‘DARLING, HOW ARE you?’ ‘Overworked and underpaid.’ Clare kissed Angela Barker on both cheeks then pulled herself back up on to the bar stool she had been occupying. Angela wriggled on to one beside her, the fact that this made the short skirt she was wearing reveal even more of her slender, shapely thighs attracting the attention of several men. ‘The usual?’ Clare asked. ‘Please.’ Clare caught the bartender’s eye and made a signal to indicate that she wanted another glass identical to the one already sitting on the bar in front of her. Angela had rung her at lunchtime and they’d agreed to meet in their regular haunt, a club tucked away in Bruton Place which was equidistant from Angela’s office and Clare’s. Angela had said it was urgent. 'So?' Clare asked. ‘What's the problem?’ ‘No problem. Just an opportunity.’ ‘So what's the opportunity?’ ‘You know that builder of yours? That hunk.’ Clare looked at Angela steadily, hoping her face gave nothing away. She hadn’t told her fri

Clare turned away from the window. Though it was in the furthermost recesses of the room and not lit directly, she could see a large, very low double bed. In the dim light she thought she could make out a figure lying on the ruffled white sheet. ‘Well, here’s to your taste in women, pal,’ Malcolm said, handing Gary and Clare their glasses. The champagne was delicious, cool and refreshing. Clare sat down next to Gary. ‘Honey, you awake?’ Malcolm shouted loudly without looking round. ‘It’s showtime.’ The figure on the bed stirred. It stretched and yawned. ‘She’s always sleeping,’ Malcolm said. ‘Hi, honey.’ The figure got up from the bed and walked into the light. She was young, probably no more than nineteen, and tall, with raven-black hair so long it hung down her back and brushed over her small but pert buttocks. Her face was long, with high cheek-bones, a large, sensual mouth and big, dark-brown eyes. She was naked apart from a pair of tiny black panties, no more than a triangl

AT EIGHT THIRTY the next morning Clare’s phone rang, waking her from a deep and apparently dreamless sleep. It was Bridget Goldsmith.‘Look Clare, I'm sorry to ask you to do this but I need you to come to Paris this morning. We've got to go over some problems with Claude.’ ‘Fine. It’s an hour ahead, right? I suppose I can be there by midday.’ Her mind had snapped into gear. 'Come straight to the office. We'll be waiting.’ 'Fine.’ Clare rolled out of bed and into the bath. In fifteen minutes she was dressed in a smart, lightweight grey suit. She drove her car to the airport, left it in the short-term car park and bought a club-class ticket to Paris on the first available flight. There was a thirty-minute wait. In the lounge she dialled her secretary's home number on her mobile phone and told her of the change of plans, asking her to call the French office and arrange for a car to meet her flight. She called Gary’s home. She hoped he’d be free tonight. She badly wanted to see him

Clare thought she could wrestle herself back under control after the initial impact, and she could have done, had Gary pulled out of her, even slightly. But he did not. Instead, his body as rigid as a board, he focussed his energy on forcing his phallus even deeper into her, his glans pressing up against the neck of her womb. His strength was such that as he arched his body like a bow, his arms straight and supporting his weight, he was actually dragging her off the bed too, her sex hooked on his cock. She had never felt him so deep, nor his body so taut. She wrapped her arms around his back, and pushed herself down on him, wanting what he wanted, her senses reeling, her orgasm breaking like a wave over the hardness impaled inside her. She rolled her head from side to side, making a peculiar baying sound she had never heard herself make before, her orgasm radiating out from her sex. It did not fade. Like a thunderstorm caught in a valley, it came round again, each streak of lightning

The guests all appeared to know where to go. They filed through a door at the back of the sitting room into a large dining room, its walls decorate with a collection of Chinese Imari plates. The vast mahogany dining table had been laid with what the Victorians called a cold collation. There was a whole salmon in aspic, a glass bowl full of crevettes — their tails hanging over its edge, several dozen oysters, plates of salami and cold meats, as well as potato, tomato, green and pasta salads. There were silver sauce boats filled with mayonnaise, cocktail sauce, and vinaigrette dressing, and baskets full of a variety of different breads. At the far end were a selection of desserts, glazed strawberry and raspbe tarts, a concoction of meringue and chocolate, and a huge mound of profiteroles as well as a crystal bowl of fresh fruit salad. Several bottles of red and white wine had been opened and stood next to sparkling solid silver cutlery, white crockery, crystal glasses and starched linen