight exchange, no cash basis, and the man who advised me that I was about to make an easy fifty thousand pounds on the deal.’
‘And you did, Roy,’ Jeremy protested innocently.
‘I’ve been swindled out of a million and half.’
‘That’s an ugly, libellous accusation to make, Roy,’ Betsy broke in swiftly.
‘Had I been in possession of all the facts at the time, I would, of course, have advised you differently.’ Jeremy’s voice cloyed in the electric atmosphere like sickly scent.
‘Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know about this redevelopment plan when you advised me to exchange premises with Betsy.’ Seething because one and three quarter million would have solved his current financial problems, Roy leaned over the desk, forcing Jeremy to cower in his seat.
‘You know where every damned brick is going to be set in Traceport and Farcreek before it’s even left the factory.’
‘I swear Roy, I knew nothing.’ Jeremy pushed his chair back and looked to Betsy for assistance, relieved to see her finger hovering close to the panic button set into her desk.
‘One and three quarter million!’ Roy reiterated bitterly. ‘Your old offices are barely worth one hundred and fifty thousand . . . ‘
‘You’re forgetting that I accepted a building worth three hundred thousand with a two hundred thousand pounds outstanding mortgage in exchange. You didn’t bleat then Roy. Not when you thought you were fifty thousand pounds up on the deal. Not to mention the ten thousand retainer for your services.’
‘To act as a consultant to a health club that presumably now won’t open.’
‘Not in these premises,’ she agreed softly, delaying pressing the button because she couldn’t resist the temptation to gloat. She had once been Roy’s mistress, a position she had enjoyed until he had dumped her for a younger woman.
‘The Japanese are bringing in the bulldozers next week. I have all the expense of searching for new premises and relocating.’
‘My heart bleeds for you. An expense like that will make significant inroads in one and three quarter million,’ he interrupted caustically.
‘It will be taxed.’ Her smirk reminded him that he was facing an unexpected one hundred and seventy five thousand pounds tax bill. The suspicion crossed his mind that Betsy might know just why the Inland Revenue had chosen this particular time to conduct an in depth investigation into his affairs. He dismissed the idea almost as soon as it occurred. He had to keep" a grip on himself. Betsy’s tricky double dealing was making him paranoid.
‘I am going to sue,’ he said flatly. ‘Both of you.’
‘On what grounds?’ Betsy asked. ‘I had, absolutely no way of knowing about this Japanese deal.’ She finally pressed the button. The security men who had been alerted by her secretary were hovering outside the door. They moved in, taking position either side of Roy. ‘Mr Morris is leaving.’
Roy prided himself on his fitness, but both guards were superb physical specimens and considerably taller than him.
‘I’ll see you in court, Betsy.’
‘If you insist Roy, although I can’t imagine what the brief will be.’
‘It’s hot enough to fry an egg,’ Tony Cullen complained as he lay on a cane lounger on the upper terrace, of the house he shared with his father and brothers. ‘
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ his brother Adam murmured, ‘although I’d rather not stir myself to put your theory to the test.’
Pushing the panama back from his forehead Tony looked across to where his fiancé Harmony Trent was lying peacefully, eyes closed, exposing her bikini clad body to the sun on a lounger set beside his. Leaning over he stretched out his tongue and licked her bare midriff. ‘What am I?’ he demanded.
‘A pest,’ suggested Lisa Michaels, Adam’s soon-to-be wife, who’d been dozing alongside Adam.
‘Wrong, your guess?’ His tongue travelled from Harmony’s midriff to her thigh.
‘Tell me,’ she murmured drowsily without opening her eyes.
‘A hungry iguana. How about we go inside?’
‘I’m comfortable and lazy.’ She stretched her arms up towards the sun.
‘And I’m frustrated and energetic.’
‘Run round the house three times. That should tire you out in this heat.’
‘That’s the way, Harmony,’ Lisa applauded. ‘Start as you mean to go on.’
‘Whatever happened to "I have a headache"?’ Tony complained as he sat up. ‘My Godfathers. Will you look at that. I’ve just fallen in love for the second time in my life. Sorry sweetheart,’ he apologized to Harmony. ‘But there’s no way your lines can compete with hers.’
Harmony wasn’t the only one to open her eyes. Lisa and Adam sat up before her. A yacht was wending its way slowly and majestically up the creek. A modem, four masted schooner that might have been Captain Blood’s vessel remodelled by Spielberg and Lucas for an inter-galactic pirate film.
‘What do you think?’ Tony turned to his brother. ‘Three million?’
‘Nearer five.’
‘She’s heading this way. Oh wonderful kind family,’ Tony beamed at Adam. ‘It’s an early birthday present, isn’t it?’
‘Your birthday’s in November.’
‘Four months early?’
‘You’re right, it is heading for our dock. She’s going to scrape her bottom if she’s not careful.’
‘She’s dropped anchor.’ Harmony watched as a dinghy was lowered over the side. Three people climbed into it and set course for the Cullen jetty.
‘I’d better go and see what they want.’ Pulling a short sleeved shirt on over his shorts Adam kicked his feet into a pair of espadrilles and walked inside.
‘I think I’ll go for a last swim before work.’ Lisa followed Adam out through the door. .
‘Alone at last,’ Tony made a grab for Harmony but she was too quick for him.
‘Swim first, then shower, then work.’
‘And me?’ he asked plaintively.’
"If you’re good I’ll let you share my shower.’
‘What’s good?’ He followed her through the living room of Adam’s apartment down a massively proportioned, cool, marble staircase into a vast hall and outside on to the lawn where the pool was housed in a purpose built conservatory.
The dinghy was moored on the jetty and their visitors were already striding over the lawn towards them. A tall, blond athletic man who could have been anything between twenty and thirty, a shorter, auburn-haired younger man, and the type of long legged, blue-eyed, blonde female that has made Hollywood films famous in every corner of the world.
‘Hi, I’m David Shawcross,’ the blond man held out his hand and introduced himself to Adam who reached him first. ‘Is the Commander around?’
‘Commander Farcreek?’
‘I’m his great-nephew from America; this is my brother Chuck and my sister Abby.’
‘Hi.’ ‘Handshakes were exchanged all round.
‘I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong house,’ Adam said when he managed to draw the Shawcrosses’ attention away from the mansion. ‘Farcreek Manor is lower down, closer to the open sea on the opposite bank of the creek.’
‘But my father told us to look-out for an old manor, and this is an old manor,’ Abby insisted.
‘Early Victorian, Farcreek is Tudor.’
‘Oh.’ She failed to keep the disappointment from her voice as she gazed up at the simple neo classical lines of the columned facade.
‘Well, sorry to trouble you,’ David apologized. ‘I suppose we’d better be on our way.’
‘If you berth in the deep water in front of the yacht club,’ Harmony pointed across the creek to the three storey wooden building that housed the club, ‘and take your dinghy down to that point where the trees overhang the river you’ll see Farcreek jetty.’
David Shawcross followed her line of vision with his finger.
‘That’s it,’ Harmony agreed in answer to his enquiring look. ‘Those trees conceal the entrance to Smugglers’ Creek. If you walk up through the woods you’ll see the manor across the lawns.’
‘You know the place?’ David asked, as he studied her curves; He missed nothing, the heavy, angry looking scar that ran from her knee to her thigh. Her breasts, small but perfectly formed as they strained against the microscopic top of her bikini, her exquisitely beautiful face, cinnamon coloured hair, and eyes, a deep, hypnotic sea green.
‘My mother is Commander Farcreek’s housekeeper,’ Harmony answered.
‘You live at the manor?’
‘For the moment.’
He clasped her hand again. ‘Then I look forward to seeing a great deal more of you.’
‘Harmony is engaged to me.’ Tony wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulders.
‘Engaged, not married, and that could be your loss,’ David answered, before following his sister and brother back to their boat.
‘Bloody Yanks,’ Tony swore crossly. ‘Think they can buy the whole damned world.’
‘No, just the bits they want. And if those are the Shawcrosses I think they are, they can afford an awful lot of bits.’ Adam caught Lisa’s hand. ‘Race you, five lengths of the pool.
Tony gazed intently into Harmony’s eyes. ‘One word, you say just one word to that man and I’ll kill him by inches.’
‘He is very good looking,’ she teased. ‘Do the prohibited words include Good Morning?’
‘If you have any· consideration for my sanity,’ he growled.
She kissed him.
‘One more .of those and I’ll never make it into the pool.’
‘Who wants the pool? I thought you were a desperate iguana.’
Chapter Two
Roy sat in his office, outwardly unruffled, inwardly consumed by a white-hot fury that emblazoned the figures 1750,000 beneath a pulsating pound sign in his mind’s eye. All anticipatory pleasure in spending and enjoying the two million pounds he’d electronically transferred to a Swiss bank account was spoiled by Betsy and Jeremy’s swindling. They’d taken him for a gullible fool, and what was worse, he’d behaved like one. Seeing only the quick profit they’d dangled, he’d signed over his property willingly, enabling them to fleece him of a fortune that would have propped up his ailing business and enabled him to stay on in Farcreek.
As it was, he was on his way to God knows where, to live among heaven only knew what kind of people, leaving Betsy and Jeremy to their triumph, and Farcreek to continue its sweet life without him. He’d been cheated and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it in the time he had left.
Seething, he attempted to channel his surplus energy into useful activity, Opening his office safe he rifled through its contents to ensure that he’d left nothing incriminating, or valuable. Beneath a pile of old contracts he found a video tape. It brought back unwelcome memories of the night Mandy, a passionate and attractive ex-mistress, had tricked him into a bondage session, only to tie him down and inflict as many indignities on his restrained body as her fertile imagination could devise.
The film from the office security camera had vanished that night, and this copy had arrived in the post two days later. He’d never discovered the identity of the sender.
Dan Pike? Marcia? One of the Cullen boys? His own twin daughters, Lucinda and Davina, or Mandy? All of them had been in the office during the time of his humiliation, but the tape had landed on his desk without note or explanation. If blackmail had been the intention, whoever held the original had left it too late to collect. He was just about to smash the cassette and remove the tape to destroy it when the beginnings of an idea began to germinate.
He sat at his desk, opened a drawer and removed a sheaf of the thick creamy paper he used for personal memos and letters. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? Such a devastatingly simple yet effective scheme. And a way of exacting revenge not only on Betsy Crawford and Jeremy Walsh but also Mandy. His only regret was, he wouldn’t be around to watch them squirm. He consoled himself with the thought that most English newspapers were available abroad, and a scandal such as the one he was about to create, was bound to be seized on by the press.
‘So you’re Gregory’s children?’ The Commander squinted at his visitors as they sat in his gazebo, sipping tea and gazing across the woods to the creek. ‘Well none of you look much like him, except perhaps you,’ he pointed to an embarrassed Chuck. ‘You’ve inherited the May colouring but you certainly haven’t your father’s height.’
‘Most people say I look more like Granny Mercy May than my father or my mother, Commander.’ Abby helped herself to a cucumber sandwich.
‘That’s nothing to be proud of, girl. Mercy May was plain by any man’s standards. Scrawny figure and goose-bumped skin of a plucked hen, dull mousy hair that she never had the sense to style or dye, and although her eyes might have been much the same colour as yours, they weren’t as bright. But then beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so they say, and Mercy must have had something going for her because she finally hooked herself a Shawcross. I suppose it could have had something to do, with money. The man had a fortune and so did Mercy. They say like attracts like. But then, I always did feel sorry for your grandfather, I took the only May sister with beauty and brains.’
‘I’ll not argue that one with you,’ David agreed. ‘The last time I saw Aunt Charity she was still stunning.’
‘Until her dying day,’ the Commander agreed unequivocally. ‘And she would have been happy to see you three here.’ He patted his great-niece’s hand, ‘It is good of you to travel all this way to visit an old man.’
‘We’ve been meaning to for years. When your letter came, It made Dad realize just how many. He’ll be here this afternoon.’
‘Gregory’s coming here?’
‘He wouldn’t sail from the States with us,’ Abby explained. ‘He had a book to finish.’
‘That’s Dad, a workaholic author, first second and last.’ David left his seat and walked to the edge of the lawn from which vantage point he could look down on the two yachts berthed in Smugglers’ Creek. One, John Chin’s Freedom, modem, sleek and gleaming, the other, wooden, tall-masted was Jazz Age, a vintage schooner that had been a present to the Commander from his father-in-law.
‘I hear Gregory’s pretty successful.’
‘He’s a hard act to follow,’ David said acidly.
‘But you’ve all got your own plans, or so your father told me the last time he telephoned.’
‘We have plans all right, whether they come up to Dad’s expectations is something else.’ David reclaimed his seat next to the Commander. ‘Unlike Dad who never would give in to Grandfather Shawcross’s pressurizing, I’m going into the business.’
‘Your grandfather’s newspaper?’
‘As of this autumn. I’ve just graduated from Yale. The present editor’s been there since Grandfather appointed him during the Vietnam War. He’s a real dodo,’ he added damningly.
‘No doubt he’s looking forward to having you working under him,’ the Commander commented wryly.
‘He hates David.’ Abby fished out the cucumber from between two triangles of bread and slipped it into her mouth. ‘But that’s hardly surprising, David hasn’t written a single article, yet he’s been appointed to the news desk.’
‘I’ve written several articles,’ David protested warmly.
‘Only for the student magazine.’
‘I’ll have you know that was of a very high standard . . . ‘
‘What about you?’ The Commander asked Abby, breaking up the argument before it became any more heated.
‘I’m studying ecology. I’ve another year left before I graduate.’
‘And afterwards.’
‘Postgrad work. A doctorate if I’m good enough.’
‘Abby wants to save the world as well as the whale,’ David sneered.
‘It’s not a laughing matter,’ she admonished fiercely.
‘The world’s dying while you’re standing by, watching.’
‘And you??’ The Commander focused his piercing, blue eyes on Chuck.
‘I’ve just finished my beautician and hairdressing training.’
‘We need allsorts in this world,’ the Commander said in a dismissive tone that also managed to convey disapproval.
‘What time will your father arrive?’
‘This afternoon I should think,’ David answered. ‘His tickets were definitely booked for today.’
‘Good. Susie, that’s my housekeeper, well she’s not exactly what you call a competent cook, and needs notice before she can come up with anything edible, so we’ll eat out tonight - my treat. There’s a first-class menu in the yacht club.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Great-uncle.’
‘Just uncle will do, I feel decrepit enough as it is. You’re more than welcome to stay here. Plenty of rooms, seventy at the last count, though if my last trip to the States was anything to go by, I doubt any of them are up to the standard you’re used to.’
‘We’re comfortable on the yacht. It has five bedrooms and bathrooms as well as staterooms and crew quarters, but thank you for the offer, Uncle.’ Abby crumbled the bread she’d discarded and tossed it on to the lawn for the birds.
‘What the devil do you need five bathrooms for?’
‘One for each bedroom.’
‘Don’t see why you can’t share; we’ve only one in the Manor.’
‘One in a manor this size?’ Abby stared at the house in horror. ‘Have you never thought of remodelling?’
‘What was good enough for sixteen generations of Farcreeks is good enough for me. Well, if you’ve all finished your tea I suppose you’d like to see the house?’
‘Yes please.’ Abby took the Commander’s arm. ‘I’m just fascinated by English manors.’
‘I bet you are,’ the Commander said, reading more into Abby’s admission than she’d intended.
‘I won’t be in the office until late Monday afternoon,’
‘Would you like me to redirect your calls to your home, Mr Morris? ‘Marcia asked.
‘No. I’ll pick them up when I come in.
‘Shall I post that for you?’ she eyed the jiffy envelope on his desk.
‘I’ll see to it myself.’ He placed it in his briefcase.
‘Have a good weekend, Mr Morris.’ When Roy failed to answer, Marcia left, glad to have escaped so lightly. Dan raised an enquiring eyebrow at her in the corridor but keeping her eyes averted, she beetled back to the security of her own desk.
Dan opened Carol’s door without knocking. She was hard at work, scribbling corrections on to the proofs of the Peggotson report. ‘You’ve heard?’
‘Marcia showed me the Argos when she brought in my coffee,’ she answered without raising her head.
‘Tough luck.’
‘Looks more like Betsy Crawford shenanigans to me.’
‘I love your turn of phrase. Dinner?’ he asked hopefully and persistently. She’d turned down every one of his invitations, but with Roy in a foul mood he thought it unlikely she’d be spending the evening with their boss.
‘Too busy,’ she tapped the pile of paperwork.
‘I’ll bring you in a sandwich and a bottle of wine.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
‘In that case, see you Monday.’ He stepped back on to Roy’s toe. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’
‘Carol?’ Roy cut Dan’s apology short by the simple expedient of ignoring him. ‘Can you spare a minute?’ He walked into her office, closing the door in Dan’s face.
‘I’m sorry about . . .’
‘I’d rather not discuss it,’ he cut in tersely. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Now?’
‘There’s no point in sitting here moping. I’m free until the race tomorrow morning, so I thought we’d give ourselves a night to remember.’
‘Sounds marvellous. What do you have in mind?’
‘Dinner in the Harbour View. I’ve ordered a masseuse and beautician to be at the house in two hours, and I intend to take you shopping first.’
‘You want to go out tonight?’ she questioned in amazement.
‘With the whole town talking I can’t think of a better occasion, can you?’
An hour later Carol truly understood the saying “swept off her feet.” She couldn’t imagine another occasion when she’d dare wear the gold and diamond bracelet Roy had clasped around her wrist, and the only place she could think of keeping it was the office safe. Roy had bought her a dress as well, Not in Betsy Crawford’s boutique that would have been too much to hope for after the revelations in the Argos, but a smaller, no less exclusive shop.
He had thumbed through the rails for half an hour before he’d found what he wanted. A simple black dress with a high hemline, low neckline and plunging back that displayed the cleft in her buttocks.
‘I should get special underclothes to go with this,’ she whispered as they left with their purchases.
‘You won’t need any.’ He opened the car door for her.
‘In the Harbour View? What if I slip?’
‘When you slip in the office I’m always there to pick you up.’ He gave her a peculiar smile. ‘If you’ve ever had any wild fantasies, now’s the time to confess them,’ he said as they headed out of Traceport on the winding road that led to Farcreek.
‘Sexual fantasies?’
‘Preferably, but I’ll consider anything. I feel in the mood to gratify your every whim.’
‘You already have. Twice today,’ she flattered.
‘You’ve never fancied making love on a roundabout during rush hour?’
‘The fumes would make me nauseous.’
‘On a table in a crowded restaurant?’
‘Too American.’
His hand slid beneath her skirt to her naked crotch.
‘Perhaps the masseur will be able to loosen you up enough to free your subconscious desires.’
‘I’ve never had a professional massage.’
‘It’s wonderfully relaxing. My daughters always have one before a party. Take my word for it, you’ll feel like a new woman afterwards.’
‘There’s a strange boat in the club moorings.’
‘Strange isn’t the first adjective that comes to my mind, Jeremy.’ Tom Cullen, the local MP and father of the four Cullen boys, picked up the double whisky John Chin had poured him and took it out on to the veranda.
‘Club members’ boats only in the moorings, and then only when they’ve paid their mooring fees, ‘Jeremy chanted as he followed him. .
‘Don’t think we can enforce it on this one. It belongs to the Commander’s great-nephew, and seeing as how the Commander owns the creek he’s probably got carte blanche to berth wherever he wants.’
‘I’m the Commander’s only blood nephew!’ Jeremy protested indignantly.
‘That’s how the man introduced himself when he came to my place by mistake. American, name of, David Shawcross.’
‘Gregory Shawcross’s son?’
‘I presume so. It’s years since Gregory was here.’
‘I wonder what the Shawcrosses want with the old man.’ Jeremy ruminated as he studied the sleek lines of the enormous yacht.
‘I would have thought it was obvious. None of us live forever, and the Commander has had his fair share of years. He’s eighty-five isn’t he? The sort of age that encourages a man to put his house in order.’
Jeremy’s expression darkened from glowering to thunderous. ‘I still think the committee ought to bring up the subject of mooring charges, particularly if there’re people living on board. After all, we lease the moorings and the land the club’s built on from the Farcreek estate.’
‘You’ve read the clauses?’
‘Not recently.’
‘Take my word for it, we’d be on to a loser. Besides, the Shawcrosses are probably only going to be here for a week or two, and if you charge them you’re going to have to charge the French.’
Jeremy knew better than to press the point. The French who swarmed over in fleets of small yachts every summer used his agency to book their holiday accommodation.
‘The Commander’s reserved a table for five tonight, Jeremy.’ Lisa walked into the bar. ‘He’s dining here with his family from America and when I told him you were here, he asked me to extend the invitation to you.’
‘There’s your chance to bring up the subject of mooring charges,’ Tom smiled maliciously as he joined Bert Marner.
Roy Morris lay back on the table and let out a resounding sigh of contentment. There was nothing like a deep massage after a relaxing swim. ‘You doing Miss Cook next, Ben?’
‘As soon as the beautician’s finished with her, sir.’
Wrapping the towel around his waist, Roy left the table and pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. ‘In this envelope is five hundred pounds.’
‘Yes, Mr Morris.’ The masseur’s face was impassive.
‘You make love to Miss Cook and it’s yours.’
‘I’m a professional masseur, Mr Morris,’ Ben asserted indignantly.
‘One thousand pounds.’ Roy drew a second envelope from his pocket.
‘Miss Crawford will never allow me to work for her employment agency again.’
‘Miss Crawford will never find out.’ Roy crossed the room and tucked the envelopes into the pocket of Ben’s overalls.
‘Miss Cook is an attractive woman, sir. I can’t see that she’d have any trouble finding a man.’
‘None at all,’ Roy agreed cheerfully before lowering his voice. ‘She not only works for me, she’s a client. This is not to go any further,’ he confided, ‘but she’s never been able to make love.’
‘Sir?’ the masseur looked at Roy in stunned amazement.
Roy shook his head. ‘Frigid,’ he declared dramatically. ‘Her boyfriend asked if I could help. Poor man doesn’t know which way to turn. Wants to stay with her, but well . . . let’s say the only certain incentive would be a normal sex life. He hoped I could salvage something psychologically. I’ve tried, but there’s only so much you can do with psychotherapy. I’ve assured her that sex can be a pleasurable pastime, and she’s on the point of believing me, but the assertion needs reinforcing with a positive experience, preferably with an experienced, sympathetic and sensual surrogate partner who can demonstrate that sex is not only pleasurable but also fun, and that is where you come in.’
‘But I’ve never done anything like this before, sir.’
‘Really?’ Roy put just the right inflection of scepticism into his voice. He’d overheard the twins and their friends talking about Ben. The man’s popularity was rooted in much more than the relaxing qualities of his massages.
Roy had never looked for, or found beauty in another man, but Ben was a magnificent specimen. Six and half feet, blond haired, blue eyed, with the build of an athlete, he radiated robust, animal vitality. The type of man you could imagine engaged in healthy, rural pursuits, harvesting crops perhaps, with his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow and his collar open to expose the soft, blond down that covered his chest.
‘Miss Cook and I have just enjoyed a rather exhausting swim. Afterwards we shared a few drinks and I slipped a mild sedative into hers. She’s as relaxed as she’s going to get, and if someone with your . . . ‘ He fingered the muscles that bulged beneath the sleeves of Ben’s white coat, ‘shall we say . . . attributes . . . gave her a thorough and penetrating massage, something along the lines of the ones you give my daughters,’ he added curtly, dropping all pretence, ‘it might be possible to cure her little problem. A thousand pounds.’ He filched the envelopes from Ben’s pocket. ‘On delivery.’
Ben slicked his tongue over his lips. A thousand pounds would clear his overdraft. Depending on the mood of the bank manager, he might even be in a position to negotiate a loan on a larger car.
‘How would you know if I’ve succeeded?’
‘I’d know, Ben. Believe me, I’d know.’
‘And Miss Crawford’s employment agency will never get to hear of this?’ He stared nervously at the floor, wondering if Roy knew the full extent of his exploits with his daughters.
‘Do you think Miss Cook, or her boyfriend, wants her problems dissected and discussed by every gossip in Farcreek?’ Roy held up the envelopes. ‘Should you succeed these will be on the tray in the hall alongside your usual tip. I hope I can trust you to make a supreme effort.’
Abby dressed with more than usual care that night. It wasn’t just the Commander. She was thinking of the Englishman she’d met on the lawns of the Cullen house.
Tall, dark, very handsome, with the unmistakeable classy looks of the upper crust English gentleman. He looked good enough to be a film star, and as a bonus he lived in a magnificent English mansion. Late Georgian, with a classical façade that was either Adam or should have been, the verandas supported by Corinthian columns after the style of Vanbrugh.
Abby had just brushed up on the architecture of English manors and mansions with the assistance of a book she’d bought in New York, but, architecture aside, what appealed to her most about the Cullen place was its clean simplicity.
It might be old, but it looked new, even the trailing clematis and wisteria had a cultivated look, in contrast to Farcreek’s unkempt ivy. And, unlike Farcreek Manor, there had been no flaking paintwork or crumbling bricks. She knew the Commander was dying, she also knew he had no direct heir, and her main objective in making this trip was to convince her great-uncle that she was the best candidate to succeed to her great-aunt’s title of Lady Farcreek, but should she be successful, the last thing she intended to do was live in a neglected stately pile that had only one bathroom. If the Farcreek inheritance came to her she intended to marry an Englishman, and she doubted she’d find a better specimen- than the Hugh Grant look-alike who’d been introduced to her as “Tony”. She only hoped he had no skeletons in his closet, like poverty, or lack of title and social status.
‘You ready, sis?’
‘Come in.’ David opened the door to her cabin. He was wearing a tuxedo, dress shirt and bow tie. ‘Did the Commander say formal wear?’ she asked.
‘No, but he didn’t say casual wear either. Don’t worry, you’ll do.’ He glanced at the simple lines of her white cocktail dress. Lines that only one or two designers in the world could set into a garment. ‘Dad’s arrived, he sent me down to escort you.’
‘My idea of an escort isn’t my brother, or my father.’
‘But it is that dark-haired young man on the lawn today?’
‘You noticed?’
‘You take him, and when he’s not looking I’ll relieve him of the redhead.’
‘Deal. Only one thing, how do you know they’ll be at the yacht club?’
‘The Commander. I mentioned that we’d met his housekeeper’s daughter. He told me she worked at the club.’
‘And my man?’
‘Has a wine importing business. He’s the disgustingly wealthy third son of a disgustingly wealthy family.’
‘Title,’ she broke in quickly.
‘None, but his father is an MP. There’re four brothers, no sisters, and the parents are divorced. Both own estates in Farcreek. And as the redhead is his fiancée it’s unlikely he’ll be far from the club. Rumour has it they’ve only just fallen in love, so it looks like we’ve got our work cut out.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she glanced at their reflections in the mirrors that lined one wall, ‘looking the way we do, who could resist us?’
Roy walked into the .bathroom where the beautician was still giving Carol a facial.
‘Almost done.’ The girl swabbed Carol’s face with cotton wool and toner.
Roy went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large whisky. ‘Drink?’ he asked Carol.
‘The usual.’
The beautician discarded the last ball of cotton wool and packed her things away.
‘The housekeeper will see you out, your tip is on the tray,’ Roy said as she left. He turned to Carol. ‘The masseur is waiting in the sauna.’
‘I’m not sure I want to go ahead.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I told you, I’ve never had a massage before.’
‘Would you like me to stay?’
‘Would you?’
‘Be delighted, at the beginning,’ he qualified. ‘The end of the procedure I’ll watch from elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere?’ she asked nervously, hoping she’d misunderstood him.
‘A little voyeurism. I’ve indulged your fancies, now it’s time for you to indulge mine. You’ll find the masseur experienced, and not unattractive . . . or so women have assured me.’
‘You want me to make love to the man?’ she asked, horrified by the thought.
‘Just think of it as one more task in your crowded day.’ He opened her robe and exposed her breasts. ‘You’ve never’ disappointed me before, in, or outside of work.’
‘You’ve never asked me to make love to another man before.’
‘But you have made love to other men?’
‘Of course, but I’ve always tried to be faithful . . . ‘
‘Now that’s an overrated quality.’
‘Roy . . .’
‘Mr Morris. Come on, the man’s expecting you. Think of the experience as hors-d’oeuvres for the evening. Afterwards I’ll be entirely at your disposal and, if we’re lucky, the masseur may give us one or two new ideas to spice up our foreplay. After you.’ Roy picked up the bottle of whisky and his glass.
She hesitated.
‘It’s such a little thing, and one you’ll enjoy, I promise you.’
‘And you won’t think any the less of me afterwards?’
‘How could I,’ he kissed her exposed nipple, ‘when you have so much to offer,’
Dan Pike negotiated the bend in the narrow road that led to Marcia Nielsen’s mother’s cottage, and wondered at the desperation that had driven him to ask Marcia to spend the evening with him. The girl was a frump. He’d never seen her with a man, not even at the Cullen’s midsummer party when she had sat out the entire evening with her dragon-like, evil-eyed and evil-tongued mother.
The memory of Marcia’s mother kept Dan in the car when he drew to a halt outside the cottage. Hitting the horn, he waited, but not for long. Marcia burst through the front door at the first blast, dressed in the drab knee-length black raincoat she wore to work. Regretting his invitation even more, he reached across and opened the passenger door. She dived in, and he caught a glimpse of stockinged thigh and tight black miniskirt.
‘New outfit?’
‘I bought it tonight.’
‘You’ve had your hair styled too,’ he complimented, noting the shorter length. Pity she hadn’t thought to go to a more inspired hairdresser.
‘I don’t get the chance to get out very often.’
‘In that case let’s make the most of it. Would you like to eat in the yacht club?’
‘Yes, please.’
Struggling with her seat-belt, she removed her coat as he drove off. He focused on her breasts; she’d obviously bought a new bra as well. The buttons on her silk shirt were strained, and he had a sudden overwhelming desire to see if the tension was due to extra padding, or woman flesh. He looked at her and she smiled tensely.
He moved his hand on to her knee and she didn’t push it away. Perhaps second best wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
Carol lay face down on the masseur’s table while Ben poured aromatic oil into the small of her back. He rubbed it in with slow, sensual, circular movements while Roy sat in a chair opposite them, wrapped in a towelling robe, sipping his whisky.
‘You may as well undress completely straight away, Carol,’ Roy advised,
‘There’s no need, Mr Morris,’ Ben protested, disconcerted by Roy’s presence in the room. ‘
‘Nonsense. Equality in all things. You do men naked, why should women lose out just because they’ve a few extra bits.’ Leaving his chair Roy walked over to the table and peeled down the panties Carol had put on for the occasion.
She trembled as he dropped them to the floor, a shudder that sent a pleasurable thrill through Roy’s veins.
‘Miss Cook, knows what you’re about to do for her. You’ll find her grateful, and I hope amenable.’