by Riley Banks
But to his surprise he blew in seconds, finally pushed over the edge not by the hookers and their kinky playtime but something far more routine and mundane - Charlotte Burke climaxing on Damon’s tongue, no longer subdued and quiet but enjoying her orgasm with all the gusto and fanfare of a true porno star.
Anita gulped the last mouthful of Luciano red; disappointed to see the bottle empty.
She could call room service and have them bring up another but she’d already consumed more than enough alcohol. A dozen margaritas at dinner and two bottles of wine in her room. Or was that three? Her vision had become so blurry she could no longer see straight.
It wasn’t like her to drink so much but then she wasn’t usually trying to forget what a murdering asshole her father was.
Of course, that was assuming Evans was right.
Throughout the evening Anita had seesawed between believing and utterly rejecting the notion.
Fuelled by alcoholic bravado, she decided to phone and ask him outright.
Of course, she’d chickened out, hanging up the second he answered; terrified he would confirm her suspicions.
She then spent an hour trying to reach Damon, certain he’d know what to do or say. His phone kept going through to voicemail.
And so she had drank, hoping the wine would help her forget only to discover there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to wipe those memories.
Staggering to the bed, she tripped over the corner, landing face first in the middle of the mattress.
The room spun in merry-go-round circles.
She should get up and change – sleeping in her cocktail dress would ruin the Dior original – but getting up seemed such a hard thing to do. Easier just to lie here and let her troubles spin away.
She must have fallen asleep at some stage because the phone startled her awake, pain shooting through her boozy head in waves, intensifying when she glimpsed the caller ID.
Great. What the hell does he want?
Anita hadn’t spoken to her grandfather in years so why was the old goat calling her in the middle of the night?
Answer the phone and find out. Ask him about Mum.
No, rejecting his call gave her a far greater thrill, filling her with a sense of glorious power.
Anita had just started to drift back into a drunken sleep when the noise started again.
Only this time it wasn’t the phone. It was the hotel’s fire alarm, the sound going straight through her brain like knives stabbing soft cheese.
She dialled seven to reach the hotel’s concierge.
‘Buona sera, Signorina Harvey. Come posso aiutarla?’
‘Inizia spiegandoci me - questo è un trapano,’ she said, questioning whether the alarm was a drill. No way in hell was she going downstairs if it were.
‘No, signorina Harvey. Si tratta di un incendio reale.’
Shit, a real fire. I better go downstairs.
‘Grazie.’
More than just her safety, she had the general wellbeing of the journalists to consider. They’d already witnessed the attack on Burke. Adding a fire to the mix was only going to upset them more.
Wishing for nothing more than to return to sleep, she swung her legs out of bed, the sudden movement threatening to bring up an ocean of alcohol.
‘Ouch.’ Her head was killing her and her mouth felt as if a pack of rats had taken up refuge near her tonsils.
She stumbled towards the door, shocked to find some guy standing on the other side, his fist raised as if he were about to knock.
‘Who are you?’
His lascivious grin made her wish she had grabbed her overcoat but it was his cruel laugh that made her realise she was in dire trouble.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, his cold lifeless eyes dancing across her body. ‘A real live princess. You must have pissed Daddy off real bad for him to send me after you.’
When Nancy agreed to go sightseeing with Fiona, Penny, Veronica and Courtney, she’d never expected to have a good time.
Given the debauchery undertaken in France, Nancy had fully expected a similar outcome in Italy, hence her reluctance to leave her room.
But the girls were insistent and she would be forever thankful to them for it.
Where France had been one non-stop party after another, Italy was the total opposite. It was peaceful and calm, serene in a way that soothed her soul and restored some of her equilibrium.
They had done all the touristy things; floated along the narrow canals in an iconic gondola, shopped for souvenirs in Vittoria Constantini, pretended to know something of art at the Gallerie dell’Accademia and cried like babies at the beauty of St Mark’s stunning basilica.
Nancy did not consider herself a spiritual person but it was inside the beautiful church that she experienced a spiritual breakthrough, of sorts, finding forgiveness for her recent sinful behaviour.
At home, she went to church to appease her parents and because church on Sunday had become a habit – a regular part of her life that was structured and orderly, even if it was monotonous.
Yet for some reason, the exquisite painted ceilings of the basilica and the soaring structure that resonated passion and spirituality made Nancy Robertson feel closer to God than she ever had in the modern, warehouse church back in the States.
Standing in the hallowed grounds, Robertson decided to put the last week behind her. She had made mistakes and let herself get caught up in the party atmosphere. She wasn’t proud of herself, but she wasn’t going to condemn herself either.
Forgiveness starts with forgiving yourself right?
Now, in the infant hours of the morning, as she stood gathered with the other journalists, she was one of the few who had refrained from drinking.
Her head was as clear as her conscience.
A member of the staff conducted a head count, making sure that each guest of the hotel had reached safety.
Nancy conducted her own headcount, locating Fi, Penny, Ron and Courtney by the fountain and headed over towards them.
But she couldn’t see Miranda anywhere.
Firemen raced up and down the steps, heavy hoses slung over muscular shoulders.
‘Hey, aren’t you friends with that Australian journalist?’
‘Charlotte? Well kind of. Yeah, I suppose I am,’ Nancy said, deciding that forgiveness also meant treating herself with respect. And respecting herself meant believing she was worthy of having friends. ‘Why?’
‘Is she here? I need to tell her something.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Oh, sorry. Mark Barclay. Forgot my manners. But it is urgent that I talk to… Charlotte.’
‘About what?’ After the fiasco with Wilson, Nancy was loath to give any man information out on Charlotte.
Not that it mattered. Charlotte was safe back in France with Mr Harvey.
‘I need to warn her.’
‘Well she’s not here. She’s back in France. The doctor ordered her to stay a few extra days.’
‘That’s... good. I mean, I could be wrong but I was sure I just saw Wilson upstairs.’
Chapter Thirty:
He pushed passed Anita into the room, sending her sprawling to the floor with all the decorum of a pissed ragdoll.
Anita bounced back up, drawing herself up to full height – all 165 centimetres of it. She might still be drunk but she wasn’t about to let on how much, knowing if she did, she was as good as dead.
Commit his face to memory. That way you can give the police a proper description when you get free.
Because she fully intended to get free.
He was good looking in that carefree way that required little effort. But while his face had all the hallmarks of handsomeness, there was something wrong with his eyes.
Sure, they were a deep shade of blue, like a brand new pair of denim jeans, and his dark eyelashes were long enough to make girls squirm with jealousy, but inside his eyes – in that place that reflected back the soul and showed personality - they were c
ruel and dead. The eyes of a man who tortured small animals for fun.
His face was framed with purple bruises and punctuated by angry cuts and abrasions, as if he’d just survived a high-speed collision.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ She repeated her earlier question, adding the swear word to step up the demand. Anita had spent her whole life ordering people around. It all came down to attitude. If she could inflect enough of it into her command, he would obey out of pure instinct.
‘Zac Wilson, if you must know.’ He stared at her with that menacing smile, knowing full well she had heard his name before.
‘The jerk off from Nice who went psycho over Burke?’
He grimaced at her description but nodded as if to say, ‘at your service.’
‘I’m calling the police.’ She walked toward the phone on her bedside table, picking up the receiver, her finger poised above the button.
But something bothered her. Something he had said when he first came to the door. ‘What do you mean I must have pissed off my father?’
Her question threw him off guard. ‘That’s between you and your father,’ he said, a hint of impatience flitting across his face.
‘Did my father have something to do with Burke getting attacked?’
‘You ask a lot of questions for someone in your position.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘Then let me just say that’s another question you should put to your father.’
Anita didn’t need to ask her father. Wilson’s presence here was answer enough.
She pressed 9 but he had already lunged towards her, easily ensnaring her wrist, tearing the phone line out of the wall with the other hand, taking half a metre of plaster with it.
‘What do you want from me?’
He pushed her onto the bed, the lust on his face an advertising slogan declaring his intentions.
But Anita had one advantage up her sleeve. Zac Wilson wasn’t a planner. He was a doer. Anita was a planner. She was patient – had learned how to be trying to get her father’s attention.
How ironic. I have it now.
Already her brain was racing ahead, trying to think of ways she could use Wilson’s weakness against him.
He pinned her arms by her side, using his superior weight and strength to prevent her moving. ‘Daddy wants you dead but we can have a little fun first.’ He seized her breast, squeezing it so hard it sent pain shooting into her very core.
The jerk off was seeking a reaction; a show of fear. Damned if she would give it to him.
She waited until Wilson bent low over her face before she struck, lifting her knee with all the force she could muster straight into his groin.
‘That’s for the tit you freak.’
Wilson folded in on himself like an accordion, the air rushing out of his lips in an almost melodious oomph.
The second he let go, Anita sprang to her feet, charging for the door before he had a chance to recover.
It was locked and she wasted precious time fiddling with the lock, the alcohol still clouding her fine motor skills.
‘You fucking bitch.’ He crab-walked as fast as he could, catching her just as she opened the door. She was almost through when he clutched a handful of hair, swinging her around with such force, her face smashed into the doorframe.
The pain was all she could think about, driving up through her shattered nose into her brain before resonating out through ever nerve in her body, ensuring she could feel it all the way down to her fingertips.
The room swam and Anita fought off unconsciousness, knowing that if she passed out, it would be the last thing she did. She was only vaguely aware of his dragging her back into the room, of the door relocking with the finality of a coffin closing.
She breathed in deep, sucking air into her lungs, trying to conserve energy.
‘You’ll fucking pay for that, Princess.’ Wilson’s voice hissed in her ear making him sound every bit the vicious snake he was. ‘I’m going to carve you up.’
Cold steel pressed against her throat, tracing a long, bloody trail to the crest of her breast, leaving a raging fire in its wake. Not enough to do any real damage but enough to let her know he was in control.
He flicked the tip, cutting through the silken fabric of her dress, exposing her bare chest.
‘No bra,’ he said, his voice a soft moan of excitement as he groped her breasts.
Anita lay still, letting him get his jollies off her tits. She didn’t care. While he was consumed with that, she would make her final move.
Her breathing was slow and regular and Wilson almost seemed disappointed she wasn’t bucking like an unbroken filly.
Just you wait. You’ll see unbroken in a minute you asshole.
Wilson straddled her petite body, pushing aside the soft lace of her La Perla thong. In his excitement to possess her, he had dropped the knife, assuming his body weight was enough to keep her subdued.
Arrogant jackass.
Her hand moved a millimetre at a time, afraid to make any sudden movements in case he guessed what she was up to.
She shut her mind off from what he was doing, compartmentalising it as happening to another Anita. Her fingers touched something hard – the wooden handle of the knife. She gripped it in her hand, waiting for the right time to attack.
Wilson forced her thighs apart with his knees, his hand coming off her breast long enough to unzip his pants.
It was then that Anita brought the knife up, plunging it into Wilson’s stomach, pushing with all her might on the hilt.
He looked at her in surprise, his hands moving from her body to the handle as if he didn’t understand how she could have got the jump on him, pulling the blade free.
Blood gushed from the wound, spilling down the front of her chest.
Anita scrambled out from underneath him, crawling towards the door and safety. He grabbed an ankle, dragging her back towards him but she kicked out with her free leg, aiming for his bleeding stomach.
It was only when she turned back to aim her kick that she saw the knife was back in his hand.
Wilson flipped her over on to her back, surprising Anita with how much strength he still had. He brought the knife slashing down towards her bare chest.
Searing pain burst inside her as the cold metal blade sank deep into her skin, forcing its way past fragile bone and organs.
Her heart beat loud in her ears as Anita’s life slipped away, the only sound the hammering in her chest as her heart beat its last.
‘Hey, wake up, sleepy head. We’re there.’
Charlotte yawned, opening her eyes, forgetting for a moment where she was or who she was with.
Then she glanced up into Damon’s handsome face and remembered last night, remembered falling asleep on the deck of Mon Petit Bateau.
‘Hi.’ Her smile was nervous and she wondered if he now expected her to do the walk of shame. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s late – 3am. We can stay here until the morning or check in to the hotel if you’d prefer.’
Charlotte sat up, moving to the edge of the sofa bed so she could see the town. Craggy hills erupted from the harbour, reaching up into a star spangled sky. Lights from a thousand houses glittered and shone, reflected back in the water, making Portofino seem as if it had been created by fairies.
Boats of every size and shape – from tiny fishing punts to other mega yachts - rocked on the gentle lapping waves.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered and Damon wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘Where’s the hotel?’
Damon pointed towards the highest peak. Suspended, as if cut from the rock face, was a four story palatial mansion that stood apart from its neighbours, clinging precariously to the cliff.
‘Do you want to go up there?’
What Charlotte wanted was to stay protected in her little bubble sanctuary. She was safe on the boat, safe with Damon, adrift on a floating refuge o
f serenity.
The minute they went ashore, real life would find them, imposing its views and ways.
There was work to think about – and Wilson.
But worse, there was reality.
Charlotte was a realist. She had learned the hard way that fantasies and dreams never came true.
Her and Damon... They were too different. They came from opposing worlds. She was poor and he was rich. He had a family heritage he could trace back forever. As far as she knew, she didn’t have any family left. Just her dad and that weren’t exactly on speaking terms.
The sex was good – really good – but she wasn’t foolish enough to think she could win the Trophy Wife Championships. She was a booty call – nothing more.
Once they left the boat, once they returned to the real world, things would change. They had to. They couldn’t stop it anymore than they could halt time.
Reality was coming but it wasn’t here yet. Was it selfish of her to want one more night of fantasy?
Charlotte turned, reaching up to kiss Damon’s lips. ‘We’ll go in the morning. Let’s just spend the rest of the night here.’
She had no idea if they had a tomorrow. All she could do was make the most of today.
Campagni followed much the same routine as he had at his previous stop. A car waited at the tarmac, another Pelican case in the front seat but this one slightly larger, able to hold the favoured MP5K, this particular job not requiring the same degree of subtlety as the previous.
He drove the short distance from the airfield, leaving the car behind and climbing into a waiting boat, steering the small vessel closer to his next target, confident that his dark clothes and darkened skin would hide him from detection.
The subterfuge made him feel like he was back in the army; hiding in the jungles of Vietnam. This elite stretch of water in Italy was a long way from the poverty of South East Asia.
He screwed the short suppressor to the body of the gun, hearing the satisfying sound of the bullet settling in the chamber. He again switched the multi-assault weapon to single shot, knowing he wouldn’t need any more than one bullet. He didn’t plan to miss.
