Читать книгу Final Target - E. Seymour V. - Страница 19

I slept the sleep of the satiated and woke around ten. Checking my phone, I had a missed call from McCallen. Tough. McCallen and her problems were like a bad, distant memory.

I went to my local leisure centre, spent an hour working up a sweat in the gym followed by a shower and fifty lengths’ front crawl in the two-thirds Olympic-size pool. In spite of my best efforts, my savage night on the town had left me needing more. I couldn’t stop thinking about Simone. She was in my hair and on my skin. I had taken what was on offer and I wanted her.

After a meeting with Greg, a builder I regularly used, to discuss a house I was renovating, I took out the card and called her. I didn’t tell her my name. I cut straight to the chase.

‘Where are you?’

‘At my office.’

Busy woman. Working by day, pleasuring by night. Something in the back of my brain dinged a warning. ‘That’s a pity. I’d love to see you.’

‘No problem. Drop in.’

‘Where?’

She gave the name of a café I knew well in the Suffolks. A popular hangout for poets and arty types, it served great coffee but without the high price tag.

It took me eight minutes to walk there. Simone sat facing the window, laptop open and latte at the ready. She glanced up as I walked in, her lips curling, kittenish with pleasure. I kissed her once on the cheek and sat down. Wearing a black roll-neck sweater, soft tan leather trousers and boots, and little make-up, she looked more demure than the night before, yet still retained a sexy aura of mystery. Automatically, my brain flashed to her going down on me in a public place.

‘Do you want a top-up?’ I said, obliterating the thought.

‘That would be good, thank you.’

‘Same again?’

‘Whatever you are having.’

I ordered a two-shot Americano with hot milk for me and another for Simone and paid.

‘What are you doing?’ I glanced over her shoulder as I squeezed past and sat down.

‘Checking on the details of a party I’m organising.’

‘Right,’ I said, unenlightened.

‘I’m a party planner,’ she explained with another cute smile. ‘Among other things.’

I met her eye and returned the smile, a moment of conspiracy between us. She stretched across and pressed an index finger to my lips. ‘Not as you think.’

‘No?’ I held her gaze.

‘I also get paid for life coaching, fashion and make-up advice.’

‘Online?’

‘It’s where I exist.’ She looked around her. ‘This is my office.’

I scratched my head. It was a different world to me. ‘You come here every day?’

‘Non, I have many offices, many homes. Everything I have I can pack into a suitcase.’

Something we once shared in common, I realised to my surprise. ‘You have to be the first woman I’ve ever met with such a minimalist approach to life.’

At this she smiled, displaying a perfect row of even teeth. ‘I rent a room where I store a limited amount of possessions,’ she confessed. ‘But, yes, I like travelling light. I like being able to move around at a moment’s notice. Cheltenham today – London, Rome or New York tomorrow.’

‘Not Paris?’

‘And Paris.’

I imagined gatherings of wealthy playboy types, live bands, exotic food and expensive alcohol. So that’s how she’d learnt to dance so expertly. Bagatelle, I thought. It was all falling into place.

‘And what do you do when you’re not travelling and working?’

‘Have fun.’ She issued another knock-’em-dead smile. ‘I ski when I can. I enjoy tennis and polo.’

‘Watching or taking part?’

She leant towards me, ran a fingernail lightly over my hand. ‘Playing tennis, watching polo.’ She looked at me so seductively I was in danger of dragging her across the table and doing her there.

‘And you,’ she said, drawing away a little. ‘Tell me who you are and what you do.’

I kept it simple. Told her my new name, my new line of work and nothing of my past. As far as Simone was concerned, I was Joe Nathan, local boy made good. Not keen to dwell on this, I changed the subject.

‘So this party, who is it for?’

‘No one and everyone.’ She smiled, definitely playing with me.

I scratched my chin. ‘Is Bagatelle a brand name, or what?’

She waited a beat while a guy delivered the coffee. I added milk and waited for mine to cool.

‘Bagatelle is a membership-only party site. Potential members must be between eighteen and forty-eight and apply online with a photograph. Only the beautiful are allowed to join.’

I muted my natural response, one of surprise.

‘What do you charge?’

‘£120 per single, £200 per couple, or there’s a gold membership at £1,500 a year.’

Seemed steep to me. ‘How many people on your books?

‘I have around 20,000 female members.’

‘And men?’

She shook her head.

‘What? Parties exclusively for women? Isn’t that a high-end form of networking? Sounds dull.’ And definitely not a label I’d attach to Simone.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You think?’

Somewhere I’d missed the point. Before I could ask another question, she said: ‘Would you like to come as my guest this evening?’

I was dubious. I’d wanted Simone to myself. I’d hoped for an evening out followed by an intimate night in. The thought of sharing her with a hundred other females held no appeal. ‘The only male?’ I didn’t know where this was leading. It seemed that with Simone all things were complex.

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘You do not understand. Men cannot be members but that doesn’t mean they cannot attend. They may come but only if invited.’

At this I pulled a face. ‘Isn’t that sexist?’

Simone gave what could best be described as a Gallic shrug. ‘Those are the rules.’

‘Any others I should know about?’

‘You may only watch. You must not touch or join in unless asked.’

I’d like to think I maintained a cool exterior. Secretly, I was fascinated. With Simone, I felt as if I’d met my match. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘What time do I have to be there?’