Power Games. Victoria Fox

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      Jacob headed for his booth, thinking the Rieux was at least a fresher vibe than that stodgy Boston gala. It had been worth it to get the Boy Scout points, but the whole thing had been a ball-ache. Pop embryo Kevin Chase had been up in his grill all night, and now it transpired Kevin’s people wanted to set up a meeting. Was the kid gay? No big wow if so. Jacob affected both sexes. As it went he had dabbled with men, the odd hand job, the odd coked-up grope. One guy at Frat College had even sucked him off—he could still recall the sweat smell in the men’s locker room, the sticky bench, the graze of stubble against his nut sac and the man’s hot, strained breath, and, if he were honest, it still kind of turned him on. End of the day, though, he preferred pussy.

      ‘Watch where you’re going, asshole!’

      Jacob held his hands up. The woman had appeared from nowhere, stepping straight into his path. Her hair smelled like coconut. Her blue eyes were scowling.

       Whoa.

      Instantly his cock stiffened. Who was that?

      But, of course, Jacob already knew. Who didn’t?

      Tawny Lascelles. He had thought she was fine, but up close the supermodel was unlawfully gorgeous. He had to have her. There was no question.

      Long tanned legs in a pair of cute, butt-clinging shorts, killer black heels and a mane of blonde hair that tumbled round her shoulders. Her eyes were enormous.

      Her blouse was loose and he could tell that she wore no bra. He wondered what her nipples were like, and imagined them to be pink and satiny, the sort of nipple that took up most of a small breast, until he tasted one in his mouth and licked till it hardened, shrinking and puckering between his teeth …

      ‘Sorry,’ he flashed a wicked smile, ‘didn’t see you.’

      ‘Obviously not.’

      She had thick, dark eyebrows and he wanted to know if she had a thick, dark bush to match, and if he asked her whether she’d slap him or let him eat it.

      ‘I’m Jacob.’

      ‘I know who you are.’

      ‘Likewise. Wanna get out of here?’

      He yearned to film her. Watch it again and again. Get her from every angle.

      The scowl hardened. ‘You think I’m easy?’

      ‘Are you?’

      ‘Bite me.’

      ‘Love to.’ He blocked her path. ‘Come on,’ he chanced, ‘let me take you back to mine and I’ll make you come so many times you pass out.’

      ‘Thanks, I already have a date.’

      ‘Lose him.’

      ‘So you can continue charming me out of my knickers?’

      ‘I don’t think you’re wearing any.’

      Tawny was outraged. ‘Fuck off.’

      ‘Trust me. I’m the best you’ll ever have.’

      ‘I sincerely doubt it.’

      He watched her, black eyes on blue, until she looked away.

      ‘Hey, baby, what’s going on?’

      Jacob flinched as Lilly-Sue returned to his side. On seeing the famous model she raised herself a little taller. Tawny looked between them.

      ‘Prick,’ she muttered, before melting off and getting lost in the crowd.

      Tawny posed for a flurry of photographs before ditching her date, vanishing into the Mercedes and zooming back to the Four Seasons. Her skin was crawling and she scratched furiously, nearly drawing blood, her manicured nails working so fast against her arm that her driver, normally too timid to speak, asked with trepidation: ‘Are you all right, Ms Lascelles?’

      ‘Mind your own fucking business,’ she snapped back, tugging down the sleeves on her jacket, ‘and keep driving. Isn’t that what I pay you for?’

      The dividing glass slid up.

       Shit!

      Jacob Lyle was a handsome bastard. Just the kind of man she had used to entertain—rich, pampered, polished rich boys with a lust for domination.

      And a lust for the rest …

       It’s over! Don’t think of it!

      But she couldn’t help it. Some men brought it rushing back. They reminded her of the bad times. Jacob Lyle was one of them.

       Jacob’s a cocky sonofabitch.

      It was the look in his eyes—of greed, of ownership, of entitlement; Tawny had faced it more times than she cared to mention. Though admittedly that sort had been rare for her: more often she would be landed with squalor; dirty, grimy vagrants who demanded all manner of degeneracy. Jacob represented those rare prizes they had all prayed for when the gates opened. Bored money, the girls used to tag them, sailing in after their city dealings and power lunches to splash a few bills on a stripper or three.

       Dancer, remember? Not a stripper.

      If only that was the worst bit. It wasn’t.

      The worst bit was the way Jacob had appraised her.

      How it still had the power to turn her on …

      Tawny hated herself, but it had excited her: that flash in his eyes, the spark of desire. She would never tire of it as long as she lived. The need for male approval was stitched into her fibre, as vital to her as blood. Where she came from, beauty equalled attention, attention equalled cash—and cash equalled the ultimate prize: freedom.

      Was she free now?

      Tawny recalled the crisp exchange of bills like it was yesterday, the loose tug of a tie and the hush of material as it fell to the floor. The scent of aftershave and cigars, brandy on breath; and the cold, clammy press of skin against hers …

      Back at the hotel, she hurried up to her penthouse and ran a deep bath. She filled it with salts and lotions, syrups and tonics, anything to scrub the horrors away.

      Tawny soaked in the water until she met the cusp of sleep.

       Forget it.

       Those days can’t catch you now.

      It was gone, it was over—and anyway, she never had to see Jacob Lyle again.

       8

       Rome

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