Guilty Pleasures (15 page)

In the luxurious bedroom of Alliance’s Knightsbridge company flat, which was ostensibly kept for visiting senior management, Cassandra was doing her own brand of corporate entertaining. Kneeling between Oscar Braun’s pale thighs she focused all her attention on his considerable cock. As her long fingers closed around the base of his shaft she slowly, expertly, moved her mouth from his velvety tip down its entire rock-hard length, feeling it pulse between her ripe lips. Hearing Oscar groan, she looked up over his gently undulating stomach. He was lying flat out on the bed, his face strained with concentration, close to the edge.

Time to get this over with,
thought Cassandra, unfastening the white bra from the Forden lingerie collection she had worn specifically: Oscar was chief executive of the brand, and it was only right that he did a little market research every now and then. She tipped her toned body towards his face, dipping one erect nipple into his greedy mouth.

‘Do you like it?’ she whispered, guiding his throbbing cock into her, knowing she was taking him to the brink.

‘If there’s one thing you can do, Cassandra, it’s fuck,’ he panted in perfect English.

She rotated her hips, moving him deeper inside her, arching her back, her arms behind her, fingernails trailing up the inside of his thigh. Finally, he bucked into her, crying out in German, before collapsing back onto the sheets, barking out an amazed laugh.

Cassandra reclined on the buckwheat pillow, her firm breasts pointing towards the ceiling, and poured herself a glass of water from the bottle on the bedside table.

She had swapped business cards with Oscar at the Paris
Rive
party and had enjoyed playing phone-tag with the dark-eyed Austrian until he was next in London. But the breakfast meeting arranged at the Berkeley Hotel had not turned out exactly as Cassandra has hoped. Whenever Cassandra mentioned the thorny issue of Forden pulling their advertising budget, Oscar simply changed the subject.

By the time she had finished her pot of white jasmine tea, she had decided on a different tack and had started to brush her stockinged foot against his leg under the table. Three hours on from that breakfast, she had no complaints about Oscar’s performance in bed; she’d genuinely almost come. For Cassandra, that was satisfaction. Slightly recovered, Oscar crawled up the bed to lie next to her.

‘I shouldn’t have expended so much energy,’ she said, lighting a cigarette, ‘I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. Getting Forden clothes into
Rive.’

Oscar simply smiled and stroked her cheek.

‘Incidentally,’ she said turning to face him, ‘Jason Tostvig said there might be a problem with Forden advertising in the second half of the year.’

Oscar paused slightly before answering.

‘It’s true we are cutting down on our advertising budget for that period,’ he said distractedly. ‘You’ll have to speak to our marketing director to discuss it any further.’

‘Really? I was under the impression that all orders came from you.’

He stepped out of bed, naked except for his chunky gold Rolex and started putting on his boxer shorts which had been jettisoned onto the chair.

‘Honestly, Cassandra, if this little interlude has all been about advertising, then I think I’ve been right about moving the brand from
Rive,’
he said with cruel amusement. ‘The editor is the embodiment of the magazine. I think it’s starting to look a little cheap, don’t you?’

‘Cheap?’ hissed Cassandra. ‘Do you know how many pieces of editorial Forden have had in the last twelve months in
Rive?
Do you know how much that is worth in commercial terms?’

Turning around, he gave her a cool gaze. ‘Darling, I really don’t count those little mentions in the retail pages, or a tit-bit in the
fashion news to keep us happy. How many times have you featured our skirts, jackets or pants in the main fashion stories?’

Well, perhaps if your stuff wasn’t so hideous,
thought Cassandra,
maybe there might be a few more.
It was true that Forden had barely featured in the magazine for years, but the bottom line in magazines was profit, over 70 per cent of which came from advertising. And Cassandra simply could not afford to lose a quarter of a million pounds worth of Forden’s money, even if their clothes were laughably frumpy.

‘How many times? Once,’ said Cassandra, calmly stubbing out her cigarette.

‘I see. Well, Cassandra my dear, we don’t advertise for your good health, but my company’s,’ said Oscar evenly. ‘Over the last five years we have spent 1.5 million pounds in your magazine and yet we have received only a handful of significant credits. Need I remind you that fashion advertising keeps your magazine alive? Editors who forget that tend to have a very short shelf life.’

‘You and I both know it’s not that simple,’ said Cassandra, shrugging off the threat. She eyed him shrewdly, however. If she had thought Oscar would be a pushover, she was wrong. ‘Everyone knows that simply being in the pages of
Rive
is endorsement enough. Our readers more than any others come to our magazine for the advertising as much as the editorial – when they see Forden ads in
Rive,
they accept that we have chosen to run those ads because we are giving the products our tacit approval. We don’t let any old brand buy their way into
Rive.
’

She wanted to tell him the truth, of course. That with the clothes his company was producing, he would simply be pouring those millions down the drain and that it would take more than pretty ads to be a Chanel or YSL. For that, you had to design and produce beautiful, luxurious things that people would kill to wear, but you also had to go even further, to create a fantasy world that would transform the wearer and transport them to a different place altogether. For that, you needed to have some style. But she thought she would save that information for a consultancy fee. Cassandra lay on her side and watched as Oscar dressed. If he thought he had won this particular battle, she would see how he dealt with this little broadside: ‘Have a nice time with Karoline at the opera tonight.’

Oscar looked over at Cassandra, his eyes lingering on her naked skin.

‘You’re well informed.’

She saw the nervousness in his eyes at the mention of his wife.

‘She told me when I spoke to her yesterday,’ smiled Cassandra.

‘Incidentally darling, I am chairing a Charles Worth exhibition at the V&A. We need a very connected committee of members and I thought Karoline would be perfect. I’m meeting her for talks on Friday. I told her to keep it all quiet until we’d firmed everything up.’

There was no mistaking Cassandra’s implication. She let it sink in for a moment. Married men always took their lovers too lightly, thinking only with their poor neglected cocks until it was far too late. If there was one thing men feared, it was a vengeful wife and this was compounded in Oscar’s case, as Forden was owned by his wife’s family. While Karoline Braun preferred to devote herself to child-rearing in a big schloss near Salzburg, her husband had taken on the role of Chief Executive and he wouldn’t want to lose that. Suddenly Cassandra felt aroused by the power she had over him and stretched out her legs longingly.

Oscar was quiet for a minute, busying himself in the mirror with a complicated tie knot.

‘Now, what were we saying about the advertising?’ he said calmly.

Cassandra’s wide mouth twitched with just the suggestion of a smile. She walked up behind Oscar, undid his cravat and tied it for him again.

‘I think you were saying that you were looking at increasing your spend substantially over the next year, possibly tying Forden into a long-term deal. Maybe a solus deal. I think you had realized that our two companies could have a special relationship. I think “special relationship” was the phrase you used.’

Cassandra gave his knot a final tug and stood back, satisfied with her handiwork.

‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ she said, walking naked into the bathroom, ‘I must go and shower.’

Forty minutes later, Cassandra pressed the bell next to the door of a grand Belgravia townhouse.
I should have a fuck before every important meeting,
she thought, feeling her skin prickling with the power of sex. She was shown into a wide, light kitchen at the back of the house with a view of the long tree-lined garden through the French windows. This was the impressive London home of AtlanticCorp chief executive Charles Dyson, the man in charge of
over fifty newspapers around the world. It was no secret that AtlanticCorp was launching a weekly fashion magazine in the States, a big-selling US equivalent of the weekly French
Elle.
And after Guillaume Riche had told Cassandra that the editor-in-chief heading up the project was about to be let go, she’d told Guillaume to use his contacts and leverage to let AtlanticCorp know that Cassandra Grand would be a superior replacement.

‘I hope you don’t mind meeting me at home,’ said Charles, sitting down opposite Cassandra at a large, rustic kitchen table and pouring coffee. ‘I get paranoid having meetings in hotels and restaurants. Even in the most obscure places you always seem to be spotted by someone. And it would never do for us to be seen together, would it?’

‘Certainly not,’ agreed Cassandra.

‘I took the opportunity of ordering lunch. I hope you haven’t eaten,’ said Charles while a chef, complete with white uniform and tall hat, brought out lobster rolls and teriyaki beef. They made small talk, both gently flirting, politely probing, neither giving anything away. When the meal had been cleared, Charles pulled a large leather portfolio from behind his chair and placed it on the table in front of him.

‘You know AtlanticCorp would be very interested in having you on board for the new launch,’ he said, meeting Cassandra’s gaze.

‘What about Carrie?’

‘Let’s just say that’s not your problem. Well, this is it: Project Diamond,’ he said grandly.

Cassandra smiled. She was itching to see what they had developed. She lifted one finger towards the file, but Charles pulled it back protectively.

‘You understand that I can’t show you anything,’ said Charles, frowning. ‘Our team have spent six months putting this dummy together, it’s top secret.’

Cassandra was not to be deflected so easily. She simply shrugged.

‘Not so secret that you haven’t already presented to advertisers,’ replied Cassandra, ‘and you know what big mouths they have.’

Charles knew full well that Cassandra had enough friends in the fashion community she could ask for a full written report from each of them on what they had seen at those presentations.

Cassandra lifted a glass of mineral water to her lips. ‘Besides, you can’t even begin to expect me to give up a job like UK
Rive
to jump ship to a completely unknown entity without seeing something. I’m happy to sign a non-disclosure agreement.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘In blood, if necessary …’

‘Ink will be fine,’ smiled Charles and pulled out a document – a single sheet of paper which Cassandra scanned quickly.

‘All seems fairly standard …’ she said pulling out her fountain pen and signing her name with a flourish. ‘Now show me what you’ve got.’

She flipped through pages of shoes, bags, lipsticks, spas, and trend stories – most of it well executed but nothing that would get the industry ablaze with glaring originality. Cassandra frowned at a fashion spread featuring a stunning black model on a white horse.

‘Who is the photographer here?’

‘Arnold Marsaud.’

She lifted one eyebrow and looked up at him. ‘I know newspapers rather than magazine are AtlanticCorp’s forte. Therefore you might not fully understand that using sub-standard photographers is a false economy. It’s like trying to save money by buying cheap racehorses. They won’t win the Kentucky Derby.’

Charles shifted in his seat. He wasn’t used to having his projects criticized so openly.

‘We have a good team,’ he said defensively. ‘The features team come from a wide range of prestigious titles.’

Cassandra was not impressed.

‘Features? But this is supposedly a style magazine,’ she said frankly. ‘Fashion people are only interested in the environment the magazine produces. You have to get big-name fashion photographers in from the start or you’re finished.’

Charles paused, looking at Cassandra shrewdly.

‘I understand we seem to be having a few problems in that department.’

‘Why?’ asked Cassandra. ‘This is a fashion magazine.’

‘Which is why we are looking for someone with heavy-hitting fashion credentials to take over from Carrie’s good work.’

Good work my arse. Admit it, you made a bad appointment,
thought Cassandra.

‘Well, Giorgio and Karl are very dear friends of mine,’ said Cassandra. ‘Guillaume Riche is like a father. And I’ve just had a very productive meeting with Forden and you know how difficult they are to please.’

‘Which is precisely why we thought of you, Cassandra,’ said Charles.

Cassandra looked at the spreads again, turning them over slowly, and then closed the portfolio.

‘Well, Charles,’ she said, ‘it’s extremely flattering that you thought of me. However, I can’t just leave UK
Rive
for the editorship of Project Diamond. Entre nous the company has even bigger plans for me and I’d be a fool to leave them unless there was a considerable carrot being dangled under my nose.’

Charles’s expression did not change as he flatly mentioned a high six-figure salary that made her stop and think.

‘Well, I …’

‘Plus share options, a driver and an interest-free loan to buy a property of your choice. Home ownership is so rare in Manhattan these days. New York is such a wonderful place to work.’

Charles knew he had pressed exactly the right buttons, but Cassandra forced herself to resist.

‘I was deputy editor of US
Rive
for three years, remember,’ she smiled. ‘I love New York, but…’ She was silent for a few moments as if she was giving it consideration.

‘What I’d be really looking for is an editorial directorship, plus …’