Chastity Flame (10 page)

The paramedics, however, were adamant.
"We have to check things out, make sure there's nothing further
wrong. Could be just a symptom, ma'am." So polite.

Chastity pulled her hand out of his
grip. "It was just a migraine, I know that now. I really am
fine."

"No matter," the paramedic insisted,
one eyebrow cocked at her as if to say, you know it's my job. "We
would be remiss in our duty if we did not carry out the call to its
end. Off we go, with or without your compliance. Ma'am," he added
as an afterthought.

"It's probably best," Damien
interjected. "You want to be sure it's all right."

Chastity looked up at him and felt
confused again. "I—I suppose," she said weakly. She allowed the
paramedics to wrap her in the blanket and to strap her into the
stretcher. "Be seeing you," she said to Damien.

"Here," he said, gathering up her bag
and the rest of her clothes. She had only managed to throw on her
underthings and blouse before the team came tromping up the stairs.
Her hands were strapped, so he set them gently at her
feet.

"Do you want to go to the theatre
tomorrow?" she blurted out suddenly.

Damien laughed. "If you're up for it,
yeah. I'd love to go."

Chastity grinned sheepishly. "I'll
call you." The paramedics took her down the stairs and slipped her
into the bay of the waiting ambulance. Once the doors were closed,
Chastity became herself again. "Get me out of this," she demanded.
The paramedic who had jumped in the back with her, hesitated, but
finally decided to at least release the restraints. "I need to talk
to Monitor," she said, "now."

The paramedic driving now reached over
to flip a switch on the Satnav. "Monitor," he said and, after a few
blips, she appeared in the screen.

"What is it?" No surprise, she was
looking a bit irritable.

"Tell them to release me," Chastity
shouted from the back where she was rubbing her chafed arms. "I
think I know where the hacker is right now, or will be soon."
Actually she had no way of knowing if what she saw had already
happened, but somehow Chastity thought she was right.

"Did he contact you?" Monitor seemed
very focused now and even more irritated.

"No, of course not," Chastity
said.

"Then how do you know?"

"I have my methods. He's in Aalborg
and he's on the run from someone. I think his employers might be
unhappy with him."

"Denmark?" Monitor sounded dubious,
but nodded as if accepting the news. "We'll send out a search
party, see what we turn up. Now what's all this kerfuffle
about?"

"I had an ophthalmic migraine. I knew
it afterward, but at the time it was a bit
disconcerting."

"Are you certain? How do you feel
now?"

"A little tired and a bit headachy,
but otherwise peachy. I am still going to be going to the cocktail
party, in other words."

"If you're certain," Monitor said, but
her tone seemed to express some doubt. Clearly, she thought this
was the latest instance of Chastity not living up to her
job.

"I'm quite all right. Tell these two
to drop me off at home so I can change." Chastity struggled into
her clothes as the van made the short trip to her flat, trying to
look slightly less disheveled when she emerged from the ambulance.
Fortunately none of her neighbours seemed to be on view for her
unusual arrival, but she couldn’t be sure there weren't any peeking
from behind their lace curtains. Well, let them talk. It's not like
they would be able to figure out the truth, anyway. Better to be
misleading.

Chastity picked up the accumulated
mail and sorted through it, finding nothing that couldn't be
immediately tossed. She smiled thinking she would probably see her
postman tomorrow. How sad is your life, my girl, if the most you
have to look forward to is seeing your postman? She looked in the
mirror and decided it was the wrong time to answer that
question.

After all, Chastity thought as she
regarded her reflection, she was just back from a whirlwind trip to
the continent, had just fucked a gorgeous guy who was far sweeter
than any she had seen in a very long time, and was about to head to
a cocktail party with the rich and powerful. Not a bad life, she
told the woman in the mirror. Not bad at all.

She flung all her clothes off and ran
a hot bath, thinking about what she would wear and trying very hard
not to think about Damien. Why on earth had she suggested theatre?
It was a normal kind of thing to do, she realized. That's what this
was really about. Was it so bad? Chastity lay back in the hot sudsy
water. Maybe she simply needed to play a little at real life, to
get it out of her system. It probably wouldn’t take much and then
she could get back to work with a clear head. She smiled. That
sounded like a great idea.

She did not, however, think about the
vision. Not yet—it just wasn't possible.

Chastity dressed with care,
considering who this Dylan Foyle-Hatchard was. The file Monitor had
sent to her computer showed a fortyish executive type, dissipated
in the way that only hereditary wealth seemed to produce and with
that smugness that always set her teeth on edge. So, she would
enjoy running rings around him.

After some hemming and hawing, she
selected the olive dress from her closet. It set off her skin tone
to its best advantage. The soft green of the fabric cupped her
large breasts and, with the right bra, made the most of the
generous valley between them, as it was cut low enough to reveal
without drawing too much attention to her charms. The dress flared
out nicely across her hips to accentuate the sway as she walked
and, while long enough to seem modest, nonetheless left a good
portion of her ripe calves to view. Not knowing how much interest
she might need to show, Chastity paired the dress with a rosy bra
and panties, edged with fine embroidery. It had been an indulgent
day of shopping at Fenwick when she got those.

Dressed only in her underthings,
Chastity couldn't resist enjoying the feel of the satiny bra.
Looking in the mirror, she was pleased with her reflection as her
hands squeezed her breasts together warmly. It was easy to imagine
Damien watching her dress, although she wouldn't be likely to get
very far. Speaking of warm—there was still time. Chastity lay on
the bed and let her hand slip beneath the pink of her knickers to
the pinkness below, already wet with thoughts of Damien. She could
imagine his lips tracing this very same route. The way his low
voice rumbled through her skin as he worked, making pleasurable
sounds as he licked and sucked her, or when he bit her soft skin.
Chastity's own fingers replicated the moves she pictured, gliding
between the lips once more wet and swollen with desire, tapping the
swell of her clit and finally poking inside. She thought of
removing her panties to finish, but then smiled. Let it add to her
allure.

Chastity brought her other hand down
to chafe her clit while she worked her fingers in and out, faster
and faster until she was coming again, her body arching up to enjoy
every spasm until she collapsed once more on the bed, breathing
heavily. So much for getting Damien out of her mind, she
thought.

Her nipples still felt sensitive and
eager as she stepped out of the taxi in front of Foyle-Hatchard's
Georgian house. Chastity was grateful for the encompassing folds of
the soft pashmina she had slung around her shoulders almost as an
afterthought. The doorman bowed to let her into the foyer where the
rumble of conversation already echoed. She waved away the gentleman
who offered to take her wrap. These old showplaces tended to be
cold and her nipples were already straining against the soft
fabric. Best not to look too eager.

Following the polite gesture offered,
she headed toward the stairs that curved up to the first floor
where the crowds knotted tightly, murmuring. Chastity took her time
walking up the marble steps, scanning the face for familiar ones
and finding none. She was conscious of eyes upon her, as well,
marking her ascent with hungry eyes, and she made an effort to look
modestly self-possessed.

As she took a drink from a passing
waiter's tray, Chastity turned to find the smiling Dylan
Foyle-Hatchard already reaching for her free hand. "I'm the
overburdened host, who surely would have remembered inviting such a
stunning young woman, but is nonetheless grateful that you got
here. Please tell me you are not on the arm of some old dullard
banker friend of mine."

"Rose Dallow," Chastity said, wishing
he were not grasping her hand quite so tightly. "Surely you
remember meeting at Canary Wharf about six months ago? I gave you
my card."

"No, more's the pity. I surely could
not have forgotten such a sight. I refuse to believe it." His eager
eyes swept her chest with evident pleasure.

"My hair was rather different then,"
Chastity said, without a trace of the irritation she felt creeping
into her voice. "I wore a pink sweater. Cashmere."

"No, don't recall, not a sausage,"
Foyle-Hatchard said quickly, bringing her hand up to his lips. "But
I won't forget you now."

"How delightful," Chastity murmured.
"And is this your wife?"

"Carol!" he said, releasing Chastity's
hand, though not as quickly as she expected. "Do you know
Rose?"

She had the blandly groomed looks of a
woman who spent too much time burnishing those looks to do anything
else. "What a lovely dress," Carol said to Chastity, her gaze vague
and wandering. Drunk or drugged, Chastity wondered. Not that it
made much of a difference really.

"Thank you," she said
eventually.

"Very lovely dress," Foyle-Hatchard
added, his eyes returning to the valley of her breasts. "Darling,
the Schultzes are here."

"I hate the Schultzes," she said
dully.

"Oh, be a good girl and say hello,
do," Foyle-Hatchard said patiently.

"All right," Carol said, sighing. "So
nice to meet you," she added to Chastity before clicking away on
her heels to see the indicated couple, who seemed to wear a
matching set of permanent scowls.

"Now, let's get to know each other
better," Foyle-Hatchard said, drawing Chastity over to a nearby
settee as the blur of conversations roiled around them. "You're an
international model, correct?"

"Oh, Mr. Foyle-Hatchard," Chastity
chirped, "You're such a wit."

"Please, please. Call me Dylan," he
insisted, waving to the waiter for another drink.

"I'm a chartered accountant," Chastity
said, absurdly pleased with her usual cover story. Someday, someone
might actually ask her about her work, she supposed, but it had yet
to happen.

"Oh no, that's not possible,"
Foyle-Hatchard said, regarding her over the rim of his drink.
"Nothing so lacking in music. At the very least, oh, something more
enchanting. Soft toy specialist, or lingerie buyer for Fortnum's."
He smiled, offering reasonably even teeth, badly stained by tea and
red wine.

"Aren't you sweet?" Chastity said,
sipping her own drink carefully. While hardly a devastating
diversion, he had sufficient wit to keep the conversation from
being a chore. Just when she was beginning to think they could make
an assignation for later, however, another player
arrived.

"Duffy," came a voice from over
Chastity's shoulder, in the clipped and careful tones that
indicated a carefully cultivated English. "Why are you monopolizing
the most stunning woman at this dreadful party? In the name of the
international community, I demand that you release her at
once."

Chastity turned to regard
Foyle-Hatchard's interlocutor. He was tall and slim, his hair grey
and his eyes the cold blue of glacial waters. His smile was broad
and dazzling, but his eyes were icy. He reached for Chastity's hand
with long elegant fingers that felt likewise frigid.

"Sven, you salty sea dog,"
Foyle-Hatchard said, rising as he took the man’s hand in turn to
pump it eagerly. "Please meet Miss Dallow. Miss Dallow, Sven
Wesenlund."

"Charmed, naturally. Do tell me Duffy
has not been drooling overmuch, Miss Dallow. He has need of a bib
all too often, is it not true, Duffy?"

Foyle-Hatchard laughed, but Chastity
could feel it was a bit forced. Her captor was not at all thrilled
to have their tête-à-tête interrupted, particularly by this
apparent alpha dog. For a moment, she had one attached to each hand
and felt the tension as if she were a rope between them. But
Foyle-Hatchard relinquished the trophy, though not without
considerable regret, Chastity could tell. "I will see you later,"
he promised her, but she suspected he was worried that may not be
so.

"Are you a fan of Graham Greene, Miss
Dallow?" Sven asked, getting them drinks from a passing waiter who
seemed to appear almost on command.

Oops, thought Chastity. "Why, yes, yes
I am." She smiled her most dazzling smile but he appeared to be
unaffected.

"So clever of you to combine two of
his characters' names, Miss Flame," Sven continued, sipping his
highball and looking idly into the crowd. She hated the smugness
that kept him from even wanting to see her face and the surprise
upon it.