Читать книгу Taken For His Pleasure - Carol Marinelli - Страница 6

THE PRESSURE of the hairdresser’s fingertips on her scalp as she massaged conditioner deep into her hair didn’t even provide a vague distraction—Lydia’s mind was working overtime, trying to fathom how she was supposed to face Anton Santini now. How on earth could she manage detachment, professionalism, after what had transpired in the pool? Hell, right now she’d settle for being able to look him in the eye.

But she had to remain in control—not only did her career depend on it, but Anton’s life was in her hands. And, given she was signed up as his protector, her life too could be on the line. This was no time to be acting like a gauche teenager—she had to somehow regain control of this appalling situation, had to wrestle back her dignity. But for the first time in her life she was completely at a loss to come up with a plan. How could she deny her part in what had taken place? How could she deny the blatant, overwhelming passion that had engulfed her? The sensual, debauched alter ego that had emerged the second he had touched her?

‘So, you’re booked for nails, full make-up and a blow-dry?’ Karen, the therapist questioned her as a warm towel was wrapped around Lydia’s head and she was guided to the make-up room.

‘Please.’ Lydia nodded, lowering herself into the chair and trying to sound blasé, as if she did this type of thing every day. ‘Though I’m not sure if there will be time to do my nails. I’ve got an appointment scheduled—’

‘That’s no problem,’ Karen interrupted, clearly used to dealing with busy clients. ‘Cindy can do your nails while I do your make up—let’s have a look at you.’ Pulling off the towel, she ran her fingers through Lydia’s long red curls.

‘Is it business or pleasure?’ When Lydia blinked back, Karen elaborated. ‘Your appointment? I’m just trying to get a feel for how you want to look.’

‘It’s business,’ Lydia answered firmly. ‘And I want to look fabulous!’

‘Oh, you will.’ Karen winked, tipping the chair backwards and setting to work.

Lydia closed her eyes as a few stray hairs around her eyebrows were deftly tidied and a thick layer of scented cream gently rubbed into her face, chatting amicably to Karen about jewellery and the one-off pieces she supposedly designed, practising the alias she would be adopting over the next few days.

‘How long are you staying at the hotel?’

‘I have to check out this morning.’ Lydia gave a regretful shrug. ‘When I checked in I was hoping to stay for four nights but apparently the hotel’s been booked up for weeks—some VIPs are arriving this morning. The bellboy’s bringing my luggage down now, and while I’m having breakfast the concierges are ringing around to find me alternative accommodation.’

‘That’d be right,’ the therapist muttered. ‘Kick out the paying guests…’ Her voice trailed off as she realised she’d probably overstepped the mark, but Lydia pushed on, more than happy to fish a little, giving a tiny swallow as she tried to sound like the rich little madam she was hoping to portray.

‘Well, I’m far from happy with the situation,’ Lydia bristled. ‘And I sincerely hope that a concierge can find me somewhere suitable—somewhere with a decent salon at the very least. What sort of VIPs are they anyway?’

‘The worst sort,’ the therapist answered in a theatrical whisper. ‘There’s going to be a take-over of the hotel and some of the bigwigs from a massive European chain are coming. We’re all supposed to be on our best behaviour—why don’t we try grey?’

‘Sorry?’ Opening her eyes, Lydia blinked back at the woman.

‘On your eyes. I know you said you prefer neutral, but a deep smoky grey will really bring out the amazing colour of your eyes—they’re more gold than hazel—’

‘I don’t want anything too heavy,’ Lydia broke in. ‘I really prefer a more natural look.’

‘Trust me,’ Karen insisted, a long red nail hovering over an array of tiny pots, her eyes narrowing as she stared closely at Lydia’s face. ‘You’re going to look stunning. One wave of my magic wand and I can create an entire new you.’

A ‘new you’ was exactly what was needed, Lydia thought ruefully, if she was ever going to face Anton. A tiny glimmer of a plan started to emerge. ‘Can you do anything to tone down my complexion?’

‘You’re as white as paper,’ Karen tutted.

‘But I blush terribly.’ Lydia gave a dismissive shrug. ‘And, like I said, I’ve got an important meeting this morning—I don’t want to give myself away when we discuss prices.’

‘You need a green base.’ Karen nodded knowingly. ‘Nothing like what you’re thinking.’ She grinned at Lydia’s rather startled expression. ‘I’ve got this fabulous mineral powder; we have it flown in from New York. Wearing that you can double your prices—triple them, even—and you’ll be as pale and as cool as porcelain.’

‘Really?’ Lydia gave a dubious frown.

‘Really!’ Karen winked. ‘We’ll have to pay extra attention to your décolletage—that’s a real give away when you’re blushing.’

And she would blush!

Just the thought of facing Anton had her pulse pounding in her temples and a scorching, shameful warmth flooding her. But as Karen worked on slowly the horror receded, and Lydia gave in to the pleasure of the moment, knowing that in a few short days she’d be back to a few dabs of sunblock and slick of mascara if she was lucky.

Lydia let Karen transform her as Cindy worked on her nails. She didn’t even glance in the mirror when she sat upright for her hair to be dried—she focussed on a magazine as her curls were dragged beyond her shoulders.

For the first time in ages Lydia didn’t turn automatically to the health section, didn’t read how she could increase her stamina or detox her entire system in a mere weekend. She even bypassed an in-depth article on a recent high-profile court case. Instead, with a flutter of excitement, she flicked to the social pages. She gazed at photos of the rich and famous, at their smooth botoxed faces belying their age, their divine dresses and long, smooth legs that ended in jewel-encrusted shoes. She could almost smell the expensive perfume wafting from their silicone-enhanced bosoms. She looked at the Russian-red lips smiling for the cameras, and for the first time since she’d checked in Lydia smiled back.

The diversity of her career hit home: only this time last week she had been on a stake-out, dressed in a navy tracksuit, a world away from the glamour she was forced to sample now, boxed up in a supposedly abandoned van for forty-eight hours. She had watched pimps and drug dealers infesting the vulnerable with their wares, staring through the bolt holes fitted with telescopes as weary prostitutes willed the morning to come, drinking endless cups of coffee to stay awake as she made small talk and tried to cheer up Kevin Bates—an inspector on the force she regularly worked alongside, a man she both liked and admired.

Forty-eight hours confined in his company, listening to him fret about his eldest child who was having his tonsils out that week, was a world away from what she was experiencing now! A freshly squeezed orange and guava juice was the order of the day, instead of her usual flask of coffee. Now, massive marble bathrooms replaced the rudimentary portaloo in the corner of the van that she’d had to endure so they didn’t blow their cover by stepping outside.

It wasn’t just a world away, Lydia corrected herself, but an entire universe from where she was now. And for a slice of time this opulent world was the one in which she was supposed to belong, with which she had been ordered to blend in. Lydia made a vow to revel in it the same way Maria was—to live the fantasy of being obscenely rich. She’d taken the bad over and over again. For the next few days she’d enjoy the good.

‘You’re done!’ Karen’s voice was triumphant as she pulled off the towel and gown and smoothed Lydia’s hair over her shoulders. ‘I’ll get a mirror so you can see the back and sides.’

Normally for Lydia the mirror bit of a salon visit was an uncomfortable, painful experience—a mumbled thanks as she wondered how on earth she could correct the appalling creation, grappling in her purse to give a very undeserved tip as she blinked away tears. This time, however, she was trying hard to keep herself from smiling, desperately trying to remember that she was supposed to be used to this, that she was always supposed to look groomed and divine.

Staring at her profile from every angle, Lydia barely recognised herself. Her curls were a distant memory. Instead her hair shimmered in a straight silk curtain. But it wasn’t just her hair that had her mesmerised—it was the entire package! The sparkling gold of her eyes as they peered out from underneath smoky grey lids was deliciously framed by her newly darkened lashes, and even her skin seemed to glow with healthy delight, a cheeky dot of colour on the apple of each cheek drawing her gaze to the dark, sexy red of her lips.

‘Try it now.’ Karen giggled.

‘Try what?’ Lydia asked, still mesmerised by her reflection.

‘Think of your deepest, darkest secret, something that will make your toes curl with shame, and watch that make-up do its magic.’

So she did…

She relived in her mind the sheer abandonment that had doused her this morning. The stinging sensation of Anton’s kiss, the cool of his mouth, the nibble of his teeth against the wedge of her tongue. She could almost feel the steel of his erection nudging her most private place. She could almost feel herself willingly overstepping boundaries that until today had always been firmly entrenched. Staring at her reflection, Lydia envisaged what had just a short while ago seemed impossible—facing Anton Santini, confronting the man she had revealed so much of herself to, staring deep into those cruel, sensuous eyes and somehow appearing in control, portraying the cool, detached detective that she was supposed to be, somehow pretending that he hadn’t touched her so.

‘Cool as a cucumber,’ Karen enthused, and Lydia blinked back at her reflection, amazed that the therapist was right—her face was pale, not a hint of a blush darkened her cheeks. Her shoulders were creamy white against the flame of her dress and Lydia was infused with possibility…

Maybe she could pull it off.

Stare at Anton and tell him that he didn’t move her.

Tell him that the scorching intimacy they had shared hadn’t been pleasure but merely a duty—a cross she’d had to bear.

She would get through this!

And because she was supposedly rich, a mere detail like payment shouldn’t even enter her head—with a swish of her fragranced hair Lydia should stalk out. But, rummaging in her bag, she peeled off a note and pressed it into Karen’s hand. She shared a tiny smile as the woman’s fingers gleefully closed around the crumpled paper before heading out into the massive foyer, staring at her luggage being wheeled through the foyer by the bellboy. A concierge was juggling a telephone call and two rather irate Americans and attempting to catch her eye—no doubt wanting to inform her of the reservation he’d made on her behalf. But Lydia deliberately ignored him, heading over to the restaurant instead, ready to face Anton again. But on her terms this time—not as the woman he had witnessed earlier, but as the detective she was.