The Ninety Days of Genevieve (2 page)

He bent over her and touched her left nipple with his lips, brushing it gently then flicking it with his tongue. Within seconds it had tensed and hardened. Taking it in his mouth he began to suck insistently. Each tugging movement making her tremble with a shock of pleasure. He seemed to know just how fast and hard she wanted the action. Then his hand closed over her other nipple and he teased it lightly, nipping and pinching, massaging her breast with a circular movement of his palm.

She felt a moan of encouragement rising in her throat and stifled it. She could not believe that she was actually enjoying this. The knowledge that they might be discovered at any moment simply made it more exciting. 'Please/ she managed to gasp, unsure of how far she would let him go. Or how far he would take her. 'Someone might come in.'

He looked up. 'Afraid they'll see you behaving like a whore?' He cupped his hands under her breasts, pushing them upwards, his thumbs rubbing faster. 'They might enjoy the view/ he drawled. 'I bet quite a few of your colleagues wouldn't mind giving your nipples a servicing. Perhaps we ought to call them in. Five minutes each.' His fingers still played with her, lazily. 'I have a feeling you just might like that.'

Normally the idea would have repelled her but something about the tone of his voice made it sound strangely exciting. Not with her business associates, though. But with strangers? Young men that she did not know and who did not know her, and with Sinclair watching, enjoying it? What would she feel like then? She shivered slightly and her tongue moistened her lips. He was still leaning over her but not touching her now.

'The thought of that turns you on, doesn't it?' he murmured. 'You really aren't as strait-laced as you look. I didn't think you would be, but I wanted to be sure. Maybe you really would be interested in doing a deal with me.'

'I've already said I would.' She tried to keep her voice steady, determined to try and regain control. 'A business deal.'

'But of course/ he agreed sardonically. His hand caressed her briefly. 'We barter. You give me what I want, and I give you a signature. The oldest kind of deal in the world.'

'You won't regret it,' she said.

Once again his eyes gave her a quick sexually-charged assessment. 'I'm sure I won't,' he agreed.

They both heard the footsteps in the corridor. Unhurriedly, Sinclair backed away. Genevieve managed to pull her blouse together and hastily button her jacket. George Fullerton, middle-aged but still elegant and always with a flower in his button hole, looked round the door and smiled. 'I'm going for lunch. Perhaps you'd like to join me?'

Acutely aware of her blouse and bra bunched up under the now smooth lines of her jacket, Genevieve managed to smile coolly at Sinclair. 'We have a very good executive canteen, Mr Sinclair.'

'Thank you,' Sinclair said. 'But I have another appointment.'

George Fullerton glanced very briefly round the office, but Genevieve knew he had already noted the television and the portfolios. 'Has Genevieve shown you anything that excited you?'

She saw a smile touch James Sinclair's tanned face. His hand brushed an imaginary speck from his immaculate jacket and she felt a sudden sexual tremor as she remembered what that hand had been doing to her only moments before.

'As a matter of fact,' he said, 'she has. But I'll need to see more before I make a decision.'

'I'm sure Genevieve will oblige you,' Fullerton smiled.

'I'm sure she will,' Sinclair murmured.

'Still playing funny games with little balls?'

The voice intruded on Genevieve's daydream. She was sitting at a table in the sports centre bar, pleasantly relaxed after a shower, remembering the confident touch of James Sinclair's hands on her body. The idea of sex without strings, and a nice business bonus at the end of it, was beginning to attract her. So was the idea of finding out whether James Sinclair looked as sexy without his clothes on as he did in his elegantly tailored suit. She wished she had reacted less positively to his advances, and not allowed him to have his own way so easily. She should have made a few moves of her own. Wasn't she entitled to know what she was getting too?

She looked up and saw David Carshaw standing opposite her, a can of Diet Pepsi in one hand and a bulging sports bag in the other. 'It beats chasing a few plastic feathers round a court,' she said.

'There's a bit more to badminton than that.' David sat down. 'And it's a damn sight quieter than squash. Are you still in the league? I didn't see your name on the lists.'

'I don't play in the league anymore,' she said. 'I had to keep cancelling matches at the last minute. It didn't make me very popular.'

'The problems of being a career woman.' David grinned. 'I'm glad I'm just a humble bank employee.'

Far from humble, Genevieve thought. She had not seen David for some time and wondered why he had suddenly decided to talk to her now. She watched him finish his Pepsi, gurgling the last drops through a straw, then drop the empty can in his bag.

'Recycling,' he explained. 'The money goes to charity.' Without a pause he added, 'I hear you're flirting with James Sinclair.'

The question took Genevieve completely by surprise. She knew gossip travelled fast in the City and David was in the position to hear it, but for a horrified moment she thought Sinclair's sexual suggestions were now public knowledge.

'Or rather Barringtons are,' David corrected. 'Don't you think your ambitious little agency might be getting out of its depth?'

She shrugged, composed now. 'We can swim,' she said. 'And every bit as fast as Mr Sinclair.'

'I wonder?' David stared at her levelly. 'Sinclair's one of those men who would never be content with his first million. In fact he obviously hasn't been content with it. He always wants more. Frankly I can't understand why he's even bothered with Barringtons. There are plenty of top-line agencies who would kiss his - er - feet for the chance of handling his account.'

'Perhaps he heard how irresistible I am?' Genevieve said sweetly.

David laughed. 'Well, you're gorgeous, of course,' he said diplomatically. 'But actually I'm not sure you're Sinclair's type.'

'Really?' She was interested. 'And what exactly
is
his type?'

'Models/ David guessed. 'Leggy blondes with silicone implants. Or society types. You know the kind of thing.'

'He likes variety, you mean?'

'He likes women as accessories/ David said. 'Status symbols. I can't really see him going for anyone with brains. Too much competition. They might answer back.'

'He didn't strike me as that kind of man/ Genevieve said.

'Thafs because you don't know him.' David leaned forward. 'I expect he's played the perfect gentleman with you, but I'll tell you for nothing Sinclair's known to be a bit of a bastard with women. There was this daughter of a politician..he broke off. 'No, I shouldn't spread gossip. It was all hearsay. Probably a load of lies.'

'Oh, stop acting like a schoolgirl, David/ Genevieve said crossly. 'You know you're going to tell me anyway.'

'Well/ David settled into his chair. 'She was very stuck on him until he started asking her to do some very peculiar things.'

'Like what?'

'How should I know? Kinky stuff. Anyway, she refused.'

'Very moral of her/ Genevieve said dryly. 'I don't believe a word of it.'

'She threatened to sell her story to the newspapers.'

'Don't they all? I still don't believe it. Whafs the punchline?'

'Rumour has it that Sinclair paid her more than the papers.'

'And you believe that?'

David shrugged. 'He's got the money to do it.' He paused, then grinned. 'Personally, I think it's far more likely that he told her to publish and be damned. And since her daddy was a politician she thought better of it. But that isn't to say I didn't believe the stories of what they got up to. Sinclair likes playing power games. With women especially. Just thought I'd warn you.'

'Where business is concerned I'm not a woman, just a negotiator.'

'For your sake,' David said, 'I hope James Sinclair thinks the same way.'

Genevieve thought about David's words for the rest of the week. Was Sinclair courting Barringtons for reasons of his own? And if he was, what were they? The more she thought about it, the harder she found it to come up with any. And what was his real interest in her? If David was correct in his description of Sinclair's sexual preferences she was certainly not his type. She was gaining a reputation for efficiency at her job but she certainly could not be considered a status symbol. And she had no intention of pretending to be stupid either, just to humour him. Furthermore, she realised, she had made no arrangements to meet him. George Fullerton had stayed with her while Sinclair went down in the lift on his own. She doubted if he would contact her at work, but it would be easy for him to find out her private telephone number. Would he do it?

But the phone did not ring, and she began to wonder if she really had been a fool to take him seriously. Sex for a signature? It was like something out of a film. Perhaps David had been right. He was just playing power games? Perhaps it was his idea of a joke. If it was, did she care? She had to admit that she did. Not, she told herself quickly, that she was particularly looking forward to obliging him in bed. She could take that or leave it. It was strictly a career move. She
needed
a break. She wanted to prove that she could win clients.

Barringtons currently had an exciting creative division, but they would not keep their inventive young designers and writers if they did not expand. Sinclair's account would be the first step. And if Barringtons succeeded, Genevieve knew she would succeed with them. Sinclair could give her that. She stared at the phone and willed him to pick it up, to call her, to suggest a meeting. Anything.

The phone stayed silent.

Genevieve had just run a bath and the perfumed water was gently warming her. She lifted one leg and stretched it, smoothing the creamy foam that clung to her skin. Why did the gleam of water always make your body look sexy? Was that why so many men liked giving women an oil massage?

The phone rang. She reached for it, unhurriedly, trying to guess who it might be. At this time of night it was probably her brother, Philip. He knew she worked long hours and usually phoned late - at least when he thought about it. He hadn't rung her for ages. She prepared to tell him off.

'Miss Loften?' She recognised the voice immediately, with its combination of authority and attractive depth.

'Mr Sinclair?' She hoped she sounded neutral. She had no intention of letting him know how relieved she was to hear from him at last. 'I thought you'd forgotten our deal.'

'I don't forget anything,' he said. 'I had a few arrangements to make. Now listen. Go to 43 Harmond Street tomorrow and collect a box. You wear whafs inside it under an outfit of your own choice when we meet for our discussion. Just the items in the box. Nothing else. Understand?'

So he's into sexy underwear, she thought. But he sounded as if he was giving orders to his secretary and she wasn't sure she liked it. With her free hand she smoothed the creamy foam over her breasts so that her nipples were just visible then submerged herself in the warmth of the perfumed water again. She thought: If you were here now, Mr Sinclair, I'd make you change your tone.

She decided to make some kind of protest against being dictated to, if only to see how he would react. 'Wait a minute,' she said. 'I'm not sure I'll have the time go anywhere tomorrow. I've got two meetings and ...'

'Make time,' he said abruptly.

'And if I can't?' she returned, coolly.

'The deal's off,' he said.

'Now listen,' she began.

'No,' he interrupted. 'You listen. This isn't the office. This is just the two of us, and I'm the one who calls the shots. If you don't think you're going to like it, back out now.' His voice softened slightly, and she imagined his mouth with that slightly sardonic smile. 'Try it my way,' he cajoled. 'You know you're curious.'

She was. She was curious about the kind of garments he would expect her to wear. Frilly knickers? The perennial male favourite, a suspender belt and seamed stockings? Open crotch panties? A peep-hole bra?

She stifled a sudden giggle. Surely not. He was so elegant and controlled, she couldn't imagine him being turned on by such schoolboy props. But then you never knew. She slithered further into the bath. The foam came up to her chin. She felt relaxed, hugged by the scented water. 'Well, all right,' she agreed, hoping she sounded as if she was granting him a favour. 'As long as I can go in the evening.'

'You can go anytime,' he said. 'And the day after tomorrow you'll meet me at the Garnet at eight.' There was a pause. 'And like I said, lady, you wear what you like on top, but underneath it's my choice.'

She knew the Garnet to be an exclusive and expensive restaurant. If she had to wear black stockings and open crotch panties to please him it would be a fair exchange for what would certainly be a marvellous meal.

After her bath, wrapped in a silky kimono, she checked out her
London A to
Z. The road name he had given her was in a residential suburb, and not a particularly classy one. It made his instructions all the more intriguing. There were plenty of kinky shops in London ranging from the smart to the downright tacky. What was so special about 43 Harmond Street?