by Havana Adams
“I handled this badly,” Gabe said, a note of apology in his voice. “Look while Sula is… gone, I thought it would be good for you to try to get used to being photographed.”
“So you sneak into my bedroom unannounced?” Helena did not keep the scepticism from her tone and she saw Gabe wince.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he admitted. Slowly she replaced the telephone receiver as Gabe spoke again. “Look, like it or not, you’re going to be photographed with one of the most iconic models of the twentieth century. Forget she’s your mother, forget your job – you need to be as comfortable as a real model, you need to handle the shoot and I need to know you can step up, when I need you to.”
Helena stilled as she heard the thread of tension in Gabe’s voice – he also had a lot riding on this issue. His first foray back into the world of fashion in three years and he had a hell of a reputation that would be tarnished, if the issue bombed.
“Ok,” she finally answered. She watched horrified as once again, Gabe lifted his camera. “No! At least give me a chance to have a shower.”
“No.” Gabe replied as he continued to snap off a series of shots as he edged closer towards her. Helena put her hands out to ward him off but expertly he dodged around her reeling off more shots.
“Gabe…”
“Seriously, you do the “just got out of bed” look very well,” he said.
“I look a mess.”
“Then get comfortable with that, I need you to be comfortable, relaxed, regardless of what I throw at you.” Slowly, Helena allowed her arms to fall. For a moment she stared blankly into space even as Gabe continued to snap shots.
“What should I do?” She asked, biting her lip, unable to keep the doubt from her voice. And finally he stopped clicking away and the room fell silent. Gabe moved towards her and traced a finger over her lower lip, where she’d bitten it.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” He said softly.
“I’m not Sula,” Helena said simply. “This isn’t me.”
“I don’t want you to be Sula. Just be yourself and I’ll bring out the rest.”
Helena looked away uncomfortable, still unable to stare straight into his camera lens and she felt another emotion rear its head. This was the closest they’d been since that night by the pool and she felt desire stir – felt it in the tightening in her breasts and the heat that was spreading through her. Her eyes somehow drifted down to look at his full lower lip and in a heartbeat, she knew how to stop him snapping his photos. She leaned towards him, pulling him close and kissed him gently. For a moment he allowed her this diversionary tactic but once again he raised his camera.
“Trust me,” he said as he began to snap again. His voice was gentle and Helena allowed him to seduce her into the moment. Even the harsh sound of the camera’s snapping shutter failed to break the cocoon of lust that had settled around them. Finally, he set the camera down and she allowed him to ease her backwards towards the bed, telling how gorgeous she was, how beautiful she looked.
Helena felt the back of her knees touch the bed and she sank down onto the mattress, not sure that her legs would hold her up much longer. There was something heady about the moment. Gabe wearing a thin, threadbare t-shirt and low slung jeans and her with only her robe covering her. He continued to move towards her and with a small sigh Helena let herself fall backwards until she was sprawled on the bed. Pausing, for a moment Gabe reached down and loosened the belt that kept her robe together. He hesitated for a moment, as though waiting for Helena to stop him and then slowly he parted the two halves of the robe.
“How do you want me?” Helena asked her husky question deepening the sexual tension.
“Put your hands above your head and grip the headboard,” Gabe growled and immediately Helena complied uncaring that the movement widened the gap in her already gaping robe, that through his lens, Gabe would be able to see her thin vest and her nipples jutting out. “Smile for me,” he ordered and Helena practically purred; she wasn’t the only one getting into the moment. Her eyes widened as once again he raised the camera and snapped a shot of her and something in her snapped. Helena writhed and stretched, unleashing the sensualist in her that was usually kept so tightly under wraps. She sat up again and shrugged the robe off allowing it to fall off the bed. She heard him gasp and slowly she sat back on the bed her hands toying with the hem of her camisole. She watched the flare in Gabe’s eyes and then he was moving up the bed towards her. Thankfully, Gabe’s camera had fallen silent again.
“Take it off,” he said quietly and without thought Helena pulled the flimsy camisole over her head and tossed it carelessly aside. She lay back down, surprised that the sheets were cool against her back even as the rest of the room seemed to have heated up. Helena moved restively in the bed and tossed her blonde head from side to side. She was caught up in a storm, riding a wave and for now at least she wanted to go with it and let it take her away. She reached up her hand and grabbed at his belt buckle: Époque, her mother, the shoot, the centenary issue; it was all forgotten. All pretence was gone. Helena met and held Gabe’s eyes. His hand once again was reaching for his camera but Helena stopped him with a look.
“Are you going to put that camera down and fuck me?” She demanded. With a smile, Gabe set aside the camera, he shucked off his t-shirt and in a heartbeat he was on her, the harsh denim of his jeans rasping against her soft thighs.
As he lowered his head to her mouth, he quietly answered her question.
“Whatever the lady wants…” She was ready for him when their mouths finally fused in a deep intense kiss unlike anything she had experienced in a long, long time.
Alex was filled with fear, a pounding, racing, adrenalin-filled kind of fear – the kind of fear that came only with doing theatre. In the weeks since he’d met with Margot, things had moved quickly. He had re-joined her roster of clients – Avital would continue to take care of the film side of his career but Margot he had charged with finding him a play – something to sink his teeth, something to help him find that kick of excitement again and boy had she delivered. It was a contemporary new play, already slated for a run at the Regent Court Theatre downstairs. Alex was to play a brash city banker who found himself caught up in an intricate insider dealing scandal that culminated in a shocking revenge. The play dealt with big themes and ideas and Alex had been blown away. He had found himself more nervous than he’d been in years when he’d gone in to read. Alex Golden movie star was always offered the role, he never auditioned and yet as a theatre actor he found himself relishing the changed circumstances. Avital had been scathing.
“Doll, you’re English – everyone knows you can do theatre. It’s Americans who need to do that shit to prove their chops.”
“Avi, I’m doing it for me?” Alex had replied. Avi had fallen silent.
“I wish you’d get back here – we could sort you out some psychodynamic therapy shit, maybe get you out to Circ Lodge for some counselling and rehab and have you working again.” Alex sighed. He’d been a fool to attempt to explain his reasoning to Avital – the woman worshipped at the altar of her 20%. Her only god was money; of course she wouldn’t understand his need to shake things up in his life.
“I need to do this,” he’d told her and as he’d said the words he knew it was true.
Though details of his involvement had initially been kept under wraps, the news had quickly leaked out and within days of the box office opening, tickets for the play had sold out. For some the chance to see a movie star up close and personal was an opportunity not to be missed but Alex knew too that plenty was riding on this. He’d been away from the stage for a decade – did he still have what it took? Could he deliver night after night, push beyond the fear and find the performance and make it mean something. He knew that Hollywood critics would be watching – a critical success would legitimise his appearance and his London jaunt. Avital, the queen of spin had managed the Defender disappointment, she’d suggested that Alex had
walked away from the project that he’d wanted to spend some quality time in London. But if the play flopped, it would all have been in vain – nobody wanted to be tainted with failure. Alex knew that his status hung on a knife-edge; he could not afford to sink any lower.
He put aside these thoughts as he strode through his hotel lobby and went up to his room. He showered quickly throwing on a brand new pair of trousers and a crisp blue shirt that had been delivered from a Saville Row tailor that morning. He was still buzzing from the first day of rehearsals, which had gone well, brilliantly well, better than he could have expected. As he’d left the bar at the Court having spent some time drinking and bonding with the rest of the cast, he had found that he wanted to celebrate the moment, to share it with someone and almost unconsciously he’d reached for his phone and tapped a number and only as the call connected did he realise that he had called Talia. He realised with surprise that she was the only person he wanted to share the day’s news with.
As he pulled on the blue shirt, throwing on a jacket, Alex winced as he caught sight of himself. He looked like he was trying too hard. It wasn’t a date for Christ’s sake – just dinner between friends. He shouldered off the jacket and instead pulled on a leather jacket. He ran his fingers through his hair as a voice in his head taunted him. Just Friends.
“Christ I’m fucked,” he muttered to himself as he finally exited his hotel room.
Talia put down her spoon and gave a blissful sigh.
“In another life I’d be a chef.”
“You cook?” Alex asked.
“Nah. I’m a terrible cook. It’s the eating part I love.” Talia glanced down at her empty plate and for once felt no guilt that she had eaten every morsel of the black cod, which was the signature dish of the swanky Japanese restaurant that Alex had brought her to. When he’d suggested dinner, she had expected something local, rather like the small places were they’d often taken lunch or dined at when she was feeding back her script notes to him. But thankfully, she had decided to dress up a little. The figure hugging body-con dress that she wore was a high street copy of a Designer original and in it, Talia felt like she’d unleashed her inner diva. The fitted material sucked her curves in to create a sexy hourglass silhouette. And as they’d walked into Zuma, they’d turned heads. For once Talia hadn’t minded that people were staring at Alex and that she was by his side.
“So how far along are you with the script?” Alex asked turning the subject of conversation to Talia’s project. She’d planned to keep her scriptwriting efforts a secret but somehow over the main course, after they’d discussed Alex’s rehearsals, she had found herself admitting that she was writing a script of her own. Alex had made encouraging noises but Talia was sure he was just being kind.
“Slowly, but it’s happening I’m actually writing…”
“I’d like to read it, when you’re ready,” Alex said and Talia nodded. “Seriously Talia, I’d like to read it.” Looking into his eyes, Talia realised that he meant it.
“Ok, when I’m ready.”
They walked together through the restaurant and Talia felt Alex’s hand in the small of her back as he guided her through the tables. They were almost at the exit when a voice called out.
“Golden!” The voice was loud and Talia felt Alex stiffen as they turned and watched Max Maguire thread his way towards them. “Alex, hey man.”
Alex’s arm stayed in the small of her back and Talia felt him squeeze her gently as he shook hands with Max.
“Max,” Alex drawled, politely detached. Max didn’t seem to notice Alex’s detachment.
“Mate good to see you. No hard feelings about the whole Defender thing, eh… Best man for the job and all that.”
Talia looked up and saw a vein pulse in Alex’s jaw but he continued to give Max the same bland smile.
“Well we were leaving,” Alex said. But Max turned to Talia with a look of appreciation.
“You’re not going to introduce me to your friend?”
Talia could tell that Alex was rapidly losing patience and she thrust her hand out at Max.
“Talia Blake, nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure is all mine,” Max said, his eyes raking over her in a way that made her cheeks go warm.
“We’d better go,” Alex repeated and Talia nodded as they walked towards the exit.
As they emerged into the cool night, Talia glanced up at Alex.
“You alright?” She asked.
“Fine,” he fired back glibly. Talia nodded quietly, their encounter with Max had somehow ruined the mood. Talia glanced back and she saw that Max Maguire still stood in the doorway, watching them go, a cryptic smile on his face.
“He looks taller on screen,” Talia said, turning back to Alex and she was rewarded by a bark of laughter from him. Within minutes, Max Maguire was forgotten.
Tamara seldom gave into doubt but as she pressed the bell at the white stucco-fronted neoclassical house in Chelsea, she admitted to herself that she really was confused. In the days after she had encountered Sasha she had driven herself to distraction. Why had Vassily lied to her, even if it was only by omission? Her phone call to Katie had yielded little information. Katie had been as surprised as she was, a daughter – she’d heard nothing about one. The Internet had done little to answer her questions either. Though there’d been myriad entries about Vassily, about his business empire, about his billionaire status, about the women that had been linked to him, there’d been precious little about his personal life. She’d learned that he’d grown up in a poor council estate in an outlying district of Moscow and that he’d capitalised on the privatisation of the country’s natural gas resources following the fall of communism and the end of the Soviet Union. She’d read conspiracy rumours about his KGB connections and the fact that he had the ear of several high-ranking government officials. There had been mention of his being a widower but nowhere had any daughter been mentioned. Tamara had grown frustrated as many of the entries had been in the Russian Cyrillic alphabet and in the end she’d had to give up her search.
As she waited for the door to be opened Tamara allowed her eyes to drift over the imposing façade of the house. So this was Vassily’s home. This was what £40 million bought you in the city of London. Tamara’s Internet search had revealed that the property was the most expensive property per square foot ever sold in London. She straightened her dress, a demure, by her standards, black Gucci number that she might have worn out to a dinner with friends. Her invitation to Vassily’s home, had come not from the man himself but had arrived in a scrawl of pink handwriting from Sasha, inviting her to dine with her and her father. Tamara had been tempted to turn down the invitation but in the end, curiosity got the better of her. She turned as she heard footsteps and the door was wrenched open from inside.
“Tamara.”
Sasha launched herself forwards and Tamara found herself enthusiastically embraced in a tangle of long arms and flyaway blonde hair. The girl pulled back and looked down at Tamara’s outfit.
“You always look so good,” she said. And Tamara smiled.
“You look pretty hot yourself,” she complimented Sasha and found that she meant it. Sasha was clad in a pair of skinny jeans and a green polka dotted blouse.
“You think? It’s only Topshop.” Tamara saw in the girl’s furrowed eyebrows that her opinion really mattered.
“Some of my best buys come from Topshop,” Tamara replied solemnly. A smile burst across Sasha’s face and Tamara relaxed – she’d said the right thing.
“Come on in,” Sasha said and Tamara fell in step with her wondering when Vassily would make an appearance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tamara didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. From the moment she had entered Vassily’s opulent, superlative, Vogue Homes worthy townhouse, it had been clear that Sasha was on a mission – she was matchmaking. Dinner had been delivered from the kitchens at Claridges and Sasha had even hired staff to ensure that everything ran smo
othly.
“Tamara, welcome.” Vassily had greeted her with a brief perfunctory kiss on both cheeks when she’d arrived and except for some monosyllabic answers and a thanks when she’d presented him and Sasha with a bottle of Vintage Dom Perignon Champagne and a beautifully wrapped box of Laduree Macaroons, he had allowed his daughter to do most of the talking. Sasha had chatted steadily about clothes and directed questions to Tamara about her job and the show.
As the starters were served Sasha had risen quickly. “I’m off,” she said and Tamara had been amused by the horrified look on Vassily’s face.
“Where?” He’d growled.
“Cinema with Pandora and the girls.”
“Lovely to meet you again Tamara,” Sasha had said and then darted out of the door. There was a moment of silence.
“She’s very… subtle your daughter,” Tamara said and Vassily roared with laughter and after a moment Tamara joined him.
They ate in silence, tucking into the starter of Beef carpaccio and a main course of Sea bass, scallops and caviar sauce. Tamara barely noticed the food as the tension in the room grew. After the server had finally brought out dessert, Tamara finally said the words that had been on her mind.
“You know what I thought?” she asked. Vassily nodded. “Why did you let me think she was your lover?” Tamara demanded. The question was bald and direct. She was past caring if she was coming on too strong, or if she might scare him away. It was time that Vassily Romanov made clear his intentions.
He was silent for a moment as though weighing up his words. He sighed heavily and Tamara saw that he was avoiding meeting her eyes.
“What do you want me to say?” Vassily finally asked.
“The truth,” she replied firmly. Again he was silent. He took a gulp from his wine glass and placed the glass back down on the table before he started speaking.
