A Dangerous Game (34 page)

"And don't be too long."

She took the box without a word, and went out into the corridor.
 
One

door stood half open.
 
She went through it and found herself in an

old-fashioned bathroom, with a huge bath standing on clawed feet, and

brass pipes running round the walls.

The floor tiles were black and white squares, and there was a

full-length mirror fixed on the wall.

She opened the box.
 
The first thing she took out was a bright, red

blouse, made of a shiny material.
 
It had a deep scoop neckline, and

was liberally deco rated with frills.
 
She held it against her body,

not sure whether to laugh or be angry.
 
The next item was a very short

skirt made of imitation leather, with a buttoned front.
 
Then she found

a pair of silky black stockings with fancy seams, a leather-look

suspender belt, and some black patent shoes with absurdly high stiletto

heels and narrow ankle straps.

She did not need an explanatory note to know that he wanted her to put

these clothes on.
 
She looked round the room, wondering if there were

any hidden spy holes Was he watching her?
 
She thought not.
 
There

would be no point.
 
He was going to see all he wanted of her very

soon.

She removed her dress, and hesitated about her bra.
 
Another look at

the red blouse confirmed that it was not designed to be worn with any

kind of underwear.
 
She picked up the suspender belt, and then looked

in the mirror.
 
Her plain, stretch cotton briefs looked absurdly

prim.

After a moment, she slipped them off.
 
Clearly this outfit did not go

with functional Calvin Klein underwear.
 
She rolled on the stockings,

spent some time straightening the seams, then stepped into the tight,

button-fronted skirt.
 
Finally she strapped on the high-heeled shoes.

They were an excellent fit.

She practised walking in the shoes they were much higher than she had

ever worn before, and then stopped in front of the mirror.
 
Her hair

was still folded into a neat French pleat.
 
She loosened it and let it

fall to her shoulders.
 
Almost without thinking, she adjusted the

blouse so that the neckline exposed most of her breasts, then posed

with one hand on her hip, her legs apart, forcing the lower buttons on

the fake leather skirt to pop open.

You look like a tart, she thought, amused at her unfamiliar image.
 
She

knew this was exactly what Nicolas intended.
 
It was another way of

exerting control.
 
He had turned her into the kind of woman he felt

comfortable with.
 
A woman who offered herself for money.
 
A woman who

would do what she was told.
 
Sex with no ties.
 
And isn't that exactly

what I want, too?
 
Jacey thought.
 
The fun, without the emotions?
 
She

turned, inspecting herself from all angles.
 
I'll play the whore for

Nicolas, if that's what turns him on.
 
Let's see if he likes the woman

he's created.

She walked back into the dark-walled room, even darker now that the

light outside was failing, and saw Nicolas still lounging in the

armchair.
 
Now he had a bottle and a whisky glass on the table next to

him.
 
She posed in front of him, the same pose that she had tried out

in the mirror.

"Is this outfit supposed to be a present for me?"
 
she asked sweetly.

"Or for you?"

He took his time inspecting her.
 
Finally he said:

"For both of us.
 
Come here."

She walked towards him, the stilettos making her both shorten her

stride and swing her hips.
 
He stood up, and caught hold of the

waistband of her skirt.

"You've got this on the wrong way," he said.

"Turn around."

She turned, and he tugged the skirt round her, so that the buttons

ended up at the back.
 
She felt him opening them, and the cleft between

her buttocks was exposed.

"Part your legs," he ordered.

She obeyed.
 
He traced the division between her cheeks, following it

down from the base of her spine until it curved between her thighs.

"Do you like dressing up?"
 
he asked softly.

"Most women do."
 
He pulled her closer until she was astride his lap.

"It's a kind of freedom, isn't it?"
 
He leant forward and reached up to

cup a breast, searching for the nipple beneath the silky, red blouse.

"Freedom to be some one else."

She felt both nipples tighten as he played with her, lightly at first,

and then harder, pinching her flesh.
 
His other hand explored between

her legs, up towards her clitoris, and she gasped sharply as his

fingers slid over her moist and sensitive flesh.
 
He rubbed her gently,

and then with increasing pressure, and she felt the familiar sensations

stirring in her body, the delightful tension, the ache for release. His

breathing quickened as he felt her react.

"It doesn't take much to turn you on, does it?"
 
he murmured.

"Not when you do that," she replied.

He laughed and stood up.
 
Somehow he managed to manoeuvre her towards

the nearest armchair, while keeping his hand between her legs.
 
She

expected him to swing her round, and maybe encourage her to use her

mouth on him, or perhaps to straddle him so that he could use his

tongue on her.
 
Instead he bent her over the arm of the chair, then

gripped her waist and hoisted her roughly upwards into the position he

wanted, her face pressed against the chair's leather seat, her bottom

jutting into the air.

His fingers returned to the moist warmth between her legs.
 
He played

with her soft flesh for a few more minutes, before he unzipped himself

and entered her, easily and quickly.
 
She was so relaxed and wet.
 
His

weight pinned her against the chair and she felt captive and

helpless.

She was surprised to realise how much she enjoyed this sensation; she

could surrender to his strength and have his total physical attention.

He half withdrew, and then thrust again, using her selfishly now,

intent on his own climax, and she heard her own gasps matching the

rhythm of his harsh breathing.

His fingers dug into her waist, holding her.
 
As his excitement mounted

she tightened her internal muscles, squeezing him each time he pulled

back.
 
At the same time she reached between her legs with one hand and

worked herself, rubbing her clit furiously, determined to indulge her

sensual self for both their pleasures.
 
She heard him groan once, then

his body began to shudder.
 
At the same time, her own climax gripped

her, and she writhed beneath him.
 
For a brief moment his full weight

crushed her, and the air rushed from her lungs in a cry of relief and

consummation.

She hardly felt him lifting her up and turning her round so that she

slumped in the chair.
 
She realised that she was panting as if she had

been running, and her hair was damp with sweat.
 
She closed her eyes

and took several deep breaths.
 
Her body relaxed.
 
Then a glass was

pushed into her hand.
 
Without thinking she took a mouthful and choked

as the fiery liquid stung her throat.
 
She heard Nicolas laugh.

"What a way to treat good Scotch whisky."

She looked up at him.
 
His face was sheened with sweat, and his hair

was dishevelled.

"I thought it was wine," she said.

He sat down opposite her, and smiled.

"That was very satisfying."
 
He swallowed a mouthful of whisky.

"As good as any whore I've ever had.

You look that part, and you act the part.
 
Very satisfying indeed."

"So why not just get the real thing?"
 
she asked.

"Why pay, when I can get it free?"
 
His eyes assessed her again.

"And where would I find a whore as good looking as you?"
 
Then he

glanced at his watch.

"You'd better get changed.
 
The car will be here for you in about five

minutes."

"You arranged it in advance?"
 
She could not keep the anger out of her

voice.

He looked surprised.

"Of course.
 
I knew how long I was going to be."

She stood up.

"That's a little cold-blooded, isn't it?"

He looked at her for a moment, and then shrugged.

"Did you expect us to sit and hold hands?"

"I expected something more than wham-bang-thank-you-ma'am," she said.

He smiled lazily.

"I seem to remember warning you not to expect a romance."

"Ten minutes or so spent talking to me would hardly constitute a

romance," she said.

He gave her a mocking smile.

"What would we talk about, Dr.
 
Muldaire?

Do you think we have anything in common?"

"Maybe," she suggested, 'we could try and find out?"

He laughed indulgently.

"Why do you women always want the illusion of a relationship?"
 
His

smile turned suddenly cruel.

"Make the most of what you have.
 
You can never be sure of how long it