Power Games (7 page)

It was ever since his involvement with a world-changing social network site that his personal profile had rocketed. A young entrepreneur by the name of Leith Friedman had pitched his idea for an online hub whereby friends and followers could travel-share. It was smart, clean and most importantly green: a security-screened, 100% legitimised, twenty-first-century hitchhiking. Jacob had known how to make it fly: money and balls—and since Leith was lacking in both departments (especially the latter, but then he was a computer programmer), he had pushed for a sixty–forty split. OK, so he’d be getting more than half the business, but there wouldn’t
be
a business without him, just some fat kid sitting in his bedroom jerking off into his babysitter’s panties.

MoveFriends had been born—
Join the Ride
, ran the strapline—and both Jacob and Leith, in the space of eighteen months, had become billionaires. Since then Jacob had been invited onto every talk show, to attend every party, to speak on every panel, and last month had been summoned to the White House to meet the president. He had addressed a group of post-grad entrepreneurs in a scheme set up by the Republican
senator Mitch Corrigan. After the show Jacob had nailed two blondes in the cleaning closet, both of whom had certainly known what to do with his rich investment.

‘You totally messed me up,’ Lilly-Sue purred as they arrived at Hollywood’s Rieux Lounge, patting the back of her head and throwing him a naughty smile.

They exited the car and were hit by a barrage of sound.

‘Jacob! Lilly! Give us a smile!’

Lilly-Sue primed and posed for the cameras, holding his hand and nuzzling his neck. Jacob decided he would dump her. She was a decent screw but way too clingy.

Kiss my cock and tell it you love it. Just don’t tell me.

He dragged her through the doors. The Rieux was LA’s number-one spotlight. Everyone who was anyone got photographed. Many a wasted selfie got tweeted in the small hours, only to be rapidly deleted by management next morning. Heavy beats thrummed. Bodies wound. VIP spaces were roped off, flanked by security.

Without warning Lilly-Sue pulled him into a toilet cubicle and gave him his second blowie of the evening. As Jacob watched her tongue attending to his hard-on, he leaned back against the marble and felt faintly bored. Truth was, he could only operate on half a tank unless there was a camera in the room. Shit, he knew it was wrong but he was a sucker for the buzz. He was as addicted to this as he was to the kick of investment. The one thing that turned Jacob Lyle on more than horny girls was watching horny girls fuck—more specifically, watching horny girls fuck him. As a result he had his personal cars, and several classified suites across town, rigged. He kept a record of every encounter. From Amy through Zara, the library grew and grew.

Was it legal? He wasn’t sure, but Jacob showed them a fine enough time to not feel totally bad about it—always they left
with dreamy-eyed avowals that they had never spent a night (or morning, or afternoon, or any time of the day, really) like it.

The girls wouldn’t find out. Nobody would.

After all, he was Jacob Lyle—and Jacob Lyle was invincible.

Lilly-Sue stood, wiped her mouth and kissed his face off, which was kind of gross because she tasted of his come. They emerged from the bathroom and she spotted a friend, from here just a squealing flap of arms, and sprang off to join her.

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

E
ve Harley lifted her head from the toilet bowl in her suite at the Villa Maestro and groaned. Why did she feel so ill? All week she had been waking early, making a mad dash for the bathroom, and it was near impossible to keep food down.

Was it something she ate? Was she sick?

She ought to have consulted a doctor before flying, but couldn’t bring herself to. It was a weak excuse, but still. She had seen too many of them, been inside too many hospitals. The antiseptic, the white coats, the plastic chairs in the waiting room while she and her mum had braced themselves to be seen, armed with a new tank of lies …

‘
Are you sure you should go?
’ her editor had asked the day before, taking in her waxy complexion and sunken eyes. ‘
You look terrible.
’

Eve was damned if a bout of nausea was going to stop her doing her job. She was yet to take a sick day in her life; she didn’t believe in them. Often she got teased that she would be working on her deathbed. It was only half a joke.

If there was even a sniff of a lead then she wasn’t letting anyone else reach the payload first. American senator Mitch Corrigan was one such assignment. Last month Eve
had interviewed him on an imminent presidency campaign, and she remembered being seriously unnerved by his veneer. OK, so all politicians had one, but there was something about Mitch Corrigan’s that sat more uncomfortably than most. Throughout their exchange Eve had noticed the splinters in his smooth disguise: eyes that darted, a twitchy knee, then the façade would slip seamlessly back into place and he would deliver yet another perfectly rehearsed answer. She didn’t buy it for a second.

Now the senator had come to Italy, and it seemed he was doing all he could to keep the trip under wraps. Orlando Silvers had supplied the tip-off, in exchange for her spinning an effusive piece on Angela’s new label (Orlando liked to make out that he didn’t dote on his sister: Eve thought it sweet that he did). Corrigan’s every move was publicised to the hilt ahead of his White House bid—except for this one. For some reason, the Republican didn’t want them following him here.

The senator was intriguing, no doubt about it. Eve intended to find out why.

She cleaned up, took a brisk shower and snatched her bag.

No time to be ill. There was work to be done.

It was a struggle to keep the Jeep in her sights as they roared east out of the city.

The February sky was slate-grey, the autostrada darker still, throwing up spray from the vehicles in front. Senator Corrigan’s Jeep was going at speed, switching lanes without warning and then abruptly ducking out on the exit to Ferentino. It was important Eve kept a safe distance—she did not want to give herself away.

They peeled off onto a winding, deserted road. She held
back, careful only to take a corner once the Jeep had a chance to move out of sight. Hulking trees dripped darkly and the sky thickened, bowed with the deluge it was set to unleash. Her hired Fiat’s wipers jammed and momentarily she was blinded, the taillights up front her only beacons before the feeble swish resumed. She kept her headlamps dipped.

An animal shot out of the verge. Eve swerved, almost losing control, her nearside tyres scuffing the ridge of a ditch. She slammed on the brakes, the steering wheel spinning wildly in her hands, and abruptly came to a stop. The Jeep had vanished. Flooring the gas once more, Eve bombed along the slick road, determined not to lose her trail, and then, just as she was starting to fear Corrigan was long gone, a stain bled out of the mist: brake lights, far ahead. The Jeep was slowing, taking a turn into a bank of trees. As she came close, Eve saw it was a narrow dirt track, concealed behind a screen of leaves and just wide enough for the car to slip through.

Further up the road was another vehicle, a red Golf, parked at an angle.

She slowed and climbed out. The rain took seconds to soak through her jacket, matting her hair and chilling her to the bone. It was silent apart from the steady, gentle patter of raindrops. A bird cawed. Dark wings flapped.

Eve picked her way along the track. It was tricky under her Converse and pimpled with potholes, rocks and foot-deep puddles, but she couldn’t risk being picked up on the sound of an engine. At last, beyond a final twist, she caught the hush of a distant, murmured exchange. She tried to decipher what was being said.

There followed a mechanical scrape, like a gate opening.

Eve gave it several minutes before advancing. Concealed in the trees, she watched from afar. Wherever Senator Corrigan had come to, it was high security.

A hundred yards or so from where she hid, armed guards in military dress were pacing a mesh-wire blockade. Clumpy boots crunched on the wet ground. Every so often their radios crackled and a response was uttered. At each end of the barrier was a makeshift hut, housing further lookouts. The track continued beyond.

What was this place? No signposts off the road, no risk of pedestrians taking a stroll out in the middle of nowhere and stumbling across a hidden garrison.