Wicked Beauty

by Susan Lewis

  Leaning forward to rest his head on his arms, he tried to recall when it had first started to overwhelm him like this. Of course he’d always been attracted to Stacey – what man with heterosexual blood in his veins wouldn’t be, when there was probably no more sensual creature alive? But knowing and accepting an attraction was quite different to the intensity of feeling he was suffering now. And its power had built so quickly that already it was as though both she, and his thoughts, had become the tools of some iniquitous Sadean plot where he, a naturally shy and conservative man, was fantasizing about doing things to her that ordinarily he’d never dream of doing to any woman. It was as though she’d become his very own Anita Cairn, tempting him into all manner of decadence and depravity, turning him into a lecher, a defiler, a human being of the basest kind. Just thank God she had no way of reading his mind, for he didn’t even want to think about the offence he would cause, particularly when he knew she was no more interested in him, as a man, than he was in her, as a reality. He was a happily married man, for God’s sake, who adored his wife and would never do anything to hurt her, but there were too many moments now when the clashing giants of lust and morality were making it hard for him always to remember that.

  ‘OK, Robert, wherever you are, we’re ready to go,’ the first assistant shouted from the stage. ‘Cindy, go and call Gloria back to the set, will you? And make sure Stacey’s not too far away for when we do the last close-up.’

  By the time Robert sprinted up the steps from the orchestra pit, Gloria was coming on stage, and the dry ice was already leaking out over the set. ‘I want to do some close-ups of Gloria’s eyes and mouth before we get to Stacey,’ Robert told them all. ‘You understand,’ he said to Gloria, ‘we’ll be mixing through the images, so that your eyes will become Stacey’s and Stacey’s mouth will become yours, and vice versa for everything, so that in the end poor Arnie doesn’t know whether he’s going completely mad, or hallucinating, or dreaming, or what he’s doing.’ He wasn’t even going to allow himself to think about the way the peculiar horror of this was starting to play itself out in his own life.

  ‘It’s fine. I get it,’ she told him.

  He smiled and squeezed her arm. Thank God she didn’t resemble Anna or he’d probably never get through this with his sanity intact.

  The final two hours of the day passed swiftly, and with much less strain on his conscience, and libido, than he’d feared, considering that the last fifty minutes was spent looking at nothing else but Stacey Greene’s mesmerizingly beautiful face. Could he dare to believe he was regaining some control? Was there some room to hope that the past week’s prurience had been no more than a passing aberration that was now, mercifully, on the decline?

  After calling a wrap he thanked everyone, including Stacey, then before anyone could waylay him he went swiftly through to the front-of-house where the manager’s office had become his while they were shooting here. The other offices had been taken over too, mainly by the production and design teams, while the caterers had set up around the bar, and he probably couldn’t have welcomed any gin and tonic more than the one that was thrust into his hand as he passed through.

  He knew, as the door closed behind him, that his solitude would be brief, but he would take it anyway. This was the aspect of directing he found hardest – the seemingly irreversible tide of people that constantly demanded his attention. Yet in a way he enjoyed it too, for there was an electrifying immediacy to the process that didn’t happen when it was just him, at home with his computer. He just wished he could settle into this shoot the way he needed to, for there was an enormous amount of money at stake, not to mention his and Anna’s reputations.

  Taking another fortifying sip of his drink, he was about to reach for the phone to call her, when someone knocked at the door.

  ‘Are you in here?’ Stacey said, putting her head round.

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in,’ he said warmly, though behind his smile the first stirrings of panic were already starting to bite. They shouldn’t be alone in this room. There was very little light, the ambience exuded seclusion and seduction; the setting was too reflective of scenes in the film.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, her beautiful head tilted to one side, as she closed the door and leaned against it. When had she found time to dress? What did it matter? Just be thankful she had. ‘You seem … distant. Are things not going as well as you’d hoped?’

  Aware of the dozens of photographs that crowded the walls, he spoke as if to them, using them as some kind of audience, or chaperon, projecting his voice slightly, so that it wouldn’t enfold her in the way hers had enfolded him. ‘Everything’s going perfectly,’ he replied. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t come for compliments. I came because I’m concerned.’

  He didn’t know what to say. The confusion of her words, and his thoughts, was already beginning.

  Her smile was vaguely bemused. ‘Is it your brother-in-law?’ she said. ‘Are you finding it hard to get over his death?’

  ‘It hasn’t been easy,’ he said, his voice somehow squeezing itself from the tightness in his chest. Why was this happening? Why wasn’t it possible for him to look at her without desiring her so intensely?

  He was still smiling, and praying that the habitual twinkle in his eyes was masking the turbulence, as she came towards him like a nymph from the sea, hair tumbling randomly down over her shoulders, her flowing white dress pressed to the contours of her slender body. Knowing she wore nothing beneath it caused his eyes to drop, as his hand tightened on his glass.

  ‘Would you like me to sit on your cock?’ she said softly. ‘Would that make you feel better?’

  His head came up, as the blood drained from his face. He knew she hadn’t said those words, that he’d imagined them, but … Her smile was almost angelic, her eyes slightly sleepy, though focused fully on his. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What did you …?’

  ‘I said, would you like to talk? Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  He swallowed hard, and gave a laugh that was twisted with relief and anguish. ‘No, really, there’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s just been a difficult couple of weeks. Tim’s death,’ he added, seizing a truth she had handed him again.

  ‘I heard you reading from the gospel, at the funeral,’ she said. ‘It was very moving. How is your sister-in-law?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s been hard for her,’ he answered.

  ‘For Anna too, I’m sure,’ she said. Then added, ‘You know if there’s anything I can do …’

  ‘Thank you. Actually, she asked me to thank you for the flowers. That was very thoughtful.’

  She waved a dismissive hand.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to invite her to dinner on Saturday night, but he bit it back, even though Anna herself had suggested it. Could he really do that to his wife, allow her to entertain the woman who was turning his mind into a cesspit of lust? Yet it would make sense for Stacey to be there, not only because she was a friend of Gomez’s, but because he didn’t want to be the one to suggest her as the model for their joint project. He’d stand much more chance of Gomez doing it if she were there. So why not just ask the question? Would you like to come for dinner on Saturday night? Why was he just sitting here, submerged in frustration, drowning in guilt, while his penis strained so hard it might be trying to burst from its skin.

  He watched her as she walked round the desk, and came to stand beside him. Then raising her dress to her waist she bent over the desk to expose the tender, rosy flesh of her buttocks. ‘Go ahead and beat me,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘It’s my fault that you’re feeling this way, so punish me, and punish me hard.’

  His eyes closed. His heart was a dull, painful throb that resonated like a drum in his head, and an instrument of torture in his loins.

  ‘Robert?’ she said softly.

  He opened his eyes. She was standing next to him, a hand on his
shoulder, her dress still hanging loosely around her knees.

  ‘Would you like to be left alone?’ she asked. ‘Are you just too polite to say?’

  He swallowed hard. ‘Actually, I need to call my wife,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  Leaning forward she pressed her lips to his forehead. ‘Can I come to rushes tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. I think they’re at seven. Someone out there will know.’

  After she’d gone he let his head fall back against the chair and waited for the desire to subside. How was he doing this, allowing himself to see and hear the base thoughts of his unconscious mind; to almost trick himself into believing that those moments were real? This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and though he was terrified of the next time he couldn’t deny that he longed for it too. But he had to keep it under control, stop himself responding to the words he imagined her speaking, for if he’d put his hand out a moment ago, where would he have touched her? The thought of his fingers connecting with her thigh, even with a dress obscuring it, caused a renewed surge of desire that made him press down hard on his groin so that the threatened ejaculation could find no escape.

  A moment later the door opened and the telephone rang at the same time.

  ‘Need a lift to rushes?’ the production manager offered.

  Robert shook his head. ‘I’ve got my car, thanks,’ he answered. Then into the phone, ‘Robert Maxton.’ His face was blood red, his breath slightly ragged.

  ‘Hello, darling, it’s me. I take it you’ve wrapped if you’re in the office.’

  So much love and relief rushed through him that for a moment it was hard to speak. This woman meant more to him than anyone else alive; he’d rather die than even think about living without her. ‘I was just about to call you,’ he responded. ‘How’s your day been? Are you with Rachel?’

  ‘She’s in the other room, watching TV with the children. Shall we expect you for dinner?’

  ‘Yes. Around nine. Is that too late?’

  ‘We’ll give them a snack to keep them going. How was your day?’

  ‘I think it went well. All to schedule.’

  ‘Did you invite Stacey tomorrow night?’

  ‘Not yet. But I will if you want me to.’ How desperately he longed for her to say yes, but how he dreaded it too.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ she told him. ‘You sound tired.’

  ‘Yes, I am a bit.’

  She hesitated, then said, ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK while I’m in Cornwall?’

  Guilt pared the shield from his conscience, as though to expose the miserable unworthiness of his motives. He’d told her to stay as long as she liked, because he’d known Stacey’s husband was away again, but now he didn’t want her to go at all. She was his only protection, without her here, he was afraid of what he might do. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he heard himself saying, while already envisaging himself offering Stacey anything she desired in exchange for one small kiss of her vulva. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he added, ignoring the voice that was screaming for her to stay.

  Her smile was audible, as she said, ‘I like you better as a writer, you’re less maudlin.’

  He laughed, perhaps too loudly, but the sound was like a new wave of energy that seemed to wrench him from the depths of his ramblings. ‘Less maudlin as a writer!’ he challenged.

  She laughed.

  ‘I love you,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I know,’ she whispered.

  After putting the telephone down, Anna stood staring into space, her mind taking her to where he was, trying to envisage how he looked, and what he was doing. All she saw was him, sitting at the large, old-fashioned desk, surrounded by decades of black-and-white photographs, his eyes staring into space like hers, as the turmoil in his mind and heart simmered silently on. He was such a sensitive man, so affected by his work and unsure of his talent, even though he’d received the kind of critical acclaim most writers hardly dared even dream about. He should be much more confident, but he was so easily hurt by criticism, and frequently confused by his own responses, such as those he was experiencing to Stacey. They were the cause of his anxiety now, she was sure of it, but though she longed to soothe him, it had never been her way to force him to talk. He would when he was ready, she knew that, she just hoped that it wasn’t a mistake to be going off to Cornwall this weekend, when he clearly needed her here.

  But she wouldn’t have to stay long. Beanie was just dying to take care of Rachel, and as soon as they’d tracked down the local doctor, got in supplies from the supermarket, and made sure the old Fiesta was working, Anna could return to London. So she should be back by the end of the week, maybe even sooner, and what could happen in a few days? Stacey was hardly going to eat him, and though he couldn’t bring himself to admit it, he was handling her much better than he realized. In fact, she hoped he did invite her tomorrow, for spending some time with her, away from the set, might help him get things into a better perspective. It would also give her, Anna, the chance to watch them together without the distractions of a crew or, more significantly, the complications of the actor/director relationship that could distort reality even for the most grounded of people, never mind someone as profoundly reactive as Robert.

  Through the vast picture windows of a palatial ocean front condominium the spectacular view of soft, white sand, tropical trees and rosy, sunlit waves was slowly starting to fade. The men gathered inside the all-white and chrome-furnished room were largely a sombre, business-suited bunch, who’d flown to Florida from many different parts of the globe, and would be leaving again tomorrow, secure in the knowledge that this particular shareholders’ meeting would go unrecorded.

  Later, when the women and stimulating substances arrived, the celebrations were likely to become much more raucous, but for now, as they unwound from the intensity of the past forty-eight hours, a variety of cocktails and fat Cuban cigars were suiting them fine. Indeed, despite their varying nationalities and occasional awkwardness with each other’s languages, they all appeared as pleased with themselves as if they’d just won a fifty million dollar lottery, which, in effect, they were probably about to.

  ‘Hey, Henri,’ Rudy said, coming to join him. Today Rudy was honouring Matisse. ‘Are you staying for the party, or heading home?’

  ‘I think I’ll stay,’ Henri responded, his eyes moving through the crowd to where a large, ebony-skinned man, with a round moon face, immaculate dentistry and Savile Row tailoring, was talking to Franz Koehler and several others.

  Rudy followed his gaze. ‘Dr Bombola himself,’ he murmured. ‘Franz wasn’t sure he’d turn up.’

  ‘He’s never let us down before.’

  Rudy’s eyebrows rose, then turning his back to the room, he said, ‘Did you get how ticked Franz was at being hauled in by the London police again?’

  ‘Did he tell you anything about it?’

  ‘Not a word. You heard them talking about Katherine earlier?’

  ‘Mm.’ Then mimicking one of the Americans present, he said, ‘“The Limeys have got her holed up somewhere.”’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘Interesting thought,’ he commented. Then, ‘Look out, Franz is on his way over.’

  Affecting a cheery grin, Rudy turned round.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Koehler said, his shrewd eyes seeming to read the short exchange that he couldn’t possibly have overheard. ‘A good meeting, I think.’

  They both nodded agreement.

  To Rudy he said, ‘Give us a moment, will you?’

  Obediently Rudy took himself off into the crowd.

  ‘We need the money back from Mrs Hendon,’ Koehler said quietly.

  His expression didn’t change, though this was the first he’d heard of any money being connected to Mrs Hendon.

  ‘I will contact her myself and tell her what to do.’

  He waited, presuming there must be a point to telling him this, but whatever it was, it seemed that Koehler wasn’t going to reveal it yet, for he changed t
he subject, saying, ‘Katherine is my absolute priority now. I’m putting together a team of private detectives to help find her. It’ll be announced in the New York Times tomorrow. Hopefully, it’ll do something to alleviate the suspicion that’s surrounding me.’

  There were many questions he’d like to ask now, but knowing the answers would only come when Koehler was ready, he maintained his silence and drained his glass.

  They discussed a few details of the meeting then, and the next stage of the Phraxos Special Project, which had dominated the agenda for the past two days. Politically, financially and socially, it had been worse than Orwellian, but these Special Project meetings always were, so it was much less the moral aspects of the project that were concerning them now, than the sheer practicalities of circumventing embargoes while staying on the right side of the law.

  ‘We’ll be convening again in Paris, a month from now,’ Koehler told him, then slapping him on the shoulder he returned to the body of his guests.

  Going over to the bar, he poured himself another large vodka, and was about to disappear into an adjoining room, with the idea of calling his wife, when he was approached by one of Dr Bombola’s men, who wanted more details on the government licences, or certificates, that were required for the weapons transactions that concerned their particular clients.

  After explaining as much as he knew, which was considerably more than he’d known a year ago, he took himself off to a bedroom where he closed the blinds and set his drink down on a nightstand next to the bed. A quick check of the mobile showed that Stacey had left a couple of messages, one of them in text, which was so intimate he could actually feel the stirrings of arousal.

  Speed-dialling her number, he put the phone to his ear, and sipped his drink. When he got a recorded message, he waited for the tone then, knowing she’d enjoy the joke, said, ‘Hi, it’s Henri Matisse. I guess you’re at the Maxtons’, having dinner. I’m still in Florida, should be home tomorrow night, Monday at the latest. I’ve got a couple of meetings in London, then can you get down to the house for the weekend? Love you and miss you.’