The Ninety Days of Genevieve (22 page)

She wondered what his bedroom would be like. A huge water bed? A fourposter? Mirrors on the ceiling? Erotic prints on the walls? Her imagination began to run riot. A brass bedstead with chains so that he could spreadeagle his latest girlfriend and indulge himself in whatever sex play he fancied? She had surprised herself by enjoying the sensation of helplessness when he had tied her to the door during their first meeting. What would it be like tied to a bed? What would he do? Would he have a collection of exotic sex toys? Or a collection of whips?

When Sinclair called her downstairs again she was in a pleasantly aroused state of mind. Several small tables held a selection of bowls containing Chinese delicacies. He had placed two armchairs opposite each other and indicated that she should sit in one of them.

The act of eating, while dressed in nothing but her high-heeled shoes, was unexpectedly erotic, all the more so because Sinclair sat watching her with undisguised pleasure as he helped himself from the various dishes at his disposal, and entertained her with stories and gossip about the various theatre and television personalities that he had met.

She deliberately tried to tantalise him by moving into seductive poses, crossing and uncrossing her legs, squeezing her arms close to her body so that her breasts swelled out provocatively, hoping to tease him into loosing some of his studied self-control.

She did not succeed. He remained the perfect host and did not touch her until it was time for her to leave and she had dressed again. As he helped her on with her fur coat his hand strayed to her bottom, stroking it with an insistent circular movement.

'I enjoyed your performance,' he said. 'All of it. You've got talent. It seems a pity not to share it. I think I'll arrange a professional booking for you. Keep practising.'

She did not believe him, although the idea intrigued her. She thought about it during the taxi ride home, remembering the warmth and glare of the lights, and the strange feeling of power the act of stripping had given her. What would it be like to have dozens of pairs of hidden eyes watching her as she performed? She thought she would enjoy it.

She wondered what professional strippers thought about when they were on stage. Were they really reviewing their next shopping list as they gyrated to the music? Or did they imagine they were dancing for their husband, or boyfriend or even, as Thea had suggested, a favourite actor or a pop star?

What would she think about? She knew the answer to that. She remembered the erotic thrill of knowing that James Sinclair was watching her every move, enjoying the slow exposure of her body. She would picture him lounging in his leather armchair, the bulge of his erection pushing against the zip of his trousers. She would think about the taste of him in her mouth. She would think about what he would do to her after her dance had ended.

Yes, she would definitely think about Sinclair.

The following day there was a large brown envelope on her doormat when she returned home from work. Inside was a letter headed Club Bacchus, with a London address, confirming that she was booked to appear on the tenth of that month 'as arranged'. The second letter was from Sinclair: AS YOU SEE, I'VE ARRANGED YOUR PROFESSIONAL APPEARANCE. TAXI WILL CALL AT SEVEN. BRING YOUR MUSIC TAPE. GEORGIE IS MAKING YOU A MASK.

Chapter Six

T
he sports-club bar was crowded and noisy but Genevieve hardly heard the jumbled sounds of conversation and laughter until Lisa Hadley brought her back to the present with a snap of her fingers.

'Wake up, Gen. Your orange juice is getting cold.'

'Sorry.' Genevieve picked up the juice carton and toyed with the straw.

'Your mind's been wandering all evening,' Lisa said. 'It certainly wasn't on our game, otherwise I'd never have won. If I didn't know you better I'd say you were in love.'

Genevieve smiled. Love was certainly not the emotion occupying her mind at that moment. Sex, yes. But not love. 'I haven't time to fall in love,' she said.

An overweight man pushed past their table, his face bright-red and sheened with sweat. Lisa watched him with undisguised amusement.

'He was in the weights-room, can you believe?' she said. 'I always thought the weights-room would be full of hard, young, male bodies, all glistening and muscular, and when I peek in, what do I see? Humpty Dumpty, puffing like an engine. Disgusting.'

'Perhaps you just picked the wrong night,' Genevieve suggested.

'Believe me,' Lisa said, 'I've tried every night. It's always the same. Middle-aged flab trying to turn itself into Schwarzenegger in five quick sessions.'

'Have you seen the two women who seem to have actually managed it?'

'Women? You're joking?'

'I'm not. These two had muscles a lot of men would

envy.'

'Sounds horrible. Did they have shaved heads and tattoos?'

'No,' Genevieve said. 'They were really nice looking.'

'I don't believe you.'

'Well, it's true. Take a look during the ladies session. See for yourself.'

'No thanks,' Lisa said. 'I prefer looking at men. But not the ones in our weights-room. Do you know, I think I'd actually pay money for a few hours of passion with one of those hunks you see in the body building mags, if I could ever find one.' She glanced quickly at Genevieve. 'Wouldn't you?'

'No, I wouldn't,' Genevieve said. The over-muscled bodies, their veins standing out like cords, skin gleaming with fake tan and oil, always seemed to her the ultimate turn-off. Sinclair's body had always felt lean and hard. His muscles were those of an athlete, sinewy and strong under his skin.

She realised, with a little shock of surprise, that although she could picture his body she had never seen him naked. He stripped her, but kept himself fully clothed, allowing her access only to his cock and balls, as if this was the only part of himself he was willing to share with her.

'You're doing it again,' Lisa said. 'You've got that faraway look in your eyes. Come on, who's the man?'

'Hasn't it occurred to you,' Genevieve said, 'that I might be thinking about work?'

'Knowing you, I can believe it,' Lisa agreed. 'Don't you ever get frustrated?'

'Certainly not.'

'You're weird/ Lisa said. 'I do.'

'But you've got a boyfriend/ Genevieve said, in surprise.

'Dear old Bart.' Lisa nodded. 'The original once-a-week man. I can tell you exactly how Bart's going to make love to me. He'll touch my ear and then kiss it a few times. Then he'll move down to my neck. After about a minute there he'll undo my blouse, or push up my T-shirt, or whatever. And if my nipples aren't hard enough for him he'll say "What's the matter? Aren't you in the mood?" and make it sound as if there's something wrong with me. Two minutes of foreplay and I'm supposed to be panting with lust!' Lisa grinned wryly. 'If you're telling the truth about not having a special man perhaps you're lucky. You'll be less frustrated with a vibrator.'

'But you've been with Bart for ages/ Genevieve said.

'I know/ Lisa agreed. "That's the bit I don't understand. I
like
him. Maybe I actually love him. Sometimes I think I do. I certainly can't imagine life without him. I just wish he'd liven up in bed. I wish he'd surprise me for once. Tip a bottle of chocolate sauce over me and lick it off. Anything for a change.'

'Sounds awful,' Genevieve laughed.

'Perhaps not chocolate sauce,' Lisa said. She thought for a moment. 'How about wine?'

'Still sounds awful. And think what a mess it'd make of the sheets.'

Lisa grinned. 'You're just too conventional, Gen. You and Bart would make a good pair.'

Genevieve wondered what Lisa would say if she explained why she had not been concentrating on their squash game. She had checked the Club Bacchus by telephone and discovered that it was a genuine venue. But the receptionist's reaction to her suggestion that they were staging a strip show was distinctly frosty. Club Bacchus, the cool voice informed her, was for wine connoisseurs, and membership was by invitation only.

So, she thought, Sinclair had not been completely honest with her. Either the club was just the starting point in his plan or he had hired the venue for a private party. Would she be expected to strip in front of his friends? Was that his idea of a 'professional booking'? Was that why he told her to wear a mask?

She had already received an elegant, leather face hood from Georgie's workshop. It covered her hair completely and strapped round her neck, leaving only her nose and mouth free. The eye holes were outlined with tiny diamond studs. It was exquisitely crafted, comfortable, and disguised her completely.

It had given her a few temporary doubts about the clothes she normally wore for her striptease, but when she tried on the whole outfit she was surprised at the erotic contrast between the bondage hood and her conventional dress. She had a feeling that Sinclair had anticipated this. To complement the tiny studs she decided to wear her diamond choker and had to admit that the sharp glitter of the stones set against the dull sheen of the leather looked striking.

She stared at her reflection in her full-length mirror. Stripping was supposed to be a submissive act, the slave girl disrobing for her master's pleasure. But dressed in black, with the hood masking her hair and eyes, she looked far from submissive. She altered her stance and made it more aggressive. She imagined herself in thigh-high black boots, holding a whip. Mistress Genevieve, strict dominatrix? The idea amused rather than aroused her.

She took the hood off and put it with the other clothing that she had received from Sinclair. At the end of the ninety days, she thought, what would she do with these things? Would she ever wear them again? She realised that she could not imagine dressing up for anyone except Sinclair. For a moment the realisation frightened her. How had she allowed him to come to mean so much to her? It was ridiculous. Perhaps it would be a good thing when the ninety days were up, and their strange relationship ended. Maybe she would be miserable for a few weeks, but she would get over it. You always got over it. A few weeks missing him and then she could get on with her life again.

'We should see our moggie pictures up on the hoardings soon,' George Fullerton said, putting a cup of coffee on Genevieve's desk, 'and in most of the pet lovers' monthlies. If that cat's face doesn't double the sale of Millford's tasty cod morsels I'll run them another campaign for nothing.'

'Did you tell them that?' Genevieve asked, smiling.

'No,' Fullerton admitted. 'And if you do, I'll deny it. But you must admit we were lucky to find that animal. It has character. It even seemed to like posing.'

'She,' Genevieve corrected.

'Sorry, they all look the same to me,' Fullerton sipped his coffee. 'If it was female, no wonder it enjoyed all the attention.'

'That's a sexist remark, George,' Genevieve said.

'Maybe,' Fullerton agreed. 'And here's another one. How's your charm working on James Sinclair these days?'

'I've seen him socially,' Genevieve said carefully. 'He hasn't mentioned anything about Japan.'

'Well, he's keeping you in the dark then,' Fullerton said, 'because I know he's definitely going. He's been buying into multi-media, and he's got his own interesting little team of whizz-kids, the kind of brilliant dropouts who spent their college days listening to dreadful music and smoking illegal cigarettes. People who won't conform, and conventional firms won't touch with a ten-foot pole. People who sit there fiddling around with their electronic screens and then suddenly come up with ideas that make someone a millionaire. In this case Sinclair, if he's lucky.'

'I thought he was a millionaire already,' Genevieve said.

'I'm sure he is,' Fullerton said. 'On paper, anyway. But I don't suppose he'll say no to doubling his profits. The point is, if this Japanese visit is successful it will certainly involve a worldwide marketing campaign at some point. And it would be very nice if Barringtons were involved.'

"There's no reason why we shouldn't be.'

'That's what I thought,' Fullerton said. He paused. 'Jade Chalfont is also going to Japan with Sinclair.'

'With
him?' Genevieve repeated, unable to keep the shock and anger out of her voice.

'That's what I heard.'

'Maybe you heard wrong.'

'Maybe/ Fullerton agreed. 'But don't forget she could be a very useful companion, and Sinclair has never been shy of using people. The fact that she's also with Lucci's might be pure coincidence.'

'You don't believe that, George. They must have given her time off.'

'She could have holidays due to her/ Fullerton soothed.

'Do you mean they're actually travelling together?'

'I really don't know their travel arrangements/ Fuller-ton said. 'I just know that Sinclair is going to Tokyo, and so is Miss Chalfont. At the end of next week. On the same flight.'

That evening Genevieve was tempted to phone Sinclair, and then suddenly realised that she did not know his private number. Angrily she contacted enquires and a recorded voice confirmed what she had already guessed: he was ex-directory. She flung herself down in a chair, but she was forced to admit that phoning him would solve nothing. What would she have said to him? How dare you go to Japan with Jade Chalfont? How dare you go with an employee of Lucci's? How dare you go with any woman except me?