The Ninety Days of Genevieve (11 page)

He grinned. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, pale chinos and canvas shoes. He looked stylish and relaxed.

'I might. Were you impressed?'

She decided that it was pointless and silly to lie. 'Yes. Miss Chalfont was very good.'

That shows you I know exactly who you came to watch, she thought. And I'm damned if I'm going to call her Sensei.

'She's been doing it a long time,' he said.

All right, Genevieve thought. Now you've made certain that I know you've met, and you've talked about hobbies. What else have you discussed? Taking your advertising account to Lucci's? Have you also suggested that Miss Jade Chalfont might like to be stripped and tied to your specially adapted door, and then tongued into the kind of climax that you gave to me?

The thought made her angry. Angry and jealous. She noticed that the top buttons of his shirt were undone. The white cotton contrasted with his dark tan. He wore a watch made of dull metal that Genevieve guessed was platinum. He was certainly attractive, but then so were a lot of other men. What was it that made her think of sex - want sex - whenever she looked at him? At least ifs
only
sex I think about, she told herself. I'm not in love with him. It's purely physical. An obsession. When our ninety-day agreement is over I'll forget all about him.

So why did the idea that he was interested in Jade Chalfont's hobbies annoy her? The woman was a business rival, that was all: A rival in a competition that she was going to lose. Genevieve glanced across to the demonstration arena. Jade Chalfont was standing in the centre of a circle of people, answering questions. She noticed that Sinclair's eyes were gazing in the same direction. Then he turned to her. 'Can I buy you a drink?'

She would have loved a drink, but she had a feeling he might ask Jade Chalfont to join them. Ts that an order?' she asked coolly.

'No. A civilised request. Orders come next week.'

'I have to get home/ she said. 'I've got some work to finish.'

'Housework? Can't it wait?'

'Business/ she lied.

His expression changed. 'That's all that matters to you, isn't it?'

'It's the basis of our relationship/ she replied.

He grinned crookedly. 'If you say so, Miss Loften. See you next Saturday.'

Despite her apparent cool Genevieve had spent the rest of that Saturday wondering if Sinclair had taken Jade Chalfont for a drink, and then back home, or to a restaurant or even for a pillion ride on his motorcycle. Somehow she could not imagine the super-cool, sword-wielding
sensei
wearing a mink skirt and no knickers just to please a man.

But then, she had to admit, she would never have thought she would agree to play that role either. Not that she did it to please Sinclair, she told herself. It was part of the agreement. If she enjoyed it too, that was a bonus. And yet here she was trying to work out how to please him again. What did you wear to an antiques fair hosted by a millionaire Arab - providing that really was where they were going.

She decided that as Arabs were supposed to like their women demure and ladylike (at least in public), she would dress as conventionally as possible. She pleated her hair into a knot, just loose enough to look neat without being too severe. She chose a pale-grey suit with a jacket that was feminine without over emphasising her figure, and a straight skirt that skimmed her knees. Worn over a plain silk blouse she felt it gave the right impression of chaste femininity.

Since the Arab was not going to see her underwear -and Sinclair probably was - she wore a white lace basque with a detachable bra top and briefs, a narrow garter belt and pale stockings that sheened her legs discreetly in silky grey. She had already chosen a pair of matching court shoes but when she came to put them on she hesitated. She felt she needed something to imply that she was not entirely demure. After a moment's thought she discarded the court shoes and picked out a pair of higher, much sexier grey stiletto heels. They had been an impulse buy in a sale and she had only worn them a few times, not because she did not like them but because they rarely seemed suitable for the few social events she attended.

Now, combined with her ultra-respectable suit, and coupled with her lacy underwear, she felt suitably dressed for a meeting with a presumably conventional, Eton-educated Arab millionaire with impeccable taste, and for any later activities with the decidedly unconventional and educated goodness-knows-where James Sinclair.

He arrived promptly, sounded his horn and waited for her at the kerbside. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit and a silk tie. She saw him give her a swift visual inspection and treated him to a frosty smile as he opened the passenger door for her.

'Do I get a Grade A, or do you want me to go back and change?'

'You look fine,' he said. And surprised her by adding, 'As always.'

'You don't think my shoes will shock your Arab friend?'

He laughed. 'Nothing shocks Zaid. He'll love them.'

She settled in the passenger seat and fastened her safety belt. Sinclair sat beside ^her. The car moved smoothly away from the kerb.

'Want some music?' She nodded. He pressed a button and a drawer full of tapes slid open. 'You've got a choice.'

She chose a selection of film music and the sounds of the Hugo Montenegro orchestra filled the car. Sinclair let her enjoy it, occasionally commenting on the various tracks and the films they had accompanied. They soon left the suburbs and headed for the the M25 where the Mercedes eased into the fast lane and stayed there until Sinclair turned off at Junction 8 and headed south.

After that Genevieve lost track of their direction. Sinclair drove confidently. The main roads became country roads. They passed through small villages and the Mercedes twisted and turned until it suddenly slowed and Genevieve saw large wrought-iron gates on their left.

The house was a surprise. It looked as if several Victorian architects had formed a committee to discuss its design but had never come to a unanimous decision. Its sprawling walls and balconies were thickly covered with ivy. Its massive entrance doors looked more suited to a castle, and were reached by an impressive flight of steps. A castellated tower had been added to one corner, making the whole building look slightly off balance.

'A millionaire lives here?' Genevieve was amazed. 'If I had money this isn't exactly what I'd buy.'

'Zaid doesn't own it, he rents it,' Sinclair said. 'I think it appeals to his sense of humour. And ifs rather an appropriate venue for an antiques fair. Wait until you see inside.'

There were other cars parked near the entrance steps, all of them sleekly expensive. Genevieve noted three Rolls Royces, one of them a gleaming Silver Cloud. A uniformed chauffeur sat in the driver's seat leafing through a magazine.

An impressively large gentleman who looked slightly uncomfortable in his smart suit and tie stopped them at the door. Sinclair produced a small card. The security guard glanced at it briefly, pressed a button and waited. After a moment the doors swung open and Genevieve followed Sinclair inside.

The entrance hall was oak panelled and the walls were hung with an assortment of hunting trophies. Dead stags and dead foxes stared at Genevieve. There was a massive stone fireplace and a central flight of stairs that rose to a balcony and then branched both left and right. Several people stood in small groups, talking. A waiter moved about silently with a tray of drinks.

'James, I'm delighted you could make it. I thought you'd back off and claim pressure of work.'

The man who stepped forward was slightly taller than Sinclair and a few years older, but equally slim and elegant. His jet-black hair was fashionably cut and he had a neatly trimmed beard. Combined with his darkly tanned skin it gave him a slightly satanic look. He was dressed casually in an immaculately tailored jacket and trousers, with a silk cravat tucked loosely into his open-necked shirt.

His eyes fixed on Genevieve. They were dark eyes, darker than Sinclair's. There was humour in them, and obvious appreciation. He held out his hand.

'I am Anwar Zaid ibn Mahmoud ben Hazrain. But please just call me Zaid. You must be Miss Genevieve Loften.' Genevieve shook hands. His grasp was warm and firm. He smiled, and again she was reminded of Sinclair. 'James has told me a lot about you,' Zaid added.

Genevieve glanced sideways at Sinclair. He raised one eyebrow and shrugged. But there was the trace of a smile on his lips and she immediately felt suspicious. Why had he found it necessary to tell this undeniably attractive man anything about her? She was supposed to be just a visitor, viewing the antiques.

'James will show you everything,' Zaid said, 'and afterwards, I hope we'll see each other again.' He turned to Sinclair.
'Everything,
James. You understand?'

'If you say so,' Sinclair said. 'And I thought you would.'

Zaid laughed. 'You know me far too well. Better than my own brother. And certainly better than my wife.' He gave Genevieve another charming smile and then turned to greet another guest.

Sinclair took Genevieve's arm. 'What would you like to see first? China? Glass? Paintings? Toys?'

'Obviously I'm going to see
everything,'
Genevieve said pointedly. 'Whatever that means.'

'You'll find out what it means/ Sinclair said. 'Later.'

'And where's Zaid's wife?'

'Where all good wives should be/ he grinned. 'At home.'

'So your friend has a Western education, and medieval ideas?'

'Zaid probably thinks our idea of marrying for love is medieval. He sees marriage as a commitment to the future. His sons will take care of the family fortunes. His wife will ensure that they are properly prepared for their place in the world. In return she has a luxurious lifestyle. She has respect. She has children. She also knows that her husband would never do anything to disgrace the family name. It means too much to him. The arrangement suits both of them.'

Genevieve remembered the obvious appreciation she had seen in Zaid's eyes when he first saw her. 'And I'm sure he's completely faithful, too/ she said coolly.

'Zaid isn't celibate when he's abroad/ Sinclair said. 'His wife wouldn't expect it. He's permitted his sexual indulgences. He's a man, after all.' He glanced at her. 'And an attractive one, wouldn't you say?'

'Yes/ she agreed, in a neutral voice. 'Very nice.'

He looks a lot like you, she thought, but I'm damned if I'm going to tell you so. She remembered the slight pressure of the Arab's hand on hers. She knew he had found her attractive. Was that what Sinclair was planning? Was he going to offer her services to his friend? And if he did, would she agree?

'Don't feel sorry for Zaid's wife/ Sinclair said. 'It was an arranged marriage, but they both agreed to it, and I doubt if they were pressured. You might say it was a business agreement.' He smiled at her, and again she was reminded of Zaid's smile. 'You should appreciate the logic of that.'

I'm sure Zaid does too, Genevieve thought. It gives him respectability and the right to play the field. She followed Sinclair up the wide stairs. A couple passed them and smiled, the woman glittering with jewellery that Genevieve instinctively knew was genuine. She also knew Sinclair was planning something, and she was equally certain it involved his Arab friend. But what was it? And what had Zaid meant when he insisted that Sinclair show her 'everything'?

She soon realised why Sinclair had told her that the house was a suitable venue for an antiques fair. Each room was decorated in a different style or historical period, and the antiques on display had been chosen to suit the decor. In every room smartly dressed purchasers were politely haggling or writing cheques.

The Victorian nursery housed a toy collection. A flamboyant Chinese room had a display of silks, fans and screens. The Regency room contained furniture. A twenties-style music-room held a collection of instruments and music boxes. One, in a beautiful, polished-wood box, chimed 'Danny Boy' when Genevieve opened the lid. 'This is lovely/ she said. She looked unsuccessfully for a price tag. There was only a small number attached to the box. 'I think I'll buy it. How much is it?'

'Go and ask/ Sinclair said. 'The gentleman at the table over there will give you all the details.'

'This box?' The discreet, soft-spoken salesman glanced at the number. 'I'm sorry, madam, I believe this one has been sold.' He checked with a small laptop computer. 'Yes, it has. My apologies. I should have removed the number.'

Genuinely annoyed, Genevieve was about to argue when she heard an unexpected and familiar husky voice.

'James, darling. I didn't know you were interested in music.'

She turned in time to see Jade Chalfont kiss Sinclair affectionately on the cheek, brushing back her heavy fall of dark hair as she did so. In a figure-hugging black dress with her usual chunky jewellery she looked as self-confident as a top model posing on the catwalk. Her bright red, sensual mouth smiled insincerely as Genevieve walked towards her.

'James, you're with a friend. I didn't realise.'

'Miss Genevieve Loften,' Sinclair said.

Jade Chalfonf s smile turned frosty. 'Oh yes. You're a Barringtons rep, aren't you?'