Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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leapt back to earlier in the evening when she had followed him into the kitchen to help him with the egg-nog. He remembered how she had suggestively slipped off her jacket and brushed up against him, her bare arms against his. At the time, it had seemed accidental, but now her friendliness had taken on a whole other perspective. Now, as she shifted beside him, the firm curve of her breasts and nipples were silhouetted against a shaft of moonlight coming through a crack in the curtains. Frozen in terror, his mind searching for a way to escape, he was struck by how much Rebecca’s outline looked like Serena’s. The long blonde hair falling onto her bare shoulders, the firm, slim, smooth body, pushing up against his. She was so warm, so soft, he thought drowsily. But no.
Desperately, springing to his senses, Tom shook his head and moved his body away from her. ‘Look, Rebecca, what are you doing?’ he hissed urgently. ‘Don’t, no, don’t –’
Before he had time to object further, Rebecca’s head had moved under the covers, her hair brushing against his navel as she went down. Tom groaned as he felt her ripe lips surround his cock, her whole mouth going down the shaft of his penis until its tip touched the back of her throat. Up down, up, down. For a second he moaned with pleasure: it had been over three months since he had had any physical contact with a woman – and he missed it. Suddenly he came to his senses.
‘Fuck, Rebecca. Get off me. Now.’
Her head came up for air and she slid out of his bed as smoothly as she had entered it.
He turned to watch her, wretched with embarrassment, as her naked body walked away from him. Completely unaffected by what had just happened, she picked up a silk dressing gown that she had discarded on the floor seconds earlier and looked over her shoulder to smile at him.
‘Any time,’ she purred seductively. ‘Remember, Tom, any time.’
Diego Bono rolled back exhausted onto the crumpled sheets, beads of sweat glistening on his firm, bronzed skin and looked across the room at his new lover. He never usually felt uncomfortable bringing the many conquests he picked up in the gay clubs of Soho back to his Camden apartment, but this one was something else. Elegant, sophisticated and obviously very, very wealthy. Now he was moving in more affluent circles, Diego was definitely going to have to sharpen up his act. He didn’t want anyone to think Diego Bono was just some handsome Spanish hustler on the make. Diego Bono was going places. He propped himself up on his goose-down pillows and lit a menthol cigarette. The silhouette of his partner moved towards the window to open the curtain, letting in a thin stream of late afternoon sun. Diego blew a smoke ring as he admired his companion’s taut white buttocks in the dusty light.
‘May I just say,’ announced Diego in his lightly accented European drawl, ‘you really do have the most amazing arse.’
Jonathon von Bismarck looked over to the bed and started to pull on his crumpled chinos. ‘Yes,’ he replied coolly, giving Diego a thin, arrogant smile, ‘I know.’
Venetia looked at Diego Bono’s sketches, which were strewn across her desk, and smiled. Gosh, this young designer straight out of the Royal College of Art was such a find, she beamed to herself. The designs were perfect for the Venetia Balcon line of women’s wear she was planning to launch in September: clean, casual lines with a hint of preppiness. Cotton jackets with nipped in waists, sheath dresses with slashed necklines and lightweight cashmere sweaters in candy colours. It all added up to a classic jet-set look, Britain’s answer to Michael Kors’ sexy New York chic – exactly the vibe she was after.
She pinned up a drawing on the wall and looked around the office, which was on the top floor of the four-storey Georgian house in Mayfair’s Bruton Street. The first two floors were retail space, selling fine textiles, beautiful crystal, bedding, curtains, soft furnishings and beautiful, handcrafted pieces she had sourced from France, the third floor was their bespoke interior design department and, while she dreamt of turning the fourth floor into the fashion floor, for the moment it was Venetia’s studio.
She sat back in her leather chair and took in the creative chaos with an affectionate look. Venetia Balcon Limited was becoming quite an empire, she thought happily. Swatches of Venetia Balcon fabrics covered the sofa at one end of the room, silver paint pots containing the new Venetia Balcon paint range were piled in another corner, and fine wallpaper, curtains and piles of bedding in soft deluxe fabrics were draped across the big oak table in the centre. But it was the clothing line she was most excited about. Along with Kelly Hoppen and Nina Campbell, Venetia was fast establishing herself as one of the country’s top interior designers. Ever since her days at Vogue, fashion had always been her passion. She admired the way Ralph Lauren and Jasper Conran had created a huge lifestyle empire out of a line of clothes. If they had gone from fashion to homeware, why couldn’t she do it the other way round? She knew the yummy-mummies and bored housewives from Chelsea to Clapham were desperate for a touch of the Venetia Balcon vision of life and she was more than willing to provide it for them. At a price, she smiled.
She took a swig of strong coffee and decided that she’d been working so hard, it wouldn’t hurt to clock off early for the afternoon. She casually flipped through her diary to check she was free. Damn! There was an appointment pencilled in. Jack Kidman? Who on earth was that? She picked up the phone to call her assistant, Leila.
‘Leila – Jack Kidman? Remind me who he is again. Apparently I’ve got a meeting with him in five minutes, but I’m due for a facial in an hour.’
‘You asked me to pencil in a meeting with him after Serena’s party,’ replied Leila anxiously. ‘Friend of one of the guests, I think.’
Venetia groaned. Now she remembered. Amanda Berryman, the PR who looked after Venetia Balcon homeware had asked her to meet one of her friends, some ex-advertising guy who had bought a house in Spain and was looking for an interior designer for the renovation project. She glanced at her watch. Why on earth had she agreed to see him? It wasn’t as though she particularly needed the business. Her diary was already fit to burst with international private and corporate clients, all eager for her style overhauls in their homes or offices. She had got to the stage where she would only personally look after a select handful of projects, farming the rest out to Caroline Rhodes, a young but talented interior stylist she had poached from Kelly Hoppen. And I think Caroline will be the one heading out to Jack Kidman’s holiday home, thought Venetia.
‘Leila?’ she asked, picking up the phone again. ‘Can you see if Caroline is available to take an appointment with me?’
‘’Fraid not, Venetia. She left about half an hour ago on appointments. And Jack Kidman has arrived. Shall I send him up?’
Cursing to herself, she glanced in the huge Venetian glass mirror on one side of the room and settled behind her desk, resigning herself to another grinding meeting. Admen. Cocky, arrogant, swaggering buggers, most of them. Didn’t know good taste if it slapped them in the face. She was certainly going to need that facial.
‘Venetia Balcon?’
A tall, handsome man in his early forties, with the louche, casual air of the very successful, strode into her office.
‘That’s me,’ she smiled, standing up and smoothing down her skirt unconsciously. For a second, she felt guilty sizing up her new client. His shoulders were broad, his salt-and-pepper hair offset by a smooth, tanned complexion and a pair of twinkling dark green eyes. Only a slightly off-centre nose – perhaps a sports injury? – tempered the good looks. She took another sip of coffee to distract herself.
Jack nodded to Venetia, but walked towards the French windows that went out onto the roof terrace.
‘Nice room,’ he said, ‘what a great place for a studio.’
He walked back in and shook her hand, his grip strong and firm, and sat down quickly, drumming his hand on his leg and taking in the space with darting eyes.
Venetia started smiling.
‘What’s