Читать книгу Diva - Carrie Duffy - Страница 14

It was still dark as Alyson rolled over and stirred groggily, wondering what had jolted her awake. It didn’t take her long to realize. As she lay with her eyes tightly shut, hoping to sink back into blissful sleep, she heard the unmistakeable sound of Dionne and CeCe as they clattered through the front door, drunk and giggling. The door closed with a slam, and Alyson pulled the duvet up around her ears in frustration.

‘Please shut up …’ she whispered into the darkness. But whichever way she turned she couldn’t block out the sound of Dionne’s flirtatious laughter, or the low rumble of a man’s voice, speaking in accented English.

Great, so they’d brought some guy back with them. That meant at some point in the next couple of hours, Alyson would have to endure the sound of Dionne or CeCe – or possibly both – having extremely loud and vocal sex, while Alyson irritably clamped a pillow over her ears and waited impatiently for it all to finish.

Dionne seemed to be as uninhibited about sex as she was about everything else in her life, and would groan and scream with complete disregard for anyone within earshot. Alyson sometimes wondered if she did it on purpose, to spite her virginal and frustrated flatmate lying awake in the room next door. She knew that wasn’t really the case – it was simply that Dionne rarely stopped to consider anyone else – but Alyson couldn’t help but think that way every time she lay alone in the darkness, unable to drown out Dionne’s ecstatic moans.

She wondered if that would ever happen to her – if she would scale the dizzy heights of pleasure that Dionne seemed to reach night after night. If she would ever let her guard down enough to trust a man to make love to her, without fearing that he might laugh at her obvious inexperience, or her small breasts and boyish figure. She wasn’t like Dionne, with an enormous cleavage and curves that went on forever. What man would ever find her attractive when he could have someone like that?

Alyson jumped guiltily as she realized Dionne was right outside her door.

‘Sssshhhhh,’ Dionne hissed, in a loud, ineffectual whisper. ‘Don’t wake my flatmate. She’ll be really mad. She works, like, all the time,’ Dionne said seriously, before she and CeCe collapsed into helpless laughter once more.

Miserably, Alyson turned over and burrowed down beneath the duvet, wedging it firmly around her ears. But as she heard the girls and their ‘friend’ move through to the lounge, heard the fridge being opened and a champagne cork being popped – did Dionne ever drink anything else? – Alyson knew she was in for another sleepless night.

Philippe Rochefort stumbled into the living room and sat down heavily on the sofa. The room seemed to swim before him. He knew he’d drunk far more than he should have; he’d been feeling a little low this evening and hit the whiskey hard. It was unusual for him to let his emotions rule him like this, but these last couple of days he’d been acting completely out of character.

Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he registered the thought that he was flying to the States tomorrow – today, in fact, he realized hazily. He had a flight to catch in a few hours and already he felt like shit. But then all thoughts were forgotten as the girl appeared in front of him – What was her name again? The hot, black one? It didn’t matter … – and held out a champagne flute for him. Her friend hovered in the background, sipping her drink and watching the pair of them.

Philippe relaxed back into the soft cushions, spreading his legs and stretching an arm along the back of the sofa. If he was lucky, these girls might put on a little floor show for him – finish what they’d started in the club. They’d been all over him in the back of the car on the way here – kissing him, kissing each other, hands groping everywhere …

‘So, Philippe, honey …’ Dionne began. She sashayed across the floor towards him and tripped over the rug, landing on the sofa beside him in a jumble of long, brown limbs. The glass she was holding tipped and the pale-yellow liquid slopped over the top where it splashed on to Philippe’s trousers.

‘Sorry ’bout that,’ she drawled, collapsing into giggles.

‘It’s … no problem …’ Philippe waved a hand dismissively. His words were slurred, and the movement was an effort.

‘Here, let me get it for you,’ Dionne offered as she pulled herself upright and leaned towards him, rubbing at his trousers. Her hands gradually slid upwards, the movements becoming slower and more controlled as her long, slim fingers stroked his crotch. She was gratified to feel the large bulge steadily uncoil until it became hard and rigid, pressed tight and straining against his zipper.

Philippe closed his eyes and groaned. It felt good, dammit.

Dionne’s eyes widened as she took in Philippe’s reaction. ‘Yeah?’ she whispered, her lips warm and wet against his ear. ‘You like that, huh? You like that, baby?’

CeCe took the lead from Dionne – they’d done this before – and the pair of them made a formidable team. She moved round to the back of the sofa behind Philippe and slipped her hands over his shoulders, running them down his chest. Her fingertips slid beneath his shirt, finding the tanned skin with its light covering of hair, feeling the taut muscles of his stomach.

‘So strong … so masculine …’ she murmured.

‘You’re so sexy, you could make a girl lose control,’ Dionne whispered huskily as she began to nuzzle his neck, gently nibbling his ear lobe. CeCe continued to stroke his chest, her hands moving downwards to where Dionne was running her long nails teasingly across his lap.

‘Ladies, I …’ Philippe began.

‘What is it, baby?’ Dionne encouraged him. In a well-practised move, she swung her leg across his lap so that she was straddling him, her face inches from his. Her skirt rucked up around her waist as she pressed her body against him. She was wearing the skimpiest of panties and he could clearly feel her, warm and ready for him, through the light material of his trousers. Involuntarily, he groaned once again.

‘Yeah …’ Dionne smiled, pleased, as she winked at CeCe before turning her attention back to Philippe. ‘Do you find me sexy, huh? Do you want me? ’Cos you are one beautiful honey of a guy …’

Philippe swallowed. He’d drunk a lot of alcohol before they’d left Bijou, and now his mouth was dry and sour tasting. He looked up to find Dionne’s magnificent breasts level with his eye line, her young, supple body writhing against his. There was no doubt about it – she’d be a wildcat in bed. But she wasn’t what he wanted. Not this evening.

‘I …’ he faltered.

‘Say it, baby,’ she whispered, her eyes half-closed as she caressed his body. CeCe was massaging his shoulders, two sets of hands caressing him, willing to administer to his every need. Philippe felt his resolve weaken.

‘Tell me you want to fuck me,’ Dionne insisted. She grabbed at his shirt, her fingers scrabbling to undo the buttons.

Blearily, Philippe tried to focus. Dionne was all over him, writhing and thrashing about. One of his buttons pinged off, rolling onto the floor and underneath the sofa.

‘Chérie,’ he began, trying to take hold of Dionne’s wrists to keep her still. But she misinterpreted this as some kind of game and began to moan even more intensely.

‘Yeah, that’s right … Do you want me?’ she demanded, her voice getting louder with every word. ‘Tell me you want me. Tell me in French – it sounds so sexy!’

The one thing Philippe was becoming increasingly certain of was that he didn’t want Dionne. In fact, he just wanted to get out of here, to get away. It had been a stupid, rash decision, coming home with these two girls who clearly had their own agenda.

Philippe tried to sit up and felt his erection wilt. Dionne felt it too and pulled away from him. For a second she faltered, then recovered her usual bravado.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ she purred. ‘That’s just a lil’ too much of the old whiskey. We can fix that in no time,’ she promised, as she began furiously rubbing away at his crotch.

Philippe was becoming increasingly irritable. Christ, did this girl ever give up? Roughly, he pushed her hand away in an aggressive gesture.

‘What is it?’ Dionne asked. She sat back uncertainly, sounding increasingly unsure of herself. ‘Do you want to see us together, is that it? You liked that, didn’t you? Before, in the club?’

She signalled for CeCe to come over as she climbed off Philippe and they took up their place on the floor in front of him. Dionne stepped out of her heels, bringing her nearer to CeCe’s height, as the two of them leaned closer, beginning with little butterfly kisses which quickly progressed to something more intense.

Dionne sneaked a sideways glance at Philippe, then raised her hands above her head as CeCe pulled off her top, the silky material sliding over her soft skin, leaving her breasts exposed.

Philippe exhaled heavily, his right knee bouncing in agitation. He knew they were doing it for his benefit, so he supposed he should pay more attention, but there was something so deliberate, so staged in their actions, that it rendered the show completely unsexy. He wasn’t remotely attracted to either of them, he realized. In fact, his overwhelming sensation was now one of boredom.

Stifling a yawn, he checked his watch – a Patek Philippe, naturally – and wondered once again just what the hell he was doing here. His plane was in four hours, and there was no way he could land in New York exhausted and hungover. It was completely unprofessional. He would leave now, grab some Paracetamol washed down with a large bottle of Badoit, then catch a few hours’ sleep on the plane before waking in time to go over the American proposals one last time before they landed.

Yeah, he needed to get out of here right now, he realized, wishing he’d listened to his first instincts in the club. The two girls were writhing around in front of him, desperate to elicit a reaction. It was pathetic. The shorter girl, the one with the freaky haircut, she was clearly into it, but the other girl just looked a mess, her skirt pulled up around her waist and her tits hanging out.

She was evidently from the wrong side of the tracks, obviously fame-hungry and money-grabbing. It didn’t matter how many designer labels you dressed her up in, or how much she spent on her hair and make-up, she was still no better than trash. All the money in the world couldn’t buy you class, Philippe thought with a sneer, his in-built snobbery coming to the surface. When you were from one of France’s richest families, it was hard to avoid.

He drained his champagne flute in a parting gesture, slamming it down on the coffee table before climbing unsteadily to his feet.

Dionne looked round in confusion. ‘Philippe?’ she questioned. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Home,’ he said shortly. He didn’t even look at her.

‘No, stay,’ Dionne insisted, bolting across the room towards him. She pressed herself against him, running her body up and down his, her naked breasts trailing over his half-open shirt.

‘Get away from me,’ Philippe hissed. His tone was like ice and he lashed out at her, pushing her away from him.

Dionne fell, sprawling onto the floor.

Philippe stared at her in disgust, his lip curling. She looked like some kind of beetle, writhing on her back.

‘I don’t understand,’ Dionne faltered, pulling herself upright. She was sitting at his feet, staring up at him while he towered above her.

‘Don’t you?’ Philippe was drunk and tired, his irritation making him cruel. ‘You disgust me,’ he sneered. ‘Look at you, at the way you live your life. You’re worse than a whore – at least a whore is honest about what she wants.’

Dionne opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, jerking his chin in an arrogant gesture. ‘You want money, yes?’ He dragged a money clip from his pocket and pulled out a handful of notes. There must have been around two thousand euros in bills of a hundred, and he threw them at Dionne, prostrate on the floor. It fell around her like rain. ‘Take it. I don’t need it.’

‘Fuck you,’ Dionne spat, scrabbling to sit upright. She grabbed at the money, ineffectually throwing it back at him. It bounced off his legs and fluttered to the ground. ‘Get the fuck out of my apartment, you bastard.’

‘Oh yes, now you’re showing your true colours. What a nice mouth you have on you.’ He leaned over her, his face contorted with cruelty. ‘Black trash, that’s all you are. Why don’t you go back to where you belong?’

Dionne sat, rigid with shock. For once in her life she found herself unable to reply. She could only watch helplessly as Philippe grabbed his jacket and walked out of the door.

Alyson sat up in bed and licked her dry lips. Her throat was parched, and all she could think about was getting a glass of water.

Silently, she pulled back the duvet and slipped out of bed, her bare feet landing on the carpet. She slept in an oversized Guinness T-shirt – free from a promotion at Chez Paddy – and the voluminous top only served to emphasize her slim body and delicate features. Her long, alabaster limbs stretched forever out of the black cotton shirt, her pale-blonde hair cascading down her back.

She padded across her room and stopped at the door, listening carefully. She wondered if she could get to the kitchen and back without being seen. It sounded as though everyone was in the lounge. The last thing Alyson wanted to do was walk in on some kind of orgy, a scene that wouldn’t look out of place during the last days of Rome. Alyson had no idea what Dionne and CeCe did with the guys they brought home, but her imagination was running wild.

But then, it was her flat too, wasn’t it? Alyson reasoned. She shouldn’t be hiding in her room like a prisoner, afraid to step outside. She would dash out and hope they were all too caught up in what they were doing to notice her.

Alyson grabbed the door handle and opened it a fraction, when a sudden noise made her jump. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. It sounded like shouting. Then a door opened and a man stormed out, hurrying down the corridor. Alyson shrank back into the darkness as he rushed past her room. He didn’t turn the light on and it was too dark to see his features; all Alyson could make out was the curve of a powerful shoulder, silhouetted against the blackness. His tread was heavy on the wooden floor, and he pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket as he went. Then the door slammed shut and he was gone.