Mackesy was soon using his skillful tongue to flick Madeleine’s clitoris from side to side. The tiny bud was already engorged and each movement of Mackesy’s tongue against it sent a little jolt of power throughout Madeleine’s entire body.
The sensation was almost too intense. Madeleine tried to sit up. To stop him. But Mackesy wouldn’t let her. He pushed Madeleine back down onto the bed almost roughly and continued to work at her vagina with his warm, wet mouth. While his tongue massaged her clitoris, he slipped a finger into her and sought out her G-spot. The combination of the two actions—his tongue flickering against her clit and his finger stroking her deep inside—increased her pleasure immeasurably.
Madeleine gasped as Mackesy worked faster. She reached for his head, wanting to pull his mouth away from her before she exploded, but he still would not stop. He was determined to take her all the way no matter how much she protested. Eventually, Madeleine didn’t want to protest anymore. Some animal part of her psyche took over and suddenly every nerve in her body was starting to sing. Like a roller coaster reaching the top of a loop, there was only one way to go.
Madeleine felt the muscles in her thighs grow tense as she braced her feet against the floor and Mackesy continued to lick her. She closed her eyes and gave in to Mackesy’s insistent ministrations. Her vagina tightened around his finger with the first hint of the orgasm to come. This time it was Madeleine who said, “Don’t stop,” when Mackesy seemed to be slowing down. She was so close. She could feel it.
“Keep going,” she demanded throatily. Mackesy did as he was told until he felt Madeleine’s vagina begin to pulse and her hips start to buck up toward his mouth. Her breath came out in a series of excited little yelps. Her limbs tensed and twisted on the chocolate satin sheets. She seemed unable to stop her body from arching toward the sky. She cried out, “Piers!” She was lost. Then she collapsed back, with her arm across her eyes. Excited, exhausted, and ever so slightly embarrassed.
The following morning, Madeleine was out of bed before Mackesy awoke. She almost managed to get out of the room without waking him. But not quite.
Madeleine sat down at the bottom of the bed.
“About last night—” she began.
“Well, I think we were pretty well behaved, all things considered,” Mackesy interrupted.
“Gold stars all round,” Madeleine agreed.
There was nothing else to say. Mackesy suggested breakfast but Madeleine said she had to be out of there and on the train back to Champagne.
“Meeting with a guy from the CIVC,” she lied.
So they said good-bye. It was an awkward sort of farewell. Madeleine half wanted to evaporate into thin air to avoid the moment. She half wanted him to wrap her in his arms again and force her to stay. He kissed her on the cheek. Madeleine closed her eyes to feel the kiss once more as she descended in the lift to the lobby, but she felt sure she would never see him again.
CHAPTER 46
Mathiu Randon was very pleased to have Viviane Caine front his flagship brand. She was arguably the hippest model in the world right then, having stolen Kate Moss’s latest boyfriend. Such associations mattered when you were trying to get into the heads of the faceless scumbags they called the “general public.” Not that the general public would be able to afford even a single glass of Éclat, of course.
Domaine Randon was working to a plan that the fashion world knew well. None of the big fashion houses made money on their haute couture, but the glamorous association shifted their mass-produced diffusion lines and brand-name perfume by the ton. Likewise, a fabulous new image for Éclat would, eventually, shift a European wine lake’s worth of Domaine Randon’s cheaper brands.
It was a pity Viviane Caine’s beauty was only skin deep. Both men and women loved her. Her face gave the impression of a lively intelligence combined with warmth and compassion. Alas, it was just an impression. One didn’t have to spend long in Viviane’s company to discover that her only topic of interest was herself. Thankfully, she had borrowed not only Kate Moss’s boyfriend but also the supermodel’s zip-lipped attitude to the media, and so, for the most part, the illusion remained unbroken. She was a blank canvas and an empty vessel. There was no risk that Viviane Caine would suddenly get morality and bite the hand that was feeding her cocaine habit as Christina Morgan had done.
Still, Randon didn’t want to spend a lot of time in Viviane’s company. That was why he asked Axel Delaflote to take her out to dinner and joined them only at the end of the evening for coffee.
But just because he didn’t want to spend three hours listening to her talk about herself didn’t mean Randon had no use for Viviane at all.
Axel left them in the restaurant. Randon took Viviane back to his place. If she had seemed a little put out that her new employer had skipped dinner, the lines of coke Randon arranged on a silver tray on the coffee table helped her get over it. She fell upon them like an asthmatic grabbing for an inhaler.
“You’re a mysterious guy,” she said as, lines snorted, she settled herself on one of Randon’s enormous leather sofas. “But that’s OK because I’m mysterious too.”
It was Randon who snorted this time. Viviane Caine was no mystery to him. She’d been reading too much of her own press. She’d realize one day that there was nothing to her at all. She was merely the sum of freakily good bone structure enhanced by a makeup artist’s skill and a photographer’s art. Painted and lit well she was a goddess. Stripped bare, a nobody. Just like the rest of them.
“Did you like the pictures?” Viviane nodded toward the contact sheet that lay on the glass-topped coffee table.
“They were OK,” said Randon, picking the sheet up and tossing it back down again with some disdain. He had been very pleased indeed but there was no need for her to know that now.
As a young man, Randon had quickly learned that every woman wanted the opposite of what she got the most of. Plain Janes like his former secretary, Bertille, needed to be complimented into bed. A woman like Viviane Caine, whose entire life was praise and compliments, needed to be made insecure before she took her clothes off.
But she took Randon’s lack of enthusiasm in her stride.
“Perhaps you need to pay for a better photographer,” she said.
“Maybe,” said Randon.
There was a moment of silence as they simply looked at each other. They were sizing each other up, trying to work out who was in charge here.
“So,” Viviane swirled her glass so that the ice cubes tinkled against the crystal. “Are you keeping me from my beauty sleep for any particular reason?”
“I thought you might like to sleep with me,” said Randon bluntly.
A slow smile spread across Viviane’s famously wide mouth. It might have been interpreted as a smile of disdain, but Randon knew otherwise. He could tell in the way she suddenly angled her body toward him that he had her. No mystery to Miss Caine …
“What on earth gave you that impression?” she began. He knew she wanted him to praise her body and catalog the ways she turned him on but Randon wasn’t going to oblige. He didn’t want to get into some long drawn-out flirtation. That didn’t interest him at all.
Instead, Randon got up and walked across to the sofa where Viviane was lounging. He grabbed her roughly by the wrist and yanked her onto her feet.
“Hey!” she said, stumbling a little in her high heels. “What’s up with you?”
“But you like it like that, don’t you,” said Randon.
It was a statement, not a question.
And it was true that Viviane didn’t protest as he squeezed her wrist tighter and pulled her closer. When she was close enough, Randon tucked his fingers into the neckline of her red dress and, in a single, horribly effective motion, ripped the garment from collar to hem.
“For fuck’s sake!” said Viviane. “This is vintage fucking Leger.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” said Randon quite calmly.
“It was a one-off, you fucker.”
“Language,” said Randon.
He crushed Viviane’s mouth beneath his own. That kept her quiet. While he kissed her, he made short work of the rest of her clothing. Her La Perla bra fell apart as easily as a cobweb and she wasn’t wearing any knickers. No mystery there either. Randon smiled to himself. Viviane Caine was exactly the kind of girl who thought going commando was le dernier cri in libertine sophistication. So daring. Yet so commonplace these days.
Randon stuck a finger straight inside her. She gasped in surprise. Her brow wrinkled. But again her protests were short-lived. Soon she was moaning hungrily and leaning into Randon as he worked at her warm wet cunt.
“Where I come from they call this finger-banging,” she said almost wistfully.
“I don’t care what they call anything where you come from,” said Randon. “Shut up or I’ll have to silence you again.”
“Are you always so … ”
She didn’t shut up. And so soon she was on her knees in front of him, taking his penis in her mouth.
It gave him a little kick, seeing her kneeling on the floor. His very own supermodel whore. But not as big a kick as it would have been to see Christina Morgan there.
“Does this feel good?” Viviane somehow managed to ask without taking her mouth from his cock.
Randon answered her by putting his hand on the back of her head and pulling her closer so that his penis slid farther down her throat. Her eyes widened with annoyance but he didn’t take any notice. He just held her there. She soon settled back into giving him what he wanted.
And meanwhile Randon concentrated on what he wanted. Christina Morgan where she deserved to be. Her lips wrapped around his cock. Or Madeleine Arsenault. The stuck-up bitch. Her face looking up at him for approval. He was going to finish that girl off in more ways than one. Viviane had no idea that she was being used as a blank canvas again. To Randon right then she was merely a screen for the projection of another dream, just as she was every time she stepped into a photographer’s studio.
But Viviane was not just a classically pretty face. She fellated Randon with such skill that he was soon on the point of coming. The speed with which he got there surprised him. He glanced down at her. She looked pleased with herself. She winked.
That wouldn’t do.
Randon pushed her away from him. Viviane fell backwards onto her arse.
“Hey!”
“Get up,” he said, grabbing her roughly by the wrist again.
Viviane struggled to get up from the floor. She was still wearing her Manolos and they made her as unsteady as a foal trying to walk for the first time. Randon quickly grew impatient and bodily lifted her back onto her feet. She followed him into the bedroom.
“You are one crazy man,” she said.
“I’m just getting started.”
Randon’s bedroom was like a hotel room. There was nothing to betray the man who slept there. No personal pictures. Not a thing out of place. Not even a stray pair of cuff links on the simple ebony nightstand. The bed was made to military standards of precision. Plain white sheets. A gray cashmere blanket for those colder nights. Anyone who hoped to get a glimpse into the real man behind Domaine Randon would be very disappointed.
Still Randon wasn’t concerned whether his infrequent guests thought the austerity of his official home strange.
He discarded his robe as he shoved Viviane down onto the bed and climbed on top of her. He pulled her legs apart and pushed straight into her. She gasped. He was quite a big man. But soon she had her legs wrapped around his back.
Viviane was quite the theatrical lover. Each thrust from Randon elicited some vocal response. She threw her head back and periodically raked her fingers through her hair as though she were feeling transported. From time to time she changed the routine and raked her fingers down Randon’s back instead. Her beautifully manicured fingers, painted in Chanel polish so dark red it was almost black, left dramatic pink welts on Randon’s skin.
“Are you going to come?” she asked him. It was half-enticing, half-impatient. It stopped Randon’s arousal in its tracks.
“Keep quiet,” he said, pulling out of her and flipping her over so that she lay facedown in the pillows.
He entered her from behind, trying to find his rhythm again. The pillows at least muffled Viviane’s squeaks and moans.
But it wasn’t enough. As he pumped, Randon reached into a drawer in his nightstand and took out a bottle of lube. He squeezed some into his hand and massaged it into Viviane’s anus. In an almost seamless movement, he pulled his penis out of her vagina and stuck it into her arsehole.
Viviane shouted out in protest but Randon took no notice. His big, strong body pinned hers to the bed. There was nothing she could do but try to bat him away with her hands. It made no difference. In fact, he liked it more when she struggled. It made him harder. She felt it.
He came as he always did. Silently. In an eerily controlled fashion. He pulled out at once and fell back onto the bed, breathing heavily. As he stared up at the ceiling, waiting for his breath to calm down, Viviane slithered across the mattress to be closer to him. She rolled into his side. She slung an arm across his chest. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
“The guest bedroom is on the other side of the apartment,” he said.
CHAPTER 47
Back in Champagne after her night with Piers Mackesy, Madeleine found herself feeling pretty down. She knew that what they had done was wrong, but at the same time, she found herself wishing she could see him again. She knew that Mackesy would be in Champagne again that afternoon, visiting some houses near Ay. Perhaps, she allowed herself to dream, he would drop by. At least they could try to repair their friendship.
And so Madeleine jumped to attention when she heard a car crunch on the gravel in front of the house. She abandoned her laptop and looked out of her office window hopefully. But it wasn’t the DB4. It wasn’t a car she recognized at all.
Madeleine was alone in the house that day. Henri, who could normally be relied upon to drift in and out several times, had taken the day off to visit his daughter in Normandy. Still Madeleine felt fairly safe as she opened the door to the stranger.
“Madeleine Arsenault,” said the man, as he grabbed for Madeleine’s hand and kissed it roughly. “What a pleasure.”
“Who are you?” asked Madeleine, suddenly wishing she had been a little less trusting and not opened the door so wide. Though she battled against the part of her that made such primeval judgments, wanting so much to believe that you couldn’t judge anyone by the way they looked, her every instinct was to get rid of the man now stepping inside. Everything about his face spoke of violence, from his twisted little mouth to the scar that closed his eye.
“You don’t mind if I come in,” he said. Madeleine did mind but it was a statement, not a question.
She looked out into the street in desperation, hoping that someone would be passing by. But there was no one else to be seen except her visitor’s driver, who looked no less menacing.
“My vineyard manager will be back in ten minutes,” said Madeleine, hoping that would be enough to scare the men off.
“Ten minutes is all we need,” said the man. “My name is Michel Tremblant, but you can call me Mick. I was a friend of your father’s.”
“He never mentioned you.”
“I dare say he didn’t. We didn’t see much of each other in his last couple of years. I was inside, you see.”
Madeleine felt her insides begin to liquefy. This was getting worse.
“But we were great friends once, your father and I. He liked to play cards.”
“I didn’t know that,” Madeleine lied.
“But he wasn’t very good at it. And when I went inside, he still owed me two hundred thousand Euros.”
“What?”
“A lot of money, isn’t it? I expect he thought I’d write it off when I went into prison. Or that I might forget about it while I was doing time. But I go
t out earlier than I expected to, thanks to a very generous friend of mine. And now I need the money back. You’ve inherited Champagne Arsenault. You’ve inherited the debt.”
“Why should I even believe there is a debt?” asked Madeleine.
“Just because you don’t believe there’s a debt doesn’t mean I won’t get upset if you can’t pay it,” said Mick.
“I can’t pay it.”
“I’m a reasonable man,” said Mick. “I didn’t expect you to have the cash to hand. But I do need it soon. Christmas, shall we say? I need to buy presents for my kids. Au revoir, sweet Madeleine.” He kissed her hand again and was gone.
Closing the door firmly behind him, Madeleine sank onto the bottom stair. Two hundred thousand Euros was a ridiculous amount of money to lose in a bet and yet … she remembered the day that Philip Mackesy sent a truck to pick up her father’s Facel Vega and take it back to England after their last card game. Constant Arsenault had never been a cautious man. Which had made it all the harder after Georges’s death.
“You must have encouraged him to climb too high,” Constant berated Madeleine after Georges fell from the apple tree in the Clos and broke his neck. That Georges might just take after his father and live for the thrill of the high climb or the big bet didn’t seem to occur to him.
“Oh, Papa,” Madeleine cried into her hands. “What am I supposed to do now?”
CHAPTER 48
Christina Morgan felt a small twinge of something approaching annoyance when she saw Viviane Caine in the new Randon Éclat advertising campaign. But it was just a small twinge. Really, there was no reason for Christina to envy Viviane anymore. She didn’t need the Éclat campaign or the Guilty Secrets advertising deal. Christina had something far better.
Like the first, the second season of The Villa was a huge success. It was no surprise whatsoever when Greg announced that the channel was going to commission a third. Getting high-profile guests was no problem at all. Top chefs flew in from all over the world to take part and winemakers clamored for the exposure The Villa could bring them. Having Ronald Ginsburg as the show’s resident critic definitely gave The Villa kudos among the wine fraternity. Meanwhile, the show had been extended to include a “dinner party” segment, wherein assorted celebrities who had no direct link to the world of food and drink would sit around a table and discuss their latest projects.
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