by Jill Mansell
It was no good; she had caught him out. Before he even had time to protest, he knew he was lost. Vivienne, running her hands over his body with soapy, slippery ease, pressed herself against him. Within seconds Sam was aroused.
‘This is crazy,’ he sighed, willing himself to ignore the erotic effect of her warm, wet flesh and teasing fingers, and failing absolutely.
‘But hygienic,’ Vivienne murmured, her breasts sliding tantalizingly against his back, her tongue circling one shoulder-blade. Unable to contain her amusement, she said, ‘This must be what you British call Good, Clean Fun.’
Turning finally to face her, acknowledging defeat with good grace, Sam took her in his arms and kissed her. Moments later, with a crooked smile, he said, ‘We British call it risking life and limb.’
‘Oh well,’ Vivienne replied huskily, switching off the shower, ‘if you want to be staid and boring, I suppose we’ll just have to retreat to the safety of a bed.’
Afterwards, Sam rolled on to his side. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Was that staid and boring?’
Vivienne, so happy she thought she would burst, smiled back at him. ‘As you British might say,’ she informed him solemnly, ‘it was very pleasant indeed . . . jolly well done . . . ahbsolutely mahvellous . . . top notch . . . altogether rahther splendid . . .’
‘Good,’ he interrupted in brisk tones. ‘So, now can I have that bacon sandwich?’
‘Oh, Izzy!’ cried Vivienne, beside herself with delight. ‘This is fantastic . . . Jeez, you really are on your way, now!’
Izzy grinned as the chauffeur, who swore his name was George, held open the door of the gleaming, ludicrously elongated limousine. ‘The first of my lifetime ambitions,’ she explained, running her hands lovingly over the ivory-leather upholstery. ‘Even if it is only mine for six hours.’
‘What’s your second lifetime ambition?’ Vivienne demanded, pouncing on the cocktail cabinet.
Izzy winked at the chauffeur. ‘Wild sex in the back of a limo.’
‘God, count me out. George, you aren’t listening to this, are you?’
‘No, madam,’ replied George, maintaining a straight face.
‘So, where are we going?’ continued Vivienne, pouring enormous drinks and handing one to Izzy as the huge car purred into life.
‘Are you kidding?’ Izzy looked pained. ‘In this thing, everywhere.’
By the time they arrived at The Chelsea Steps it was almost one-thirty and a huge crowd of paparazzi were milling around on the pavement outside. Within seconds, they were swarming around the rented limousine.
‘My God,’ said Izzy, awestruck. ‘I got famous quicker than I thought.’
The photographers’ expressions soon changed, however, when George opened the rear door.
‘Shit, you aren’t Tash Janssen,’ exclaimed one with evident disgust.
‘Never said I was,’ Izzy replied loftily. ‘Nincompoop.’
He shrugged and sighed. ‘So, who are you? Anybody?’
Ignoring him, Izzy turned her attention to the chauffeur. ‘Don’t let anyone touch the car, George. We won’t be longer than a couple of hours. And no gossiping to nincompoops in the mean time, if you value your job.’
‘Very well, madam.’ He tipped his cap to her.
The photographer regarded Izzy with suspicion. ‘Hey, are you somebody?’
In reply, she gave him a pitying half-smile. ‘Why don’t you ask Tash Janssen if I’m “somebody”, OK? He’ll be here in five minutes. Maybe he’ll tell you.’
The club was absolutely heaving with bodies. Izzy, peering through the crowd, said, ‘There’s Sam. What do you want to do, be polite and say hallo, or ignore him?’
Vivienne coughed delicately. Her green eyes sparkled. ‘Ah well . . . as a matter of fact, you aren’t the only one with a bit of good news to celebrate.’
‘You mean . . .’ Izzy stared at her. ‘You and Sam?’
‘Oh hey, we aren’t getting married or anything,’ Vivienne giggled. ‘No need to look that stunned.’
‘But you . . .’
‘Got laid,’ supplied Vivienne with characteristic bluntness. She heaved a blissful sigh. ‘And it was as great as ever. I mean, really. Sam Sheridan is seriously fantastic in the sack.’
I bet he is, Izzy thought ruefully, but she was able to smile and be pleased for her friend. What she’d never had she couldn’t miss, she reminded herself, and even if she didn’t happen to believe that particular bit of propaganda, at times like this it came in useful.
‘I’m glad,’ she said honestly, as Sam made his way towards them. ‘But don’t forget, I want to keep this recording contract a secret for the time being. He still thinks I’m a dumb female and I want to wait until there’s something to really show him . . .’
‘Izz, I won’t breathe a word,’ protested Vivienne. ‘I adore our secret. Why, just this afternoon he was running you down something rotten and I stuck by you all the way.’
Incredulous, Izzy demanded, ‘What was he saying about me?’
‘Oh . . . something about this guy Tash Janssen coming to the club tonight,’ said Vivienne vaguely. ‘Sam said that if you saw him you’d turn instant groupie.’
‘And what did you say?’ Izzy’s dark eyebrows had disappeared beneath her hair.
Vivienne winked. ‘Why, honeychile,’ she drawled teasingly. ‘I said no way some rich rock star would get it for nothing. You’d charge!’
So annoyed with Sam that she didn’t even trust herself to speak to him, Izzy left them to it and went for a wander. And although she tried hard not to think about her lost opportunity with Sam, not to mention the new and ludicrous pairing of Gina and Ralph, she couldn’t help noticing that the rest of the world appeared to be going around in twos.
I don’t need a man, she reminded herself crossly. I have a recording contract instead.
But it had been an awfully long time; the days of Ralph and Mike and the happily synchronised subterfuge which had made her life so complete were long gone, and now even Katerina had fallen in love . . .
She had to step aside to avoid a couple with their arms locked adoringly around each other’s waists. As she did so, she glanced across and saw Vivienne laughing with Sam, over at the bar. Never mind Gina, thought Izzy with a forlorn attempt at humour quite at odds with her previous high spirits; at this rate it wouldn’t be long before she was the one carting Jericho around the park in search of men.
As soon as she returned from the loo, where excitement was high and lipsticks and Schwarzenegger-strength hairsprays were being wielded with abandon in anticipation of Tash Janssen’s rumoured arrival, Izzy observed the hive of activity around the entrance and realised that he had indeed turned up. Famous though The Chelsea Steps might be for its laid-back, no-fuss policy, and although there were no actual stampedes or hysterical screams of delight, the appearance of one of the world’s most outrageous and successful rock stars couldn’t help but evoke more than a frisson of interest.
Despite herself, Izzy smiled as freshly lipsticked, miniskirted blondes streamed out of the loo and gravitated towards the dance floor. The DJ, who evidently had a sense of humour, promptly played a record to which it was almost impossible to dance. The blondes, first hesitating then retreating in temporary defeat to the sidelines, pretended they hadn’t wanted to dance anyway and shot him looks of icy disdain.
‘Hmm,’ murmured Vivienne, reappearing at Izzy’s side and gazing unashamedly in Tash Janssen’s direction. ‘I have to admit, he is disturbingly gorgeous. If I weren’t in love with Sam I might even be tempted to have a go at him myself.’
Izzy watched the Janssen entourage - all male, for now at least - settle themselves around The Chelsea Steps’ most coveted table. The singer, with his spiky dark hair, heavily lidded, even darker eyes and thin, tanned face, was casually dressed in a red shirt and black jeans. There was an air about him of deceptive languor, as he picked up his drink and murmured a few words to one of his black-suited minders. When he drained hi
s glass in one go, another appeared before him within seconds.
‘Definitely dangerous,’ pronounced Vivienne, sounding excited. ‘Will you look at that mouth . . .’
Despite herself, Izzy was intrigued; how could a man who wasn’t, in truth, that good-looking, possess such an extraordinary degree of attraction for so many women? And had that attraction preceded the fame or become unleashed as a result of it? Whatever must it be like to exude such an aura . . . to be recognised by literally millions of people the world over . . . to simply be Tash Janssen?
‘You aren’t drooling,’ Vivienne observed, giving her a sharp sideways glance.
Izzy, who had been miles away, murmured absently, ‘I’m thinking.’
‘Never think,’ Vivienne declared, because it was one of her father’s favourite sayings. ‘Just act.’
Izzy grinned. ‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘Will whatever it is annoy Sam?’ Vivienne was looking interested now.
‘Oh yes.’
‘Will he be angry with me?’
‘Nooo . . .’
‘In that case,’ said Vivienne, smiling with relief and clinking her glass against Izzy’s, ‘what the hell are you doing, hanging around talking to me? Go for it.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ murmured Sam, twenty minutes later, as the larger of Tash Janssen’s minders made his way in a direct line across the dance floor and approached Izzy, now sitting demurely on her own at a small table in the very furthest corner of the club.
‘Maybe he’s asking her to dance,’ suggested Vivienne, doing her best not to laugh. The minder was addressing Izzy now, indicating that she should follow him.
‘What is she playing at?’ Sam had never quite overcome his fear that one evening Izzy - who knew no shame - would burst into song in front of one of his more celebrated guests . . .
Vivienne, reading his thoughts, squeezed his arm. ‘No, you cannot go over there,’ she admonished in stern tones. ‘He invited her, didn’t he? She hasn’t exactly forced herself upon him . . .’
With some unwillingness, Sam conceded that this was true. But he still wasn’t happy. ‘She planned this, somehow, ’ he said darkly, his eyes narrowing as he watched Tash Janssen rise to his feet and shake Izzy’s politely proffered hand. ‘I don’t know how she did it . . .’
‘Oh my,’ said Vivienne good-humouredly. ‘All this fuss over Izzy. Sweetheart, are you sure you aren’t just the teeniest bit jealous?’
‘Of course I’m not jealous,’ Sam replied evenly. Pausing, he took a sip of his drink. ‘I just don’t want her to start singing . . .’
Chapter 27
At close quarters, Tash Janssen was even more devastating to look at. Izzy, sitting next to him with her hands clasped modestly in her lap, wondered how many times he had enjoyed wild sex in the back of a limo, then hastily abandoned such thoughts in case he was able to read her mind.
‘Well,’ he announced finally, when he had finished subjecting her to a slow up-and-down scrutiny. ‘I have to say that I’ve had plenty of notes passed to me in my time, but none quite like yours.’
‘No?’ said Izzy with the utmost politeness. The note, which she had handed over to her favourite barman, now lay on the table in front of them, but Tash Janssen quoted the first sentence without even glancing at it.
‘I’m not offering you my body, I don’t have blonde hair and I am old enough to be your mother. But I would like to make you the very serious offer of a song which may interest you a great deal.’
‘Yes,’ Izzy replied simply.
‘You aren’t old enough to be my mother,’ he observed with a crooked smile.
‘My only fib,’ she conceded, the corners of her own mouth beginning to curl.
‘And you’re telling me that this song is great?’
‘Oh, the greatest.’
‘Another . . . fib?’
He was amusing himself. Izzy knew perfectly well that he wasn’t taking her seriously. Yet at the same time she sensed that even if he didn’t actually believe her, she had captured his interest, temporarily at least.
‘This song,’ she said mildly, ‘is the best.’
Tash Janssen laughed and glanced briefly at his watch. ‘Look, are you sure you wouldn’t like to change your mind about sleeping with me?’
‘It would take five minutes . . .’ Izzy protested, realizing that the softly-softly approach wasn’t working and that she was in danger of losing him.
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Excuse me, but that just is not true . . .’
‘To listen to my song, stupid.’
He raised his hands in relief. ‘I thought we were discussing my sexual prowess. OK, OK, why don’t you send me a tape, care of my record company? I promise to listen to it.’
‘No,’ said Izzy, opening her bag, lifting out her copy of the demo tape and flicking it away from him when he reached out to take it from her. ‘I have a car waiting outside. Come and listen to it now.’
‘I . . . do . . . not . . . believe . . . it,’ said Sam, through gritted teeth.
Vivienne, beside herself with joy, replied consolingly, ‘Now, now. She is an adult, after all.’
‘That woman is the second most amoral adult I know.’ Sam, glaring at the departing figures, observed that Tash Janssen’s hand was resting lightly upon Izzy’s shoulder. ‘And she’s just walked out - practically arm in arm, for God’s sake - with the first.’
‘Maybe,’ suggested Vivienne, ever helpful, ‘they’ve gone to feed his meter.’
Izzy, adoring the expression on the face of the photographer who had earlier doubted her, grinned at Tash Janssen, said, ‘Your car or mine?’ and took three steps towards her own rented limousine before he could open his mouth. With a shrug, she continued smoothly, ‘OK, mine. Thank you, George . . . would it be rude to ask you to wait outside the car for a few minutes? Mr Janssen and I have some private business to discuss.’
‘Full of surprises,’ remarked Tash, when they were safely inside, protected from prying eyes and lenses by blacked-out windows. Leaning closer to Izzy, he murmured conspiratorially, ‘Have you ever done it in the back seat of one of these things?’
‘Since before you were born,’ replied Izzy with a sigh. Pushing him upright, she went on. ‘Look, nobody can hear us now, so you can drop the big rock-star act. Just behave like a normal human being for five minutes and listen to my song.’
He laughed. ‘Have you ever thought of becoming a schoolteacher?’
‘Sssh.’ Izzy fitted the cassette into the tape deck and adjusted the balance for quadraphonic sound.
‘Your hands are shaking,’ he observed.
‘That’s because I’m nervous.’
He looked interested. ‘You practically kidnapped me. Why should you be afraid?’
Turning to face him, her dark eyes huge, she said slowly, ‘This is important to me. I’m afraid that you won’t take the trouble to listen properly, because you’re treating this whole thing as a joke, whereas I’m serious.’
After a moment, he took her hand in his, kissed it, then replaced it with care on the seat beside him. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ll listen properly. I can be serious, too.’
The opening bars of ‘Never, Never’ flooded the car and he listened. Izzy watched him listen - with his eyes closed and his long legs stretched out in front of him - and scarcely dared to breathe for the entire four minutes.
When the song ended and he didn’t move, she thought for a second that he was asleep. Then, slowly, he opened one eye. ‘Play it again.’
‘Please,’ murmured Izzy, rewinding the tape.
He smiled before closing his eyes once more. ‘Please.’
Fifteen minutes later, when ‘Never, Never’ had finished playing for the fourth time, he sat up and ejected the tape, turning it over in his fingers and looking thoughtful. Since he still hadn’t said anything about it, Izzy was by this time almost paralysed with anticipation.
‘Well?’ she said eventually, and with great difficult
y because her tongue was by this time stuck to the roof of her mouth.
‘I’m impressed,’ he replied, sounding faintly amused. ‘But then you knew I’d be impressed, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to drag me out here. What I don’t understand is why you don’t want to sing it.’
‘I didn’t drag you out here,’ she reminded him evenly. ‘And I do want to sing it. Very much indeed.’
‘Then why offer it to me?’
Izzy took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of leather upholstery, cigars and cologne. ‘Because I want us to sing it together.’
