Taken For His Pleasure. Carol Marinelli
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She looked at the Russian-red lips smiling for the cameras, and for the first time since she’d checked in Lydia smiled back.
The diversity of her career hit home: only this time last week she had been on a stake-out, dressed in a navy tracksuit, a world away from the glamour she was forced to sample now, boxed up in a supposedly abandoned van for forty-eight hours. She had watched pimps and drug dealers infesting the vulnerable with their wares, staring through the bolt holes fitted with telescopes as weary prostitutes willed the morning to come, drinking endless cups of coffee to stay awake as she made small talk and tried to cheer up Kevin Bates—an inspector on the force she regularly worked alongside, a man she both liked and admired.
Forty-eight hours confined in his company, listening to him fret about his eldest child who was having his tonsils out that week, was a world away from what she was experiencing now! A freshly squeezed orange and guava juice was the order of the day, instead of her usual flask of coffee. Now, massive marble bathrooms replaced the rudimentary portaloo in the corner of the van that she’d had to endure so they didn’t blow their cover by stepping outside.
It wasn’t just a world away, Lydia corrected herself, but an entire universe from where she was now. And for a slice of time this opulent world was the one in which she was supposed to belong, with which she had been ordered to blend in. Lydia made a vow to revel in it the same way Maria was—to live the fantasy of being obscenely rich. She’d taken the bad over and over again. For the next few days she’d enjoy the good.
‘You’re done!’ Karen’s voice was triumphant as she pulled off the towel and gown and smoothed Lydia’s hair over her shoulders. ‘I’ll get a mirror so you can see the back and sides.’
Normally for Lydia the mirror bit of a salon visit was an uncomfortable, painful experience—a mumbled thanks as she wondered how on earth she could correct the appalling creation, grappling in her purse to give a very undeserved tip as she blinked away tears. This time, however, she was trying hard to keep herself from smiling, desperately trying to remember that she was supposed to be used to this, that she was always supposed to look groomed and divine.
Staring at her profile from every angle, Lydia barely recognised herself. Her curls were a distant memory. Instead her hair shimmered in a straight silk curtain. But it wasn’t just her hair that had her mesmerised—it was the entire package! The sparkling gold of her eyes as they peered out from underneath smoky grey lids was deliciously framed by her newly darkened lashes, and even her skin seemed to glow with healthy delight, a cheeky dot of colour on the apple of each cheek drawing her gaze to the dark, sexy red of her lips.
‘Try it now.’ Karen giggled.
‘Try what?’ Lydia asked, still mesmerised by her reflection.
‘Think of your deepest, darkest secret, something that will make your toes curl with shame, and watch that make-up do its magic.’
So she did…
She relived in her mind the sheer abandonment that had doused her this morning. The stinging sensation of Anton’s kiss, the cool of his mouth, the nibble of his teeth against the wedge of her tongue. She could almost feel the steel of his erection nudging her most private place. She could almost feel herself willingly overstepping boundaries that until today had always been firmly entrenched. Staring at her reflection, Lydia envisaged what had just a short while ago seemed impossible—facing Anton Santini, confronting the man she had revealed so much of herself to, staring deep into those cruel, sensuous eyes and somehow appearing in control, portraying the cool, detached detective that she was supposed to be, somehow pretending that he hadn’t touched her so.
‘Cool as a cucumber,’ Karen enthused, and Lydia blinked back at her reflection, amazed that the therapist was right—her face was pale, not a hint of a blush darkened her cheeks. Her shoulders were creamy white against the flame of her dress and Lydia was infused with possibility…
Maybe she could pull it off.
Stare at Anton and tell him that he didn’t move her.
Tell him that the scorching intimacy they had shared hadn’t been pleasure but merely a duty—a cross she’d had to bear.
She would get through this!
And because she was supposedly rich, a mere detail like payment shouldn’t even enter her head—with a swish of her fragranced hair Lydia should stalk out. But, rummaging in her bag, she peeled off a note and pressed it into Karen’s hand. She shared a tiny smile as the woman’s fingers gleefully closed around the crumpled paper before heading out into the massive foyer, staring at her luggage being wheeled through the foyer by the bellboy. A concierge was juggling a telephone call and two rather irate Americans and attempting to catch her eye—no doubt wanting to inform her of the reservation he’d made on her behalf. But Lydia deliberately ignored him, heading over to the restaurant instead, ready to face Anton again. But on her terms this time—not as the woman he had witnessed earlier, but as the detective she was.
CHAPTER THREE
‘SHE OVERREACTS!’ Anton’s words were like pistol shots shooting across the Presidential Suite. Showered and dressed now, he wanted to get on with his day, wanted to end this ridiculous conversation and get on with his work. ‘Angelina had no business calling the police without consulting me.’
‘She tried to contact you, sir, but your telephone was turned off.’
Kevin Bates faced Anton and tried to bring the situation under control—Maria’s attempts to explain things had been greeted with scorn, but it was hoped the more authoritative air of an inspector might calm things down. ‘Sir, you don’t seem to understand the seriousness of the situation. As Maria has tried to explain to you, we have serious concerns about your safety…We have reason to believe that there is going to be an attempt on your life—’
‘Because of some flowers?’ Anton snapped.
‘Because of this.’ Kevin handed him a neat typewritten card.
‘It says “Welcome, Mr Santini.” What has that to do with anything?’
‘You have an excellent PA, Mr Santini. In fact, the reason we’ve been able to rule her out as a suspect is because it’s her attention to detail that has enabled us to recognise the threat. The hotel usually provides a display of native Australian flowers for the Presidential Suite…’ ‘So?’
‘These flowers were delivered to the hotel last night. They were ordered from a florist down the road and paid for in cash. The card was already typed up.’
‘By who?’
‘The florist can’t remember—after all it wasn’t a particularly unusual request. What is unusual, Mr Santini, is that an identical card and lilies were delivered to the hotel you were staying at in Spain six months ago, when you were shot at.’
‘I was not shot at,’ Anton countered. ‘The police decided at the time it was a gangland fight I was caught up in. I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was just bad luck.’
‘At the time, it appeared so.’ Kevin nodded. ‘However, Angelina gave a very detailed statement to the Spanish police—at the time of the shooting she was in her room, attending to correspondence. She should have been with you. Flowers had been delivered and she couldn’t work out who they had come from—a seemingly insignificant detail, so insignificant that when flowers were delivered to your hotel room in New York still it didn’t seem relevant…’
‘I was nearly run over in New York…’ Realisation was starting to hit, and his hand raked through his hair as he recalled the details. ‘A car came straight at me, accelerating as it did so. I jumped just in time. My shoulder was dislocated but I knew I’d been lucky—the police said…’
‘Wrong place, wrong time?’ Kevin offered, and Anton nodded.
‘These flowers are a calling card, Mr Santini. A warning that we have to take seriously. You’ve also been getting some nuisance calls, I believe?’
‘A