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‘Really, darling, you’ll do it for me?’ Caught up in the drama of it all, Cressida found herself welling up for real. She squeezed Imogen’s hand tightly and let out a little squeal. ‘It’ll be just like the old days again, darling,’ she said, eyes shining victoriously. ‘You really don’t know how much this means to me. Let’s order a bottle of fizz to celebrate.’ Cressida waved her hand in the air. ‘Marcello darling, a bottle of vintage Krug please … nice and chilled. We’re celebrating.’
‘Very good, Ms Lucas,’ he nodded obligingly.
‘I’m sorry, Cress,’ Imogen explained, ‘I can’t stay for champagne. I’ve got to be somewhere this afternoon and I’m driving.’ It felt somehow wrong to celebrate after what she’d just been told.
Cressida pouted.
‘Ah well, not to worry, poppet. The test shoot takes place next week in LA. Can you get away?’
Imogen nodded. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘I’ll call you with all the itinerary, flights, hotels etcetera …’
Imogen stood to leave.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I head off. The sooner I get back, the sooner I can square it all with Seb. I promise I’ll celebrate with you properly in LA. We’ll stay at the Chateaux Marmont, get trashed on cocktails, like we used to …’ her voice trailed off, sadly.
Cressida nodded, understanding.
‘You’ve saved my life by agreeing to this shoot. That’s more than enough for me.’ She looked up at Imogen’s dark, soulful eyes and her full lips, which were fixed in a pensive half smile and felt a hideous flash of guilt at deceiving her.
‘If only it were that easy,’ Imogen said, leaning in and wrapping her arms tightly around her old friend. ‘I’m here for you,’ she choked, inhaling her familiar scent deeply. ‘Till the end.’
‘I’ll call you,’ Cressida said as she watched Imogen leave the restaurant, her silky chestnut hair glimmering in the sunlight. She still had the fabulous strut, she thought as she watched her walk towards the door.
CHAPTER 4
Yasmin Belmont-Jones stretched a long, toned leg high up into the air, sighed and signalled for a crew member to come and refill her empty champagne flute.
A young, attractive deckhand duly made his way over and tried not to stare at her bronzed, firm breasts, which were proudly on display. She adjusted the ties of her Missoni bikini and tightened her matching headscarf, aware of his chaste attempts not to stare, deliberately teasing him. Go on, I dare you, she thought as she twisted her body slightly towards him affording him a better view, get a load of these babies. She watched him intently as he poured the champagne into a fresh, ice-cold crystal flute and did his best to refrain from making eye contact. He could tell this one had trouble written all over her.
Yasmin peered over her giant dark Dior sunglasses and surveyed the surrounding view with a deep sense of satisfaction. The Magus really was the most stunning boat she could have ever imagined; four polished-wood decks of luxurious, elegant living all on one state of the art 170 foot-long motor yacht. The impressive vessel boasted its own seaplane, a crew of seventeen, a heated top deck Jacuzzi, a freshwater swimming pool, twelve beautifully appointed guest suites and an exotic master suite apartment filled with antiques, embroidered silk fabrics and plush overstuffed furniture. Though he owned a rather impressive (albeit more modest) boat himself, The Magus did not belong to Lord Jeremy Belmont, rather he had won a week’s possession from his billionaire Greek shipping magnate friend, Demiris, in an exceptionally well-executed game of poker, and Yasmin Jones was determined to enjoy everything the boat had to offer.
‘Is there anything else, my lady?’ the blonde, blue-eyed deckhand asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, taking a long sip of the cool, dry liquid. ‘As a matter of fact, there is.’
He looked at her for the first time, careful to keep his eyes firmly on her neck.
‘I need you to rub some oil into my back. My husband’s taking a nap, you see, and I don’t want to burn.’
He hesitated.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, peering at him from over the top of her shades, enjoying his sense of unease.
He swallowed dryly. There was nothing he would like more than to get his hands all over her naked flesh; after all she was a total fox and clearly gagging for it. But what about the husband? He could come lumbering up the stairs at any minute and catch them. It would almost certainly cost him his job, a job he enjoyed almost as much as he needed. He sensed, however, that the ‘Lady’ stretched out in front of him was not about to take no for an answer.
‘No problem, Lady Belmont,’ he said, thinking how they were all the same, these gold-diggers who married rich men. In time, they all grew bored of spending their husband’s money and instead searched for their thrills elsewhere.
She looked up at him, her glossy lips glimmering and he imagined them around his cock.
‘Forget it,’ she said dismissively, her tone suddenly switching from flirtatious to cold in an instant. ‘That’s all, thank you.’ He hesitated for a moment, confused by her sudden turnaround. Cock-teasing bitch, he thought as he walked away, his hard-on rapidly diminishing. If he ever did get the chance to fuck her he’d make sure the pleasure would be all his.
Yasmin took another generous sip of champagne and exhaled. She stared out towards the cobalt blue Aegean Sea stretched out in front of her, mesmerised by the sunlight dancing on the ocean’s surface.
It seemed incredible to think that less than eighteen months ago Yasmin Belmont-Jones had been plain old Stacey Jones, a nobody struggling to pay the rent on her poky one bedroom flat in Croydon, South London. What’s more, when she thought about it, getting there had been far easier than she could ever have imagined.
Though Yasmin’s rise from rags to riches appeared meteoric on the surface, every detail had to be meticulously researched to ensure success. Such patience and dedication had ultimately paid off though because so far, Stacey Jones had fooled everyone.
A small, slow smile crept across her lips as she sucked deeply on her thin Vogue cigarette. A waiter appeared.
‘Lunch will be served shortly, Lady Belmont,’ he said. ‘Lord Belmont has requested that you join him on the lower deck in half an hour.’
Yasmin smiled, acknowledging his message without making eye contact.
She knew what the crew were thinking the moment she had set a French pedicured foot on board The Magus; there could only be one reason why a young, attractive woman like her could possibly be with a man like Belmont. It suited Yasmin for them to think she was little more than a gold-digging opportunist. That she could handle.
Yasmin padded barefoot across the polished deck to the edge of the boat and looked out onto the crystal blue water. The sea was as still as a pond and its tranquillity instilled a momentary calmness within her. But it was short-lived and soon replaced by a more familiar feeling of self-doubt. Since the wedding, the press had begun to show an inordinate amount of interest in her personal life. They wouldn’t have to dig too deep to uncover her true provenance.
‘Give me strength, Chloe,’ she said in soft prayer. ‘I’m doing this for you. Stay with me … stay with me.’
‘Ah, there you are, my darling.’ Lord Belmont lumbered up the last few steps to the top deck, panting and wheezing like an old boiler on its last knockings.
Yasmin spun round, startled, her thoughts interrupted.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘I thought you were sleeping.’
‘Mmm,’ he nuzzled his face into the back of her neck. ‘I managed an hour or so. But then I missed you.’ He pressed his bulk against her, willing her to feel his semi-erection. He had woken with the most impressive hard-on he’d had in years and was desperate to make good use of it.
Jeremy let his plump fingers wander up towards his wife’s new breasts. She did not resist. From experience, she knew it was best to let him get on with it. Besides, it would all be over in a matter of minutes.
He untied the sides of her Missoni bikini and let them slip to the floor, wasting no time as he thrust himself into her, his hands gripping and squeezing at her breasts. Yasmin continued to stare out onto the horizon. Her face expressionless, her mind detached from her body as he pumped away at her from behind.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ he wheezed into Yasmin’s ear, panting heavily. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it, you little minx. Let daddy show you …’ His voice began to crack, signalling that he was on the edge of orgasm. Jesus, it could’ve only been 60 seconds or so, a record even for him.
Yasmin knew what to do to finish the job.
‘Ah yes, yes, oooh, daddy, yes … show me, daddy, show me what a filthy little bitch I am …’ She smiled wryly, her eyes glazed and focused on the horizon as he groaned and coughed into climax.
‘Jesus!’ Yasmin screamed, suddenly pulling away from her husband. She ran to the edge of the boat, still naked save for a pair of ridiculously high Louboutin sandals.
‘What is it, darling?’ Belmont said, concerned, his pathetic erection withering to nothing almost instantly.
‘I saw flashes,’ Yasmin said, pointing towards the rocks. ‘Camera flashes over there.’
‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ Belmont said, alarmed. ‘The press, they must have followed us here.’
‘Oh Jeremy.’ Yasmin bit her lip, her voice thick with panic. ‘What if they’ve seen us?’
‘Put some clothes on,’ Belmont barked. ‘I’m going to get the binoculars and a bloody great shotgun!’ As he disappeared below deck, Yasmin reached for her phone inside her Gucci raffia beach tote.
‘Did you get them?’ she hissed.
‘Yes. I got them,’ the gruff voice replied. ‘And might I say you are one fit looking lady.’
‘Save it,’ Yasmin remarked. ‘Now stay where you are. He’s gone to get a gun. But don’t worry,’ she smiled cruelly, ‘I won’t let him kill you. Just do and say what we agreed and you’ll get your reward, OK?’
‘Whatever you say, my lady,’ the man said sarcastically.
Yasmin smiled triumphantly to herself as she threw her phone back into her bag. She did so love it when a plan came together.
CHAPTER 5
Imogen swung the steering wheel of her Bentley Continental CTG sharply to the right, the tyres making a satisfactory sound as they met with gravel, and pulled into the underground garage of her impressive 7-bedroom house on Chelsea Square. Switching the engine off, she took out the folded A4 piece of fax paper from her Fendi tote and read it over again.
‘L’ORELIE PHOTOSHOOT – LA CALL SHEET’
Her eyes scanned the photographer’s details in bold type: Mylo: 001 213 5570581.
He was obviously way too cool and important to need a surname she thought, allowing herself to feel the first flutters of excitement.
Imogen had put off talking to Seb about the shoot for long enough, telling herself she needed to get her own head around the whole business before braving the inevitable showdown with her husband. She was due to fly to LA next week.
She checked her Cartier watch. It was coming up for 5:00 p.m. She would catch Seb just before the Lamberts arrived. That way the conversation would have to be kept short, tactically avoiding a full-blown argument. The thought did nothing to help disperse the knot of dread in the pit of her stomach though.
‘Let the fun commence!’ she said under her breath as she opened the car door.
*
Sebastian Forbes, Imogen’s husband of some thirteen years, was sitting at the island breakfast bar of the couple’s bespoke Clive Christian kitchen sipping espresso from a small white cup, his head buried in a copy of The Financial Times. Her car keys made a startlingly loud clatter as she dropped them into the Lalique glass bowl positioned on top of the highly polished granite work surface. He did not look up.
She noticed Seb was dressed in his Lacoste tennis whites instead of his usual suited work attire. He’d obviously been on the courts, unusual for him this time of the day, she thought.
‘Afternoon, Seb,’ she said breezily.
‘Imogen,’ he acknowledged her with disinterest, continuing to read.
She slung her Fendi tote onto the breakfast bar and kicked off her Tod’s driving shoes, padding across the marble floor towards the stainless steel American fridge.
Her heart was knocking against her ribs as she opened the double doors, wondering briefly if a gin and tonic might help steady her nerves, deciding it probably wouldn’t and opening a bottle of chilled Evian instead.
‘Good day?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered evenly, continuing to speed read. ‘I thrashed Damien on the courts. Had him darting all over the place. Thought the old bastard was going to have a heart attack at one point.’
‘The Lamberts are here already?’ She was surprised.
Sebastian finally looked up at her.
‘Oh, for Chrissakes Imogen, don’t tell me you’d forgotten they were coming for the weekend?’ he said crossly.
The weekend? She knew about dinner but the weekend?
‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten,’ she lied. Her husband was obviously in a caustic mood and she felt her earlier confidence diminish.
‘I’ve had Jalena prepare the master guest suite – everything’s in order. Look, I told you all this last week,’ he snapped irritably.
Imogen frantically tried to recall. She felt sure he hadn’t mentioned that the Lamberts were coming to stay.
‘I … well, I’ve had a lot on my mind …’
Sebastian drained his cup and snorted derisively.
‘Well, yes,’ he sneered. ‘It must be terribly taxing deciding what to wear for lunch every day.’
Imogen felt her hackles rise. He had no idea.
‘This weekend is important to me, Imogen,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want it messed up, OK?’
She hated it when he made a point of using her name, like a father chiding a child. And why was he so bothered about the Lamberts all of a sudden? He usually did his level best to put off their annual visit, let alone have them stay for the whole weekend. She was suspicious.
‘Are they here now, the Lamberts?’ she enquired. She knew she would lose her nerve if she had to wait out the entire weekend before telling him about the shoot. It was now or never.
‘They’ll be back here at 7:00 p.m. They’ve gone to see a musical in the West End,’ he said, pulling a face. Sebastian detested musicals. ‘The chef’s coming at 6:00 p.m. to prepare.’
‘Chef?’ Imogen recoiled in shock. For the Lamberts? He usually reserved such extravagant gestures for VIPs only – a category of which the Lamberts most certainly did not fall into, at least not as far as he was concerned.
‘Yes, darling, you know, they cook food and shout a lot – a chef. I told you.’ He looked at his wife crossly and wondered what the hell went on in that beautiful, empty head of hers.
Now he came to think of it though, perhaps he had forgotten to mention that part to her. The chef idea had been somewhat of an inspired afterthought, the pièce de résistance in his grand plan to seduce the Lamberts. Sebastian knew it would impress his epicurean friend – it had bloody well better, it was costing him a small fortune.
She watched as he began to fold his paper up into a neat square.
‘I’m taking a shower then I need to make a few calls.’ He made to stand, signalling the end of the conversation. ‘I’ll be in my office. I’ve told Jalena and the rest of the staff to prepare the orangery for dinner and give the chef free run of the kitchen.’ He turned to leave.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me how my week has been?’ Imogen said quickly in a clumsy attempt to stall him.
Sebastian rolled his eyes facetiously. ‘Oh darling, do forgive me. Did someone have a handbag party to end all handbag parties?’
Imogen smirked. She would enjoy this.
‘Guess who I saw for lunch the other day?’ she chirped casually.
‘Do tell?’ he sighed impatiently.
‘Cressida Lucas,’ she said slowly.‘You remember her, don’t you?’
The room fell silent and she heard the buzzing of electricity as it pulsed through the giant impressive silver William V chandelier above them. She felt a brief rush of satisfaction as she caught a flicker of panic on his face.
