The Accidental Call Girl (20 page)

If she kept the cash to buy things for herself, she would always look at those things and know he’d paid for them, and for her. And if she didn’t keep it, she could pretend it had been a very short love affair.

So, a clean break was better. No ties. Just a few memories, free and clear, to keep as treasures.

Life settled into a normal groove. Shelley took off to stay with her beloved Auntie Mae for a week, because the older lady was a bit frail and always perked up after a visit from her niece. Brent seemed to cheer up, surprisingly, despite the anniversary of the accident. Or at least he appeared to. The garden centre seemed to be doing him the power of good.

Lizzie herself checked in with the temping agency, and looked for the hundredth time at brochures for various courses – design, fashion technology and the Open University. She’d have to do
something
, now more than ever. When the alternative was to brood about a certain beautiful, blond man who could spank her bottom and make her scream with pleasure with his hands, his mouth and his cock.

But it was difficult not to dwell on him. Difficult not to lie in her room, and find her fingers straying to her clit as she replayed the scenes she and John had shared, like frames from a sophisticated porn movie.

It was afternoon, and she was a hair away from an orgasm, with her hand in her knickers, when the phone rang.

‘Fuck off,’ she gasped, her head full of John, and the feel of him fucking her, pounding into her from behind, his fingers gouging at her well-spanked bottom as he held her steady.

Then suddenly she stopped. Pleasure not quite forgotten . . . but . . . interrupted.

It was her ‘Bettie’ phone that was ringing, not her normal one.

She sat up, grabbed a tissue and scrubbed her fingers. She straightened her clothes, and breathed deep. The phone chimed on.

Finally composed, she reached for it.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Bettie, how are you? Do you fancy a weekend away at the seaside? At your full per hour rate, of course.’

Well . . . just like that. Silence for days. Now an invitation. She opened her mouth to rebuke him, then checked. She had no cause to get cross. She was in a service industry, sort of, and the customer was always right. He owed her nothing, and he certainly wasn’t obliged to dance delicately around her sensibilities.

And a seaside break did sound tempting. She hadn’t had a holiday for ages, and with John she could expect five-star luxury all the way.

Not to mention five-star . . . no, six-star pleasure between the sheets.

The only thing, or person, that gave her cause to hesitate was Brent, with Shelley being away. But her friend actually seemed much calmer, and had even got out his bike and done a bit of road training. A very good sign. Healthy. If she and Shelley made sure to oh, so casually phone him every so often, he wouldn’t feel too alone, surely? Especially as he had Mulder to keep him company. She made a note, too, to remind a couple of their other mates from the pub to call him for drink.

‘Are you still there, Bettie? Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. Yes. And that sounds very reasonable.’ The words were out before she could debate the issue of Brent with herself any further.

John laughed. ‘Sorry, I was a bit abrupt, wasn’t I? And sorry I’ve not been in touch. I’ve been in Scotland on an interminable round of stinking meetings. All I could think of was getting back here and then whisking you away for a nice trip. Will you come? Really?’

‘Of course. I’d love to go to the seaside. How many days shall I pack for? How posh?’

He seemed to think for a moment. ‘You always look wonderful, Bettie. But, well, fairly posh. But bring jeans too. Hopefully we’ll have time for some normal touristy things, ice-cream on the sea front or whatever.’ He paused, and when his voice issued from the speaker again it was low and sultry. ‘And bring some delicious lingerie. I’m looking forward to fucking you senseless, sweetheart. Not to mention spanking that glorious bottom of yours again. I’ve been thinking about that in the boardroom these last few days. It’s the only thing that’s got me through. I swear, without the image of your gorgeous body and the prospect of making your bottom red as a cherry again soon, I’d have lost it more than once and blown a very sweet deal.’

‘So, I’m mental therapy now too, am I?’

‘You’re the best medicine, Bettie. I’ve missed you.’

It was spoken lightly, but she strained her ears to hear deeper meanings. Real emotion. Even after he’d rung off, leaving her with instructions to be ready good and early in the morning, so he could pick her up, she kept replaying the words in her head, trying to read more into them.

In the end, she decided they were what they were. A simple statement; not any kind of declaration.

He was taking an available, willing and fairly presentable woman with him on a trip, and paying her very splendidly for her services.

Nothing more.

‘I’m Mr Smith’s driver, ma’am,’ said the handsome but brawny looking individual in the dark suit, standing on the doorstep, ‘May I come in and collect your bags?’

Driver? John had a driver?

Of course he has a driver, you idiotic dolt! He’s a sodding millionaire! Or billionaire . . . Whatever . . .

A man of John’s wealth, racing between high-powered meetings, wouldn’t descend to grappling with the traffic and swearing at other road users himself. He’d sit in cocooned comfort while somebody else dealt with the hassle. He probably had a plane, too, or a helicopter, or even both, awaiting his whim at the nearest airfield. He was a man of almost infinite means, after all.

‘Yes, of course, please do.’

As she let the driver in, another thought occurred. With his history, maybe John didn’t ever actually drive himself? Perhaps he’d been banned for life . . . or maybe he simply didn’t feel right behind the wheel anymore, even after all these years?

A few minutes later, her sombre thoughts faded as she found herself standing before the open passenger door to what could only be described as a limousine. Pausing only to wave to Brent – who seemed almost as excited about her trip as she was, and who was hanging out of an upstairs window to observe this blatant example of obscene capitalism – Lizzie peered into the vast interior of the car, and met John’s dazzling smile, and the gorgeous rest of him, awaiting her.

‘Good morning, Bettie,’ he said, leaning forward and putting out a hand to help her into the car. He’d obviously not been twiddling his thumbs waiting for her. The paraphernalia of business was all around him. Laptop on a small swing-out table, files, papers various, his briefcase. ‘You look glorious, as usual. Looking forward to our trip?’

‘Yes, very much.’ She drank him in. He looked glorious too, and every inch the tycoon this morning. ‘And you . . . well, you look like a boss, Mr Smith. Which I guess you are, to lots and lots of people.’

‘Very true,’ he said, shifting some of his documents aside and reaching over to help her with her seatbelt. As the car door thudded shut, with the heavy note of quality, sealing them in a tinted glass capsule, his hand brushed her breast through her cotton top as he manipulated the belt.

When Lizzie gasped, his blue eyes flared and he smiled at her, subtle and tricky.

‘It’s like that, is it?’ The hand that had brushed, cupped her now, thumb settling on her nipple and rocking.

The caress was light, almost inconsequential, yet it affected her. It was like that. Nine in the morning, she’d been with him all of thirty seconds, and she was alive with instant desire. Goodness alone knew what she’d be like after an hour or two, alone with him, in this secure and private space, his body so close.

Especially looking the way he did.

When she’d first set eyes on him he’d been wearing a fabulous three-piece suit, and this one, if anything, was even more sharp. He had a knack for picking the perfect colour to flatter him, and this was a grey that just might have been a kind of blue too, a subtle melt-down of the two shades. Whatever it was, it made his eyes look bluer than ever, and the pristine white of his shirt highlighted the very light tan of his complexion. His tie was a shade darker and a shade greyer than the suit, in a subtle pattern, and she smiled to herself, thinking of a book that she’d read not all that long ago.

‘Yes, of course it’s like that,’ she said, steadying her voice, ‘I’m on your time, John, the least I can do is be ready, willing and able on demand.’

Best to be up front about that. No use lapsing into loopy romantic reveries about this being anything other than a rich man buying a sex companion for a trip.

Strictly business, nothing more. Despite the fact her body was singing from only the merest, lightest touch.

‘That’s very diligent of you, Bettie.’ He squeezed her breast again, the contact still measured, but with more weight. She could see a darkness in his eyes, his desire as much a wildfire as hers. He leant forward, his fingers still curved around her flesh, and set his mouth on hers in a soft, tantalising kiss. His breath tasted of mint as if he’d not long cleaned his teeth, and his delicious cologne was an intoxicating vapour. Lizzie trembled, even though the kiss was brief.

His expression was radiant as he drew away, releasing his hold on her. ‘I wonder if it was a mistake inviting you . . . I do have a little work to do, and you’re such a temptation.’

Contrary swine!

‘Well, I can get out then, in that case. Wouldn’t want to interrupt you in the process of making even more money. It’s not as if I haven’t got other things . . . and people . . . I could be doing.’

He gave her a long look. ‘I haven’t got
that
much work to do. Indulge me a little while, Bettie, you know it’ll be worth it.’

Oh, yes it would. Even just riding with him, sitting like a quiet mouse while he shuffled his papers and sent emails or did whatever he had to do, was a thrill. He only had to sit beside her, so lithe and dazzling and beautifully groomed, and it was almost like having sex without even touching. Her body was excited just by looking at him; her breast aching for more of his touch, her pussy heavy and yearning and sticky. She supposed she was his treat to himself, a rich man’s temporary toy, but he was far more of a treat to her. A real escort would be thrilled to have captured the attention of a man so wealthy, and so generous with it, but for her the greatest asset on offer was the man himself.

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said, offering him her most amenable smile.

John laughed, as if he’d seen right through her, but somehow she didn’t seem to mind. She winked at him, and he shook his blond head. Did he know? And if he did know she wasn’t a working girl, just exactly when was he going to tell her that he’d sussed her out? The uncertainty was another layer of excitement, another thrill that made her sex tingle and ache for him.

‘So . . . I guess you’ve got questions for me,’ he said, pulling his laptop close, and opening a file. ‘You were surprisingly incurious the other day.’

Expecting questions herself, Lizzie was thrown for a moment. He really was the trickiest man.

‘Well, you are what you are, John, and I am what I am. I thought we could just enjoy each other on that basis, sort of in a bubble, outside the real world.’

His fingers stilled on the keyboard, and he looked at her, visibly impressed. ‘You’re a very wise woman, Bettie. Another girl might have been pressing now, wanting more.’

Oh, I do want more! I want it all. But not the money.

The thought shocked her. The truth of it. The arrival of the knowledge, the recognition of ‘the one’, even after a few days and in the weirdest of circumstances. But she had to lighten up, steer away from the most dangerous of ground.

‘No, I only want to play . . . nothing more . . . Perhaps we could role-play “ruthless sexy filthy rich tycoon and palpitating female victim”?’

John typed a few lines of something, apparently absorbed in it. ‘We
could
play that, although I don’t see you as a victim in any way, shape or form. You’re the most powerful and well-sorted woman I’ve ever met.’ He paused, typed a few more words. ‘Except perhaps my ex-wife, and she’s several decades your senior and enormously wealthy and cosmopolitan, so you’d expect her to be strong.’

He turned to her, and she could see him almost willing her to start quizzing him. She decided not to oblige, even though curiosity was killing her.

‘Well, maybe I’m not a palpitating victim, but you
are
a filthy rich tycoon. Your role will be easy.’

‘Exactly so.’ He quirked his sandy eyebrows at her, suddenly very much the dastardly ladykiller, even though he’d barely moved a muscle. ‘And in that case, little Miss Victim, I order you to take your panties off and give them to me. I want to imagine your cunt untrammelled and accessible, even if I haven’t quite got the time to investigate it at the moment.’

Lizzie glanced at the tinted glass, dividing them from the chauffeur, and then at the scene gliding by outside. They’d come quite a long way, she realised. Even though they didn’t seem to be speeding, the powerful limousine was like a magic chariot, that could shoulder aside lesser vehicles that hindered its progress.

‘It’s all right. The glass is one way. Nobody can see us, and nobody can hear us . . . unless we want them to. And it’s probably not a good idea for Jeffrey to hear anything at all “heated”. His concentration on the road is second to none, but you never know.’

Heated? Good God, she was heated already, just from John’s words. And his presence beside her.

‘So, are you going to get them off?’ John said, rolling the words, salacious and fruity, ‘or do I have to take them off for you?’

‘All right, already.’

Fishing beneath her full skirts, she hooked her fingers in her waistband and, hitching herself up off the seat, she pulled down her beige lace knickers. She tried not to show her nervousness, her excitement, but she fumbled, tugging them off over her heels, and they got caught. Leaning over, laptop still on his knee, John untangled them and took them from her.

‘Gorgeous . . .’ He held them up, on the end of one finger, letting them swing. Lizzie blushed furiously when he inhaled, drawing in her aroused scent. ‘Now, let’s put these in a safe place, shall we?’ Crumpling the underwear into a little bundle, he stuffed them into a pocket in his pigskin briefcase. ‘There, that’s better. Now lift your skirts from beneath you, and sit directly on the leather. They all do that, in the stories, don’t they?
Story of O
and all that.’ One-handed, he snapped shut the briefcase and pushed it away in the foot well. ‘You have read
The Story of O
, I take it?’