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‘Me?’ she laughed, thinking instantly of Russ Ford. It would take an army of PRs to keep her secrets under wraps if she wanted political office.
‘The only thing I plan on running for is the New York marathon,’ she laughed, turning away and climbing the steps. As she reached the veranda, she turned, her hands on her hips. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said flatly.
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re eyeing me up as some filly you could run in the Derby.’
Wendell put his empty wine glass back on the table.
‘I was just thinking how capable you were,’ he said. His delivery was slow, deliberate, loaded with suggestion, and she felt the warmth of his half–smile.
‘Capable?’ said Liz seductively, feeling a change in the atmosphere between them. ‘If by that you mean I’m good at lots of things, then I guess I am.’
Wendell moved forward and touched her cheek. Liz shut her eyes, feeling his warm hand on her skin, smiling with anticipation, her sexual magnetism still intact. This is the real prize, she thought. If Brooke had the Billington prince then she wanted the king.
Silently he took her hand and led her into the house, up the grand staircase, and into a bedroom overlooking the ocean. By the window was a dressing table arranged with pomade and perfume, the chair draped with a robe in stripes of silken colour. Being surrounded by a stranger’s things was turning her on even more: the forbidden, the untouchable was hers for the taking. She turned, kissing him fiercely. Liz began to undo the buttons on his Charvet custom–made shirt, pushing back the cotton to expose a tanned, firm chest, only a circle of dark grey hair betraying his age.
Unzipping his trousers, she sank down onto her knees, cupping and stroking his balls before taking his erect billion–dollar cock entirely into her mouth. His wiry, dark pubic hair tickled her cheeks as he pushed into her, holding her head firmly in his hands. Liz didn’t need any encouragement to stay down there, she knew how to suck cock, and from the thick, hard mouthful she could feel throbbing between her lips, she knew he was enjoying it as much as she was.
‘Now,’ he gasped, ‘on the bed.’
Turning her around, he unzipped her dress, which slipped to the floor; he began to plant soft kisses down her spine. Impatient, she unfastened her own bra, then pulled him down onto the huge bed. Rolling over, she straddled him and leant forward to brush her breasts against his chest, dipping her nipples towards his mouth, then playfully retreating as his tongue gave her the briefest sweep of her aureole.
‘So good,’ he moaned, grabbing hold of her wrists and rolling her over, pushing her thighs wider and wider. Finally, he reared forward and sank his cock into her. She flung her arms back, gripping the silk sheets as he bent down to kiss her mouth, her neck, the curve of her armpit and across to her hard, budded nipples, his appetite ruthless, unyielding, and urgent. Tasting her sweat on his tongue, she spread her legs so he could push further into her wetness. Thrust by thrust their pace quickened, powered by desire and need, two expert lovers, each as driven and focused as the other, each taking turns to dominate, be in control. Arching her back, she squeezed herself tighter around him, knowing he was about to come. Her concentration was so fierce that she screamed, but she knew she could delay the fierce sweet pulse of pleasure around her own body no longer. Wendell pulled out of her and slid down to put his face between her thighs, finishing her off with long, luxurious laps of her clitoris until she came so hard her entire body was trembling.
He rolled over and sank back onto the pillow, propping his hand casually under his head.
‘I might have to revisit my assessment of you as capable,’ he said finally with a note of amusement.
For a moment Liz was speechless. Sex was not something that ever threw her, but what had just happened had shaken her. It had been incredible. She turned to kiss him again, but, as she moved, he slipped out of the other side of the bed.
‘I’m staying here for the evening,’ he said, picking up his silk boxer shorts and pulling them back on. ‘I’m due to meet a friend for dinner at seven.’
There was a detachment in his voice that had not been present before they had sex. Liz knew the code: she was being given the brush–off. She felt a flare of annoyance, but to show it would be to show weakness.
‘Yes, I should get back to work,’ she said, standing up and stretching her long, naked body, knowing that his eyes were on her, knowing that he already wanted more in spite of himself. She bent down at the dressing table, showing him her perfectly shaped arse, and quickly checked her make–up.
‘Could you have the helicopter take me back?’ she asked casually.
‘Of course.’
Their eyes met, and for the first time in her life, Liz Asgill knew she had found her personal, professional, and sexual equal.
CHAPTER FORTY
‘So sweetiepie, are you anywhere nearer making a decision about the guest books?’ Alessandro Franchetti’s voice on the telephone was impatient. ‘If you need a steer, I just love the hand–bound midnight–blue calfskin or the taupe ostrich. Two hundred gsm paperweight, ivory rather than white. The paper is handmade in Italy, by the way. I just love it.’
Brooke sighed. For some reason she just couldn’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for the guest books. After all, it was just a large bound book left at the wedding for people to write their messages of goodwill in. She looked over to the huge pile of them that Alessandro had sent over. It wasn’t just the guest books, of course. Her apartment was littered with swatches, folders, boxes, and endless samples of envelopes, cards, fabric, and even cutlery. There were so many choices to be made, she felt overwhelmed.
‘Okay, yes to the heavy ivory paper and I like the midnight blue,’ she said, ‘but I’m just not comfortable with the idea of calfskin.’
‘What are you suggesting baby?’ he asked. ‘Fish skin? Tofu? Never mind, never mind. I’ll sort something out. Now, are you totally happy with that?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Brooke, propping the receiver under her chin and flicking idly through a copy of Elle. She wondered when the shift had happened, where choosing every last detail for the wedding had become, well, a bit of a chore. It hadn’t been so long ago that she had bought every single bridal magazine – US and international – poring over them night and day. She wanted her day to be perfect, of course. Of course she did, but Jewel Key was so gorgeous, she knew that just the sound of the sea and the tropical breeze washing over them as they said their vows would give the day all the stardust it needed. If she was honest, she really didn’t care what sort of card the place settings were made from. Brooke was well aware of the irony; she and David had quarrelled over this very thing only weeks ago, but now meetings, phone calls, and emails from Alessandro took up at least an hour of her time a day. It was starting to get too much.
‘We can still do lunch on Friday, sweetness?’ asked Alessandro. ‘I haven’t quite worked out the details for the ceremony departure yet.’
‘What’s that?’
