Protection

by Carla Blake

  And there he was now. Struggling down the driveway under the weight of a life sized reindeer, his breath streaming from him as he swore and sweated and his assistant Melanie, followed in his wake, carrying the makings of a sleigh.

  Not wanting to get involved and feeling guilty for it, Andrea ducked out of sight and made her way towards the back of the house. Hearing the sound of men’s laughter as she rounded the corner and found Brian and his men huddled against the wall, their hands wrapped round mugfuls of Amanda’s tea.

  Carmichael, his hands dug deep into his pockets, sauntered over.

  “Where have you been?”He asked, his face a picture of concern. “I was about to send out a search party.”

  “Really? Sorry about that. I’ve been upstairs with Carrie. She’s trying to grab a bit of quiet time before she’s thrust into centre stage. How’s everything down here?”

  “Okay. Brian wants to talk to you.”

  “That I do.”Brian said, as Andrea turned to look for him. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything? Great. It’s just that some of the guys are out on the street looking for potential paparazzi hidey-holes and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind showing them the places you know of. Would save a lot of time.”

  “Sure, no problem.”Andrea said. “But I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. Most of the places are fairly obvious and I don’t think they’re likely to miss them. I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

  Brian watched her walk away. “Gay huh?”He said to Carmichael.”What a bloody shame.”

  The sound of Claude and Melanie bickering could be heard from yards away, and as Andrea rounded a curve in the driveway, the reason soon became clear.

  One of the reindeer had lost a leg. Or to be more precise, it had broken one, and now the shattered limb was sticking up in the air like a bent ariel trying to home in on a Russian satellite.

  Claude was clearly not happy and swearing bitterly, he stomped bright, red cushions into the ground and pointed and shrieked at Melanie, who far from looking bothered, watched him with an expression that said she’d seen it all before and was merely waiting for him to get it all out of his system before he started to cry.

  Andrea wondered why the poor girl put up with it, and breaking into a jog she ran along the driveway until she reached the street beyond. Then waiting for one of Brian’s men to stop poking about amongst the trees and bushes long enough to talk to her, she pointed out the places she had seen photographers hiding in previously, and turned her attention back to the house.

  Something was niggling at her.

  She didn’t know what it was? Or why? But it was like having an itch she couldn’t scratch, and staring back at the house she flexed her back muscles and felt a trickle of unease crawl up her spine.

  What was it? What was wrong? There was something different. But what? It wasn’t easy to tell amid so much activity, but there was definitely something not right. She could feel it.

  Shielding her eyes, she stared back at the house. The driveway seemed alright. No one seemed to be trying to crawl into the hedges or trees, and there was poor Claude, still struggling with that ruined Reindeer. The lawn was pretty empty aside from a gardener trimming the verges, and the only person standing in front of the house at present was Carmichael, fussing about with the Christmas wreath on the front door.

  Then she saw him and her breath caught. Her eyes widened and she was flying! Sprinting across the rain soaked grass as fast as her feet could carry her. The sound of her laboured breathing buried inside the collar of her coat as she raced towards the house and skidded to a halt just short of the gravel path.

  He hadn’t seen her yet and she doubted if anyone else would have seen him, tucked as he was behind a stone pillar. But he was definitely there and having a good old nose through one of the windows.

  So who was he? Not one of Brian’s men. They were all dressed in black for one thing and wearing ear pieces, whereas this chap was wearing pale, blue jeans and a dark jacket that smelt vaguely of glue. He was also displaying all the signs of either nerves or excitement as his breath repeatedly steamed up the window and he was forced to continuously rub it away.

  The question of how he had got this far without being challenged was also worrying her - where the hell was this so-called security? But for the moment it would have to wait. She needed to act now! While surprise was still on her side and lunging forward, she grabbed the back of his jacket and slammed him against the window.

  The crunch he made was enough to rattle the glass.

  “Care to tell me what the hell you think you’re doing?”She asked, grabbing one of his arms and jerking it viciously behind his back. “Because I think you’re being a naughty boy.”

  “Fuck off!”The intruder cried. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with you!”

  “Think so? Well, let me tell you sonny Jim, I’m the security around here and you are not surpposed to be here. Now are you going to tell me why you’re trying to see into the lounge or do I have to call the cops?”

  “I thought I ‘eard a noise, didn’t I?”

  “A noise.”Andrea repeated sceptically. “What sort of noise?”

  But instead of answering the intruder tried to struggle free and when Andrea suddenly let go of his arm, he seriously thought he’d managed it, until she grabbed him again, twisted him round and slung him over her shoulder.

  Then he swore fulsomely and brushing bits of gravel from his jacket, started to get to his feet.

  Andrea shoved him down again. “Don’t even think about it sunshine.”She warned him. “These boots have got steel toe caps.”

  And reaching for her radio she called for help.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Isobel felt a whole lot better as she prepared to leave her flat for the second time in one day. A brief nap a little over an hour ago had done the trick and now, gathering up the holdall containing uniform and make up, she blew the cat a kiss and let herself out of the front door, making sure it was securely locked behind her.

  Outside, the day remained cold and windy and zipping up her navy blue jacket, she scowled at a group of fallen leaves scuttling across the road. She hated winter and the way deceptively bright morning all too often turned turned out to bitterly cold.

  But today she was ready for it and wrapped up nice and warm inside her jacket, she didn’t care what the sky dumped on her.

  It could even snow if it liked.

  The gates leading to Carrie’s house buzzed with activity and standing to one side, casually dressed and seemingly familiar with each other, a group of men and women chatted amicably until they were approached by another group of men, who attired completely in black and clutching clipboards, checked off their names and examined I.D’s, before ushering them on through the gates.

  Five minutes later a fleet of five, white vans, bearing the inscription, ‘ Smith & Whyte Catering’ arrived. The drivers hardly pausing as they waved their clearance through their side windows and carried on.

  Next came the florist, followed by another caterer and after all that came the army of fans. Herded off to one side by the police but still desperately pressing forward, clutching cameras and digicams, autograph books and glossy photos, anything that could be thrust towards a passing limosine in the hope of catching an illusive picture or autograph.

  Inside the gates, the recently resurrected figure of the reindeer graced the side of the driveway. It’s broken leg now stuck back on, and the sleigh, minus its ruined cushions, arranged amid a mountain of artificial snow that gave only a small taste of what was to come.

  But if the reindeer had been fixed, further up the driveway the struggle went on, as with the wind hampering them at every turn, a team of men and woman battled to erect a tunnel of pure white material that Claude had promised would eventually stretch from the gates all the way back to the house.

  Isobel, howeve
r, saw none of this, for as she approached the gates so did a policeman, who, regarding her with a bored expression, started to steer her towards the shivering group of fans before she’d had had a chance to explain.

  “But I’m on the catering staff.”Isobel protested, digging into her bag and producing a square of plastic. “Look. I’ve got my ID.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say?”The policeman replied, taking the ID from her and giving it a quick glance before handing it back. “In that case you want to join that group over there and get your pass confirmed.”

  “Confirmed? Why? You’ve already seen it.”

  “I have. But it still needs to be checked again before they’ll let you in. Now get a move on before we both get run over.”

  The security guard who checked her pass smelt sharply of citrus. Without smiling, he asked her name, the hotel she was from and then for her ID.

  Isobel handed it over, suddenly feeling nervous. She had a pass, true enough, but she also knew that despite the hotel knowing she was Rita’s replacement for the day, they still hadn’t taken Rita’s name from the list.

  It wasn’t hotel policy, they’d explained, to alter the list once it had been printed. It looked sloppy and suspicious, so for one day only, if she didn’t mind, she would have to be Rita McKenzie.

  But the security thug didn’t know this and even though she’d been careful to attach her own photograph- just like they’d said- she was still afraid he might actually know Rita personally and demand to know why she was parading around with her pass?

  But the security guard barely glanced at her face and handing back the pass told her to follow the driveway round to the back of the house where someone would be waiting to meet her.

  Relieved, Isobel scuttled away and after having her holdall checked by a second security guard who seemed to enjoy rummaging through it, she walked calmly past the group gamely struggling to raise the billowing tunnel and towards the house where Carrie Shilling lived.

  It was exactly how she’d imagined it would be.

  No pretension, no frills, just a clean cut house, with a classic, tasteful exterior and classic, tasteful Christmas decorations, including a stylish wreath of Holly and Ivy that unfortunately sat slightly crocked on the impressive Oak front door.

  Despite that, it was, Isobel considered, quintessentially English. The image only marred slightly by the tell-tale swivel of watching cameras as she crunched her way past the stone porch and on around the side of the house.

  Climbing off the bed, Carrie ran her fingers through her hair and smiled at herself in the dressing table mirror. She looked fucked! But after the seeing-to Andrea had recently given her, it was hardly surprising. Although falling asleep afterwards hadn’t actually been part of the plan. Especially when there was so much to do downstairs.

  Like trying to prevent the temperamental Claude from rupturing himself!

  Still, by all accounts, she was probably too late anyway because it was his ranting and raving that had woken her. That and the sound of his accent progressively slipping the more upset he became.

  What had he been yelling about? Something about a tunnel?

  Crossing to the window, Carrie gripped the windowsill and peered down.

  Claude stood below. Gesturing impatiently at a team of helpers, who struggling to heave a billowing structure towards the front door of the house, battled with overhanging branches and vicious gusts of wind as they reeled from side to side and the whole thing threatened to take off into the next county.

  Claude screamed at them and from behind a row of Conifers another band of little helpers suddenly sprang into action and grabbed their share of the wayward material. Each of them pulling and tugging and skidding along the path until eventually, thanks more to a lull in the weather than actual man power, the tunnel was sufficiently under control for them to begin pounding in dozens of anchor pegs.

  But still Claude wasn’t happy and waving his arms angrily in the air, he yelled something else before storming off, leaving Carrie, watching from above, with feelings of utter guilt.

  What did she think she was doing? She asked herself. Here she was, swanning around as if she had all the time in the world, whilst outside..

  A hand clapped itself over her mouth.

  Another snaked around her waist and urged her down.

  Her eyes wide, Carrie folded to her knees. Her nostrils flared as she stared down at the hand popping open the button on her jeans. The zip followed and a whispered, ‘ sshhh’ breathed into her hair before her mouth was uncovered.

  She drew in a quick breath and the bottom of her sweatshirt rose. The hand slid inside and unclasped her bra, cupping her breast as it slid free of the cup.

  Instinctively, she gasped and her hands pressed against the wall to steady herself. The hand let go of her breast and pulled at her jeans. Down they went. Over her hips. Over her thighs. Down to her knees where they were left. The hand moving to her frillies and easing them aside.

  A finger slid in, across her fluff and along her pussy. It delved into heat and moisture and stayed there a while, paddling in juices before using them to moisten the whole of her slit. Her pussy became nice and slick and the hand pulled away to stroke her backside, leaving a silken trail before entering her from behind.

  The other hand found her breast again and relished the weight. The fingers reaching round to roll her nipple between them.

  Carrie gasped and cool lips found the back of her neck. Caressing the soft skin with dozens of warm, urgent kisses.

  A groan escaped her and she arched her back. The finger inside penetrated still deeper and tickled her G-spot before sliding out and finding the tiny, hard nub of her clit. Slowly it began to rub, producing juices that the fingers used to lubricate the length of her slit.

  Weakness overcome her and her legs buckled. Dropping her to the floor, where she rested her forehead on the carpet.

  The hands paid no heed. Instead they cradled her full breast and slid up and down her full, swollen pussy before returning to her clit. The pleasure mounted and she raised her backside, urging the finger to enter her. It slid in easily, her cunt sucking greedily as the other hand left her breast and found her clit, rubbing harder and harder as her pussy began to tighten and she waited for the blessed relief of another orgasm.

  Afterwards, as she lay on the floor with her hair splayed out around her, the hands re-arranged her clothes but did not stay to fasten them. Instead they patted her arse and left.

  Wearily, she raised her head.

  Andrea stood at the end of the bed. Waiting until she had her full, undivided attention before seductively licking her finger.

  By two thirty, Isobel was beginning to think of ways in which she could murder Rita, because although she’d warned her there might be some lifting and carrying, she’d said nothing about this!

  Barely had she rounded the back of the house when a harridan, dressed in tight, white jeans and wearing a sweater with ‘ Smith & Whyte Catering’ stitched across her left tit, had borne down on her like an enormous vulture and demanded to know why she wasn’t wearing her ID? Then directing her towards a group of red faced people who were already lugging tables and chairs towards a huge marquee, she been put to work.

  But that had only been the start of it and from then on, she hadn’t stopped! No sooner had they placed the furniture in the marquee, when the harridan, whose name turned out to be June, found them something else to do. It was hell. It didn’t stop and just when they thought it couldn’t get any worse, some flippin’ French guy by the name of Claude flounced in and started to get in everyone’s way by putting up even more decorations and spraying everything with artificial snow.

  Tired, sweaty and practically spitting feather she was that thirsty, Isobel lugged a wheeled trolley towards the next circular table, and wondered if the knives she was laying out would cut Rita’s throat
?

  At four thirty, June graced them all by announcing a break.

  Isobel nearly cried with relief. Her feet were already killing her and they hadn’t even got round to the waitressing bit yet!

  But then she saw where they were being shepherded and trying not to stare, even though everyone else was rubber necking for all they were worth, Isobel followed as they were led inside the house and along a narrow passageway - catching a tantalizing glimpse of a beautifully decorated entrance hall as they went – before being led sharply around to the right and into a large room lined with three enormous benches and a huge, steaming tea urn that stood at one end together with plates and plates of sandwiches and cakes and catering sized boxes of crisps which were stacked along one of the walls facing yet another table crammed with bars of chocolate and a variety of soft drinks.

  Looking at it, Isobel was convinced she’d died and gone to Heaven.

  And she wasn’t alone.

  “Wow!”A male voice said from behind her. “There’s more food in here than I usually see in a month!”

  “You’re not kiddin’!”His mate answered. “It’s the only reason I do this every year. That and the money of course.”

  “What? I thought you did it for the chance to lust after Carrie.”

  “Well, yeah, maybe before. But now she’s turned out to be a fuckin’ dyke there’s no point! What a bloody waste though. All that tit and she’s only into other women!”

  The sandwiches were excellent and after eating several whilst standing in line, Isobel grabbed another load before settling herself at one of the benches to enjoy the rest in comfort.

  “Here’s to us.”A woman sitting opposite her smiled, raising her cup. “May our poor, aching feet last the distance.”

  Returning the salute, Isobel copied her. “Amen to that!”She said. “My feet are already killing me and we haven’t even started yet!”