Читать книгу Platinum Coast - Lynne Pemberton - Страница 8

‘Just one more shot, Christina … Good … Drop your left shoulder, moisten those lips. Come on, now, sultry eyes, mouth slightly open – wonderful! More teeth, wide eyes, left hand on leg. Imagine you’re in bed with Robert Redford.’

She pulled a long face.

‘Well, whoever turns you on, darling,’ the photographer urged. ‘Come on, baby, think sensual. You’re making love to the man of your dreams. He’s an Adonis, he’s fantastic in bed. Imagine him caressing you.’

Christina imagined what she would actually like – a long hot bath, then, dressed in furry slippers and cosy bathrobe, a large gin and tonic in her hand, to curl up in front of a TV movie. It worked.

Max Raynor shouted: ‘Bellissima, Christina. Hold it like that. Don’t move.’

The camera clicked furiously before he raised his head. ‘Wonderful stuff. You’re a gem.’

He looked at her, draped across an antique French day-bed. ‘That’s it, baby. We can wrap it up now.’

She relaxed and let her head drop onto the back of the padded chaise.

‘I’ve got some great shots. You’ve worked really hard. Thanks.’

He stretched his lean frame and walked across his studio towards an assortment of transparencies scattered in disarray across a huge desk. ‘Mmm, very nice,’ he commented as he flicked through them, his trained eye picking out the best images at a glance.

He rummaged in a drawer under his desk and, producing a small tobacco tin and cigarette papers, began to roll a joint.

Christina massaged the back of her neck and said, ‘Kate should have warned me I was going to be working with a slave-driving maniac who I now know has a reputation for overworking his models and sacking those who can’t stand the pace.’

Max was one of the top photographers in Europe and could afford to be choosy.

With a dismissive shrug of his narrow shoulders, he said, ‘A lot of girls are lazy. If they want to work with me, that’s exactly what they have to be prepared to do. Work.’

He handed her the joint.

Christina shook her head. ‘No thanks, I don’t, but I’d love a glass of wine.’

‘One glass of plonk coming up.’

Max poured a tumbler full of cheap red wine and handed it to Christina, who screwed up her small nose when she tasted the bitter Chianti.

He noticed her grimace and shook his head. ‘Not good, eh?’

‘I have had better.’ She took another sip and added, ‘I have had worse as well.’

He joined her on the sofa, ‘So, Miss O’Neill.’ Max eased his thin body close to hers, crossing his legs – a habit she detested in men. ‘You’re leaving me to rush back to darkest Manchester tonight? I can’t for the life of me understand why when you could stay at my place. The bed is clean, and I know a very chic little Italian restaurant I think you’d love.’

Max inhaled the marijuana deep into his lungs and closed his deep-set dark-blue eyes.

Christina was very tired. She was also acutely disappointed. Stephen had been in France all week but had promised to get back for the weekend. A brusque telephone call earlier that day from his secretary had informed her that Mr Reece-Carlton was delayed in Paris and would call her on his return tomorrow morning.

‘Thanks for the offer, Max, but I’ve got to get back to Manchester. I have someone waiting for me.’

She fervently wished it were true.

‘Woe is me.’ Max pulled a long face. ‘Is there no way I can tempt you?’ He paused and then said, ‘How about the promise of the front cover of Vogue next month?’

Christina stood up wearily. Every muscle in her body ached. She walked to the back of the studio and picked up her overnight bag.

‘Just going to get changed. I won’t be long.’

Max waved, a faraway expression on his face.

Christina squeezed into the tiny bathroom and peeled off the black-velvet boned bodice and long handkerchief chiffon skirt she was wearing. She then took off a heavy gold chain, earrings and assorted bangles, placing them carefully into a jewellery box.

Dressed in her own pale-blue leather trouser-suit and boots, she walked back into the studio, the clothes draped over one arm and the jewellery box in her other hand.

‘Where do you want me to leave this stuff, Max?’

He ignored her question and took one last drag of the joint before grinding it into a cracked saucer.

Christina watched him run grubby hands across his groin.

‘Bloody good dope,’ he said. ‘I feel so fucking randy. Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay?’

She shook her head.

‘Sorry, Max, I’ve got to get back to Manchester.’

She dropped the clothes and box onto a small chair next to her, eager now to leave. Stephen had let her down. She wanted to get home and sleep for a week.

Max stood up and crossed the few feet that separated them. Taking both her hands in his he said, ‘Don’t take any notice of me. I’m just a little stoned; it always makes me horny. Anyway, I fancy you like mad.’

The blush that spread over Christina’s face seemed to encourage him, and he tried to pull her closer.

She backed off and chose her words carefully.

‘Really, Max, I’m very tired. And, like I said, someone’s waiting.’

‘Okay, okay, I get the message.’ He dropped her hands. ‘It’s been great working with you. I’ve been in this game a long time and believe me when I say you have a lot of potential.’ His voice was sincere as he leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek.

‘Thanks, Max, I really appreciate that,’ Christina said.

‘Off you go, then.’

He steered her towards the door, and patted her gently on the bottom.

‘Back to the sticks, baby. Bye bye.’

She let herself out of the studio in Elm Park Mews into a warm, dusky evening. Fading sunlight glinted on the windows of the pretty, shuttered houses, where gaily coloured flowers spilled in profusion from window boxes and an assortment of terracotta and stone pots.

She recognized the number-plate, SRC 20, as the dark-blue Mercedes turned the corner into the mews.

Christina waved furiously, and was unable to stop a wide smile from transforming her face as the car pulled to a halt next to her and Stephen jumped out.

The exhaustion she had felt only moments previously evaporated, to be replaced by a feeling of euphoria when he ran towards her.

‘I’m so pleased I caught you.’ Stephen raked his fingers through dishevelled dark-brown hair. ‘I’ve driven like a maniac from Heathrow to get here. I finished in Paris quicker than I thought and literally raced out to Charles de Gaulle. The flight took off moments after I boarded. Then I ran through Heathrow, and had a real up-and-downer with the customs boys who stopped me. The traffic was dreadful on the M4 … I really didn’t think I’d make it.’

He stopped for breath, and Christina said, ‘I was on my way back to Manchester. Your secretary left a message to say you were delayed.’

‘Excuse me, is that your car?’ an irritated voice intervened. ‘I can’t get out.’

‘Sorry,’ Stephen said to the irate driver, and, picking up Christina’s bag, he led her to his car, which was double-parked. He backed quickly up the narrow mews.

‘I’ve rung the studio three times in the last two days. The phone either rings continuously or else some dimwit of a girl answers and seems incapable of taking a message coherently.’

‘We’ve been out on location for two days and the girl you are referring to is Max’s assistant, Pippa, a complete air-head.’

Stephen stole a swift sideways glance at Christina, feeling ridiculously pleased to see her.

Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright with anticipation. She caught his glance and a surge of excitement passed between them.

‘Fancy something to eat?’ he suggested.

‘I’m absolutely starved. I haven’t had a good meal for five days. Max seems to live on sandwiches and take-away Chinese and Indian.’

‘Okay. What sort of food?’

‘I really don’t mind. As my father used to say, I could eat a scabby horse between two mattresses.’

Stephen chuckled. ‘I’ve got just the place, and it’s only round the corner. Fingers crossed it’s not fully booked.’

Christina lifted both her hands and crossed two sets of fingers. Stephen turned the car into Roland Gardens and pulled up outside Blake’s Hotel.

‘You jump out while I try to park,’ he said.

Christina did as she was told, and walked up three deep stone steps into what resembled a very chic London town-house. Entering the small reception area, she felt as if she was in a private home, and stood awkwardly next to the discreet reception desk manned by a trendy young man.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘I’m waiting for someone, actually,’ she replied in a small voice, and turned as she heard the young man say, ‘Mr Reece-Carlton, how are you?’

‘I’m fine, Rupert. And you?’

‘Overworked, underpaid, and busy,’ he replied, and then added, ‘So what’s new?’

Stephen led Christina to the head of a narrow open-tread staircase, calling to Rupert before they descended, ‘See you soon. Take care.’

‘You obviously come here often,’ Christina said before she reached the bottom of the steep stairs.

‘I used to stay here a lot before I bought a place in London.’

‘Monsieur Reece-Carlton, long time no see.’ The head waiter came forward.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation, Philippe.’ Stephen’s voice was apologetic.

The small man glanced at his reservations list and his watch. It was 8.30.

‘I can give you a table now, but I’m afraid you will have to vacate it by 10.30. I have an after-theatre reservation.’ He looked at Stephen. ‘Is that okay?’

‘That’s fine by me.’ Stephen stood back to allow Christina to follow the head waiter to their table, which was located in the far corner of the small restaurant.

‘Aperitifs, I presume?’ Philippe asked as they sat down.

‘I would like a large glass of Perrier, please, with lots of ice and lemon,’ Christina said.

Stephen ordered a glass of champagne.

‘What a fantastic place.’ She looked around the dimly lit restaurant, fascinated.

There were long-stemmed white lilies spilling out of several tall glass vases and unusual feathery tulips in the palest shade of pink on every table.

The dark, narrow bar was packed with smartly dressed people, and Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned in the background. Their drinks arrived along with the menus.

Christina, determined not to make a fool of herself again, asked, ‘Can you advise me what to have, Stephen? You must know the menu pretty well by now.’

‘It does change, but there are some firm favourites.’ He glanced at the carte.

‘Why don’t you try the soup followed by fish? It’s always very good here.’

Christina took his advice.

The food was delicious. She ate most of her cream of leek soup with two chunks of crusty granary bread, all of the baked fish with tomato sauce, and polished off her portion of potatoes dauphinoise and most of Stephen’s. They drank vintage champagne followed by a Château Petrus.

It was almost 10.30 when Stephen suggested they have a nightcap in the small, deep-seated area located off the restaurant. Christina was a little tipsy as she sank into the soft Oriental cushions. Stephen joined her.

Brandy and chocolates arrived a few moments later.

‘You must try one of these chocolates. They’re out of this world.’

He pointed to the tiny dish of very thin, flat, dark chocolates. She nodded, and he was about to pick up the dish to hand her one when she leaned forward, her wide mouth slightly open. In a teasing voice she said, ‘You give me one, please.’

He picked up a sweet and very slowly placed it in her mouth. She licked his fingertips before he withdrew them, then her own lips.

She looked into Stephen’s pale-green gaze, and neither of them spoke for a couple of moments until Christina said, ‘Absolutely delicious. May I have another one?’

He grinned. ‘The same way?’

‘Yes, please.’

He placed the chocolate in her mouth, only this time traced her slightly parted lips with one finger whilst she chewed, slowly and deliberately.

His fingertips trailed down her neck and brushed lightly across her shoulders.

Christina shuddered.

‘Do you want to go now?’ Stephen’s voice was thick when he whispered in her ear.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

They left the restaurant ten minutes later and drove to his flat in Kensington. Neither of them spoke much during the fifteen-minute drive. They were both absorbed in their own thoughts.

Stephen’s flat, though not as big as she had expected, was exquisitely furnished.

‘It looks like something out of a glossy magazine,’ she commented on entering the big open-plan living-room, dominated by two enormous, deep-cushioned beige sofas, covered in piles of assorted cushions.

A two-inch-thick glass-topped coffee table housed stacks of glossy magazines and books, plus framed photographs and a beautiful antique dish containing pot pourri.

‘Have a seat.’ Stephen indicated the sofa. ‘Drink?’

‘I think I’ve had enough to drink.’

‘A final nightcap,’ he said, opening a bottle of champagne.

‘Okay, you twisted my arm.’ Christina took off her jacket and draped it over a delicately carved occasional chair.

‘You have wonderful taste.’ She sank into the luxurious sofa, running her hand across the smooth surface of a silk cushion.

‘Not guilty,’ Stephen said, pouring two glasses of champagne. ‘My wife was born with several silver spoons in her mouth and grew up surrounded by beautiful things. She became an interior designer. All this …’ – he gestured casually – ‘is her work.’

He joined her on the sofa, handing her a glass as he sat down.

Christina took a sip of champagne.

‘Mmm, this is lovely.’

‘Krug is the best in my opinion.’

Stephen sipped his champagne, and stared at her over the rim of the glass.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes? Such an unusual colour.’

‘Millions of randy young men.’

Stephen looked pensive. ‘I thought as much,’ he said, and began to rummage amongst the books on the coffee table, mumbling, ‘I wonder where it is?’

‘What are you looking for?’ Christina enquired.

I’m looking for my How to Seduce a Beautiful Young Woman manual. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.’ He looked at her helplessly. ‘You see, I’m lost without it.’

Christina giggled, a deep, throaty sound.

‘How about I teach you, Mr Reece-Carlton, since you’re such a novice?’ She lowered her eyes shyly. ‘I’m not exactly the voice of experience, but I’m sure we could learn as we went along.’

He placed his glass of champagne on the coffee table and slid along the sofa to where she was sitting.

‘That sounds like a great idea to me. I’ll be your willing pupil.’

‘Lesson number one, you kiss me.’

Stephen leaned towards her and, cupping her chin in his hand, kissed the end of her nose.

She closed her eyes as the tip of his tongue very gently licked the outside of her lips, gently prising them open before his own lips covered hers and his tongue explored the inside of her mouth.

‘Lesson number two,’ Christina whispered, as he started to kiss her neck, ‘you take off my blouse.’

‘I’ll do whatever you say.’ He was clearly enjoying the game.

Stephen undid the tiny buttons down the front of Christina’s shirt. It fell open to reveal a half-cup white-lace bra, barely containing her round breasts.

He ran his fingers across her bare stomach, then circled first one nipple then the other with the palm of his hand. Her nipples rose in response, and he unhooked her bra. He caressed one breast whilst exposing the other, which he fell upon, sucking and pulling her hard nipple into the soft folds of his mouth.

‘Lesson number three,’ she gasped, breathless, as he ran his tongue across her stomach, ‘you take off my trousers.’

He kneeled at her feet and pulled both her boots off before unzipping her leather trousers and sliding them down her long, lightly freckled legs.

Christina squealed as she spotted her big toe poking through a pair of worn Mickey Mouse socks.

She looked at Stephen, who hadn’t noticed. He was too busy staring at her tiny white-lace bikini-briefs and the thick triangle of dark-brown pubic hair just visible beneath. He pulled off her old socks and flung them over the top of the sofa, then ran his tongue slowly up the inside of her thigh and across the front of her panties, biting gently into the open lace.

He lifted her legs onto the sofa and laid her carefully on her back, putting a cushion under her head.

He was kissing her passionately now, his mouth hard and urgent.

‘You’re beautiful, Christina,’ he told her between frenzied kisses.

She began to undo the buttons of his shirt.

‘Lesson number four …’

‘Lesson number four, Miss O’Neill, is I fuck you until you tell me to stop.’

‘You’re a very good pupil, Mr Reece-Carlton,’ she said in a breathy voice.

He looked deeply into her half-closed eyes.

‘I catch on quick, Miss O’Neill.’

The loud blare of a car horn woke Christina the following morning.

She sat up and stared at her surroundings, confused for a few moments, until she realized that she was in Stephen’s bed in his flat in London.

She recalled their lovemaking of the previous evening and, with a satisfied grin on her face, sank back down into the deep feather pillows.

A few moments later she looked up as Stephen appeared at the door, dressed in a long navy-blue bathrobe and carrying a tray of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, plus a jug of what looked like fizzy orange juice and two glasses.

‘Good morning. Sleep well?’

‘Like a log, but I always wake early whatever time I go to bed. I’m afraid I’ve got an inbuilt alarm clock. I crept out of bed like a mouse this morning so as not to disturb you.’

‘What’s that?’ She pointed to the tray.

‘This is breakfast in bed, Stephen Reece-Carlton-style. So come along, young lady, sit up. We’re going to eat.’

He dropped his robe and she averted her eyes, suddenly embarrassed at the sight of Stephen’s lean, muscular body. He noticed her embarrassment and quickly slid into bed next to her, pulling the covers over his nakedness and placing the tray between them.

He handed her a fork and a napkin.

‘Dig in. It’s delicious.’

‘What’s the orange stuff in the eggs?’ she asked, pushing her fork into the centre of the plate.

‘It’s smoked salmon.’ He poured a glass of the fizzy orange mixture, saying, ‘One Bucks Fizz coming up.’

‘Bucks Fizz?’ She raised her straight eyebrows and took the glass.

‘Champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice.’

‘This is a very decadent breakfast,’ she said between sips of Bucks Fizz. ‘You’re spoiling me, Stephen.’

He looked at the napkin draped across her breasts, one pert nipple protruding.

‘And why not?’

‘Talking of spoiling …’ Christina ran her fingers up the inside of his thigh. ‘Why don’t I try spoiling you a little in return?’

Stephen put the tray on the floor.

‘Why not indeed?’

It was almost midday when they left Stephen’s flat and walked to High Street Kensington where they hailed a cab to the West End.

They wandered hand in hand down Bond Street, idly window-shopping, with Christina chatting non-stop.

‘What a fantastic dress.’ She pointed to a black silk creation in the window of Yves St Laurent.

‘It would look a lot better on you than on that skinny mannequin,’ Stephen declared, and before she could say another word he pulled her towards the big glass entrance door. ‘Come on, try it on.’

‘No, Stephen, it will cost the earth. I can’t afford Yves St Laurent,’ she protested.

‘But I can,’ he remarked, and pushed her into the shop.

An elderly shop assistant dressed in a simple yet very chic Yves St Laurent shift dress came towards them.

‘Can I help?’ she asked, staring disdainfully at Christina, who was now acutely aware of her creased trousers and cheap blouson shirt.

‘We’re interested in the black dress in the window,’ Stephen said.

The assistant beamed at him.

‘Oh, yes, it’s stunning.’

She glanced at Christina, weighing her up.

‘Size ten, I would say.’

Christina held her head high and stared back aloofly. ‘You’re dead right.’

‘Charlotte, check if we have a size ten in the black silk, please,’ she snapped at a girl standing a few feet away.

Charlotte arrived a few minutes later with the black dress draped over her arm. She smiled warmly at them both and gestured to Christina. ‘The changing-rooms are over here.’

She followed the young girl, throwing a wary look at Stephen as she passed.

The dress fitted perfectly.

It was made from pure silk chiffon, cut very low at the back, almost to her waist, and falling in soft tiers to the knee. Thick black satin ribbon edged the hem and formed a waist, accentuating Christina’s own small waist.

Stephen let out a low whistle as she emerged from the changing-room.

‘The dress was made for you,’ the assistant gushed in her best sales voice.

Stephen dragged his eyes away from Christina, who looked much older and more sophisticated in the elegant dress. ‘We’ll take it,’ he told the assistant, ignoring Christina’s shocked expression.

She was about to say ‘But you haven’t even asked the price’, then bit her tongue, thinking that the dress was probably more than the rental on her flat for a whole year. She knew which she would rather have.

‘Go on, get changed.’ Stephen pushed her back into the changing-room.

‘How much is it?’ she hissed.

‘Don’t worry about the price. You look beautiful in it.’

‘But, Stephen …’

‘Shush.’ He placed two fingers gently across her mouth, then walked towards the counter, putting a gold American Express card in the hand of the beaming shop assistant.

‘She looked stunning in it,’ the woman was saying as Christina emerged from the dressing-room and dropped the dress on the counter next to Stephen.

Sheets of tissue paper encased it before it was placed carefully in a smart black monogrammed carrier bag and handed to Christina, who was still flustered as they walked out onto Bond Street.

‘You really shouldn’t have done that.’

She sounded upset. He was surprised. He’d expected her to be pleased.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I know it must have been very expensive, and … it’s embarrassing.’

‘I really thought you’d be delighted. It was done only with that intent.’ He stared straight ahead.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes until she broke the silence.

‘It’s a fantastic dress. Thank you very much, Stephen. But please, never ever think you can buy me.’

‘What?’ He rounded on her angrily, his own temper abating when he saw her beautiful dark-amber eyes flashing defiantly at him.

Christina, he was discovering, was very different to most of the girls he took out.

‘I have no intention of buying you! Christina, I mean that. I’m not being conceited when I tell you there are lots of beautiful women I could have who would be more than willing to be bought.’

She did not reply, but realized he was right. It would not be difficult for a man in his position.

They walked on in silence.

‘To be perfectly honest, Christina, I was so pleased to see you, and had such an amazing time with you last night, I simply wanted to please you. It’s a long time since I’ve felt that way about anyone.’

He lifted two fingers in the air. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘I bet you were never a scout!’

‘I was. A sea scout, actually, for three years.’ He stopped walking and turned to face her.

‘Truce, Miss O’Neill?’

‘You’re impossible,’ she said, and then added, ‘Truce, Mr Reece-Carlton.’

Stephen took her to San Lorenzo for lunch, where they ate pasta and drank her favourite dry Italian Frascati. They walked to Harrods after lunch, where Stephen bought some new underwear, and Christina spent more than she ever had before on a pair of black suede shoes to match her new dress.

They arrived back at the flat at five.

Stephen busied himself making tea in the small black and chrome kitchen whilst Christina wandered around looking at books and studying photographs in antique frames.

‘Who is this beautiful child?’ she asked.

She was holding a photograph of Stephen pictured with a dark-haired little girl as he walked into the living-room bearing a tray of tea and fruit cake.

He placed the tray on the coffee table and took the frame from her hands.

‘Tea is served,’ he said, and sat on the sofa, patting a place for her to sit next to him.

He stared at the photograph. ‘This is Victoria when she was six years old.’

He said the child’s name with fondness.

‘Who’s Victoria?’ Christina poured the tea.

‘She’s my daughter.’

‘Oh.’ Christina sounded shocked. She splashed tea into the saucer, and onto the glass coffee table.

‘Look what a mess I’ve made.’ She began to mop up the spilt tea with a napkin.

‘Victoria is nearly eleven years old now, and you’re right when you say she’s beautiful.’

‘I wasn’t aware you had a child. Why didn’t you say before now?’ Christina sipped her tea and looked closely at Stephen.

His eyes shifted from her probing gaze and his face adopted the same enigmatic expression she had noticed the last time she had questioned him about his family.

‘I didn’t think it necessary. Anyway, you never asked.’ His voice was dismissive.

Christina was about to remind him that on their first date she had asked him about his family and he had told her then he had been married and his wife had died. Why had he not taken that opportunity to mention Victoria?

Stephen, perceptive as ever under scrutiny, sensed Christina’s unease, and reassured her.

‘I didn’t tell you because I am someone who needs to get to know people before I can open up to them. It’s that simple.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Victoria lives in Sussex, in my country house, and rarely comes up to town. I have a housekeeper there, Mrs Barnes, who looks after her whilst I am away.

‘I do try to spend as much time as possible with Vicky at weekends. She and I have become very close since her mother’s unfortunate death.’

‘How did your wife die, Stephen?’ He hesitated, deep in thought for a few moments, then said, ‘Barbara killed herself. An overdose of alcohol and barbiturates.’

He closed his eyes as if to blot out a painful memory. They were still closed when he continued.

‘Barbara had a lot of problems, and I don’t think I helped. She was constantly accusing me of working too hard and neglecting her. She was an extremely demanding woman.’

His eyes were open now but staring straight ahead, unblinking. His voice was very quiet and resigned when he said, ‘I wasn’t capable of giving her everything she needed.’

He directed his brooding gaze at Christina. There was no pain visible now, only resignation. He looked away and poured himself another cup of tea, more for a distraction than anything else.

‘Well, we have something in common, Stephen,’ Christina murmured softly. ‘We’ve both lost loved ones in a tragic way.’

She pushed a cushion to one side and found his hand. He lifted it to his face and kissed her palm, then her fingertips, one by one.

The gesture sent a thrill through her entire body. She stared at his long, angular face, scrutinizing every one of his features individually so as to imprint them on her mind, never to forget his image.

It was that moment that she realized she was hopelessly in love with Stephen Reece-Carlton.

‘Where on earth did you find her?’

Nigel Sinclair stood with Stephen whilst both men watched Christina dancing with a huge red-faced bear of a man, who was sweating profusely and spinning her to and fro in a pathetic attempt at rock and roll.

‘In a shopping centre in Manchester, actually.’ Stephen looked at his host’s bemused face. ‘I’ve always maintained the prettiest girls in this country are from the North, and so unspoilt.’

Nigel dragged his eyes reluctantly from Christina, whose long legs were revealed every time her partner spun her round.

‘Is she totally unspoilt, old chap?’ He nudged Stephen, an insidious leer curling the corners of his full mouth. The inference was obvious.

‘That’s none of your business,’ Stephen growled.

‘Okay, Stephen, keep your shirt on.’ He held up his hand. ‘A chap likes to know these things, that’s all.’

Nigel gave Stephen a chummy slap on the back. Jerry Lee Lewis’s thumping piano in ‘Great Balls of Fire’ ended and Christina emerged from the conservatory, which was set up as a disco, to join Stephen and Nigel.

‘Thank goodness the DJ changed the music. That guy was all set to rock and roll me to death.’ She was breathless, a becoming glow suffused her entire face, and most of her hair had tumbled out of the neat chignon she had spent half an hour perfecting. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at the two men.

Nigel was clearly captivated.

‘How about catching your breath with me? I can only dance to slow ones.’

Stephen held out his hand, pulling her away from Nigel Sinclair’s lascivious stares.

Christina took it, and they walked back towards the darkened conservatory where several entwined couples smooched to Barry White singing ‘Just the Way You Are’.

‘It’s been a fantastic party. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’ Her voice bubbled with exuberance.

She could smell his Givenchy aftershave mingled with a lemon, soapy smell when she rested her head on his shoulder.

‘I want to make love to you, Christina,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘Right at this moment?’ she whispered back, and giggled.

‘If it were possible, yes.’ His voice grew lower.

Christina let her hand slide down his back. She moved her body level with his and pulled him gently against her.

‘Stop it, Christina. I won’t be able to walk off the dance-floor if you continue to do that.’

Standing on tiptoe, her eyes open in wide-eyed innocence, she kissed him lightly on the lips.

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Stephen.’

He pinched her rounded bottom and said, ‘Let’s go home to bed.’

‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard all evening.’

It was almost 1.30 a.m. when they said their goodbyes to Nigel and Penny Sinclair and left their beautiful white-stucco terraced house in Pelham Crescent. Christina sat close to Stephen in the back of the chauffeur-driven limousine he had hired for the evening.

‘I can’t start to tell you what a wonderful time I’m having, Stephen.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘Manchester seems a million miles away.’

The car pulled up outside Stephen’s flat in Eldon Road and the driver jumped out and opened both doors.

‘Thanks, Ray. I’ll see you soon,’ Stephen said, and put his arm around Christina to lead her through the wide, dimly lit hall to his ground-floor flat.

He was opening the door when she stepped back. ‘I refuse to enter unless you carry me across the threshold.’

‘Come on, Christina, it’s after two; I’m tired.’

She stood her ground, challenging him.

He grinned. ‘Okay. But be warned, we may not make it.’ He lifted her and staggered. ‘Christ! You’re heavier than you look.’ She kicked her legs up and down. ‘You’re just a weakling,’ she teased, and they half fell into the entrance hall.

Stephen’s legs buckled and he lost his balance as he kicked the door shut behind them.

Christina collapsed onto the Chinese washed rug in peals of laughter, dragging him down on top of her. He brushed a strand of wayward hair from her face and kissed her, gently at first, becoming hard and demanding as she said, ‘Fuck me, Stephen. I want you now.’

He ripped her new dress and she stained his shirt with dark-red lipstick as they tore at each other’s clothes in mutual eagerness to share each other’s bodies.

Afterwards they gathered up their clothes, which were strewn around the wood-panelled hall.

Then, wearing her black lace panties on his head, Stephen chased her into his enormous marble shower, where they soaped each other in fits of giggles.

Later, dressed in one of Stephen’s old shirts, her hair still damp and hanging loosely down her back, Christina joined him in the kitchen to make piles of cheese and tomato toasties which they ate greedily whilst propped up in bed on the soft feather pillows.

‘Look, you’re covered in crumbs.’

He pointed to the front of her shirt and picked at a couple of crumbs, deliberately stroking her breasts at the same time.

Wrapping one leg across his bare stomach, she rested her head on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she murmured, ‘I’ll never forget this weekend as long as I live.’

He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her forehead.

‘I hope there are going to be many more just like this.’

Christina looked up at the departures screen as they walked into Terminal 1 at Heathrow Airport. BA 294 to Manchester was boarding at gate number six.

‘I’d better go.’

She shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of what to say to this man with whom she had been so intimate only a few hours before.

‘You really shouldn’t have paid for a flight. I could have got the train.’ Her voice trailed off as she saw the slightly irritated look cross his face. She rushed on, still feeling awkward. ‘Anyway, what can I say apart from what I’ve been saying all weekend? You must think I sound like a cracked record.’

‘You don’t have to say a thing, Christina. It’s been a pleasure having you with me. Believe me when I say I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in a very long time.’ He took her hand. ‘I mean that.’

‘This is the final call for flight BA 294 to Manchester. Any remaining passengers please go immediately to gate six.’

‘I’ll call you later this evening,’ he promised as they walked towards the gate.

‘Goodbye, Christina. See you soon.’

It was more of a question than a statement.

‘You’d better,’ she said. ‘I’ll not forgive you otherwise.’

‘You’re going to miss your flight,’ he said, glancing over her shoulder at a diminishing queue.

‘I wish,’ she sighed, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek.

‘See you, and thanks again.’ She ran down the ramp and placed her handbag on the conveyor, turning to wave to him before going through the security check. But Stephen had already gone.

Christina spent the entire fifty-minute flight pretending to be asleep to avoid being forced to participate in a boring conversation with a pharmaceuticals rep sitting next to her who was on his way to Manchester for a three-day sales conference.

Her mind travelled back over the last week, cataloguing the events of the last forty-eight hours so as not to forget one single moment, especially Stephen’s passionate yet sensitive lovemaking.

It was 7.30 p.m. when the plane touched down at Manchester’s Ringway Airport in a heavy rain-storm.

She thought with dismay of her dingy flat which desperately needed a coat of paint that she could not afford.

It was Sunday night, so Susie’s big bras and panties would be dripping above the bath. There would be no food in the fridge because Susie always went to her mother’s for lunch and then out to the cinema with her boyfriend in the evening.

As Christina waited, cold and shivering, in a long, straggly queue for a taxi to take her to West Didsbury, she made a silent vow. She would leave Manchester as soon as she could, with or without Stephen Reece-Carlton.