The Santiago Sisters (25 page)

‘Don’t you care?’ she asked, but only because she didn’t.
She wanted sex with Vittorio. She would do anything for sex with Vittorio. She had never wanted a man like this, never thought she’d be able. His thumb eased towards her wetness but refused to indulge it. A groan escaped her lips. How could they still be fully clothed?

‘We are not meant to be with one person,’ Vittorio said, totally measured as his thumb came so close that she moaned. ‘We are primitive. Scarlet can do as she wishes. Steven is into things that I am not. Their business is their own.’

‘Do we have business, Vittorio?’

He smiled, then; at last, an acknowledgement of what was happening.

‘Scarlet will not like this,’ he told her. ‘You are too beautiful—and you are too strong. I see myself in you.’ The statement crackled between them.
In you …

‘I don’t care,’ he breathed. ‘When I see something I want, I must have it.’ His chest crushed against hers and she felt his erection through his suit pants, iron-hard and pressing her inner thigh. He was enormous. Thick. Hot. Ready to pop.

Tess’s hand shook with the force of resistance it took not to reach down and seize it. She wanted it in her mouth, on her tongue, in her cunt, everywhere. She wanted Vittorio absolutely, all to herself, on tap to bring her rapture whenever she demanded it. He was the ultimate prize. The trophy she had imagined winning when she was a wide-eyed girl on a ranch in Patagonia. Though his wife wasn’t with them, Tess fought that woman right now—she fought her with her beauty, her legs, her breasts, her willingness to bathe in his adulation, the contest to have him without reserve. She understood, then, Scarlet’s wolf-like expression as she had stood by at Vittorio’s speech, scanning the crowd for challengers, daring them to step into the fray because she would butcher them limb from
limb. Tess’s mind told her she was delirious with want; she had collapsed on the altar of her yearning and she wasn’t thinking straight, but her body told her she would destroy any rival who tried to take him away. She had waited too long for this. Nobody was standing in her path.

‘Please …’

She didn’t know what she was saying any more. Unable to play the game, whatever game he had devised, she could no longer uphold her part in it. She was dripping now, dripping down the inside of her leg, dripping down his thumb.

Still he waited on her periphery, the tip of his digit taunting her, torturing her, until it struck the line between pleasure and suffering. ‘Please!’ she cried.

The following moments were an unbearable, intolerable, brilliant haze.

Tess didn’t know what happened or what came first; her knees collapsed and she fell against him, coming and coming, shocks of pleasure rushing through her bloodstream as his thumb plunged deep, and she was so drenched with lust that when he got up to his knuckle she parted wider and his other hand came round and then there was more inside, the thickness of his wrist against her and the cold metal of his watch, and he was holding her while she came, supporting her while she cried out his name. For once, she didn’t smell lavender. She didn’t think of her papa. She didn’t think of death, her father’s death or her sister’s death or her mama’s death, because she had met her own and survived it. She had cheated the fate that had stolen them.

Losing all senses, Tess grappled to free Vittorio’s hard-on—she needed to see it, touch it; have it inside her. But her crescendo had drained her of energy and coordination and Vittorio took a step back, watching her with interest as she
moaned and panted against the suit of armour, her knickers torn around her knees.

‘You are a thing of wonder,’ he told her, touching her face. ‘When the time is right, I will give you what you want.’

She closed her eyes and when she opened them again he was gone.

A week later

C
alida opened her eyes to the sleeping, naked form of Vittorio Da Strovisi, and smiled, stretching luxuriously. Sunday morning in her lover’s Tuscan escape, a stone-built retreat high up in the Italian hills, and there was nothing to do but have sex. She crossed the room and divided the shutters. Cypress trees formed a chain on the amber earth, strewn across the distant hillside like a bracelet. A little church glowed in tentative sunlight, over a cluster of red-roofed houses gathered on the mount.

Turning to the master bedroom, the outlook was no less sublime. Vittorio lay splayed on the linen, his chest bronzed and his cock huge, swollen even in sleep and pointing like a rod to his belly, the base of which was smattered with dark hair.

She had been sleeping with Vittorio Da Strovisi for six months.

She still couldn’t really believe it. Calida knew just how exceptional and powerful he was, one of the richest, most desired businessmen in the world, a global, unstoppable powerhouse and the object of every woman’s fantasy. Despite herself, how she was training herself so hard against it, Calida
couldn’t help but occasionally think of her twin. She imagined presenting Vittorio to Tess Geddes and gloating:

‘
Surprised? I bet you never thought he’d look twice at me …’

It had all started when she was sent to Milan to take his picture. No one had been more surprised than she at the intensity of the attraction. Heading out to his city pad, she’d had zero lead on the capitalist save for Ryan Xiao’s contagious excitement. On the flight she had researched Vittorio Da Strovisi, and recognised him instantly. He was the guy who owned the flagrant mansion in Glen Cove, the one she and Lucy had been to with Winona and her set. Memories of that night were muddled and sinister, but she clearly remembered seeing his picture; not at all her type.

All the way across the Atlantic, she had sensed a force drawing her near. The coincidence felt part of a design, as if she was
meant
to meet Vittorio, meant to fall into his bed, meant to crave him every second, every minute of the day, because … Because what? By now Calida was moving in ever more influential circles; her client list was soaring; she had entered a new echelon, no longer bound to media darlings or model starlets. Now she was mixing with the big league, the truly, obscenely rich, the eccentric recluses and the icons who would abide no second best. She was hailed as ‘the new Mario Testino’. But something about Vittorio was pivotal. She sensed, inexplicably, that she was being guided into this scenario—that its outcome was intended to take place and, when it did, would be of the utmost importance to her.

On the day she arrived, she had taken the tycoon’s picture. Within hours, they were stripped and fucking on his bed. Calida extended her stay; they’d made love non-stop, on his sheets, in his bathroom, the veranda, the pool, the terrace, the
balcony. Since then, they hooked up whenever they could, each time he visited the States or she was on commission in Europe: a hunger that could never be sated.

‘You’re different to other women,’ Vittorio told her, after doing things to her with his hand or his tongue that had to be illegal. ‘I cannot bear to be without you. Stay with me. I vow to leave my wife. We are nothing to each other.’

Vittorio was upfront about his marriage: the union with Scarlet Schuhausen was one of convenience. It wasn’t that Vittorio had fallen out of love with her—it was that neither loved the other. Scarlet wouldn’t care, he promised. She was out sleeping with other men. The couple rarely saw each other, seemed only to hook up for public engagements, and never exchanged calls. Vittorio told Calida they were ‘seeking the right time’. She preferred not to enquire as to what happened after this—did Vittorio intend to start a relationship with her? Was that even what she wanted?

It was better than being alone. Better than thinking about Daniel Cabrera and where he was and what he was doing, the woman his arms enfolded when he fell asleep. Daniel was married. Somewhere across the world, another woman was Señora Cabrera, and, try as Calida might to deny it, much as she immersed herself in the body of another man, that fact made her sting every single day. Some nights she dreamed of him, and he appeared to her so real that when she woke it seemed impossible that he wasn’t there. Her first love … her friend.
Stop. It’s been too long. Let him go.

Now, she crossed to the bed and leaned in to kiss Vittorio. At once, he grabbed her wrists. Calida screamed, delighted as he pinned her down. Holding her arms above her head, he sliced into her with a violent passion, then flipped her on to her front and did her the same from behind, until Calida hit
that magic, helpless spot and climaxed, her scream stifled in the satin pillows. Vittorio came directly after.

Calida lay, breathless, hair stuck to her cheek. After a moment, Vittorio said:

‘I was with Astrid last week. She’s interested in you.’

It took Calida a second to register which Astrid he was referring to: partly her post-orgasm and partly because she sometimes forgot the circles in which he mixed. Astrid Engberg was the girlfriend of Prince Gustav Frederick; the Swedish papers had been speculating for months on the possibility of a forthcoming engagement.

‘He is going to propose soon,’ Vittorio went on, getting up and going to twist on the shower. ‘Astrid knows it. He is taking her to Umbria at the weekend.’

‘Why is she interested in me?’

Vittorio grinned. ‘Because I recommended you, darling—and Astrid knows that when I like something, it is worth having.’

‘She wants me to photograph her.’

‘Not just any old sitting.’ Vittorio settled next to her, the sound of running water drumming from the bathroom. ‘Their engagement pictures.’ His BlackBerry beeped and he scooped it up; a brief smile as he read the message and then he tucked it behind him, out of sight. Calida wanted to ask:
Who was that
? But she didn’t. Just because Rodrigo Torres had twenty women on the go at once didn’t mean Vitto did.

‘Oh.’

‘What do you think?’

She thought it was a big deal. Prince Gustav Frederick was first in line to the Swedish throne, and Astrid as his girlfriend was set to be queen. Astrid was glamorous, all tumbling blonde locks and nipped-in waist. Both in their twenties, they had
done wonders for perceptions of the royal family. Photographers across the world would be vying for this gig. If Vittorio were anyone else she might doubt his conviction—as it was, she knew he would have ensured it was a done deal.

‘You will meet her tomorrow,’ he instructed.

‘Excuse me?’

‘At my studio in Stockholm.’ He put an arm round her. ‘That is the best place, Astrid says. She does not wish to draw attention.’

‘You’ve already arranged this?’

‘Of course.’

‘Without consulting me?’

‘I am consulting you now.’

‘I don’t like being told what to do.’

Vittorio’s gaze gave no room for manoeuvre. ‘I think you do,’ he said, as he took her hand and led her to the steamed-up shower and turned her to face the wall.

Astrid Engberg glowed. She was flawless, pretty and perfect as a china doll, and appeared impossibly regal despite her lack of royal blood: a high, pale forehead, wide green eyes that were flecked with gold, and a waterfall of tresses that swirled around her shoulders. Calida thought she was one of the loveliest women she had ever seen.

But it was Astrid who was beside herself.

‘I am so pleased to meet you,’ she said in gently accented English. Her pastel-pink lips broke into a smile. ‘I have heard so much about you.’

‘From Vittorio, no doubt.’ Calida smiled back.

‘Oh, everywhere,’ gushed Astrid. ‘Everywhere I’m going,
I am hearing about Cal Santiago. Gustav is pleased, too. If I am satisfied, he tells me, we will go ahead.’

Calida’s brow lifted. ‘The engagement’s official?’

‘We have not announced it yet, but …’

‘Congratulations, that’s wonderful news.’

‘It is confidential, you understand.’

‘Of course.’ Calida set down her equipment. ‘Entirely safe with me.’

They were high up in Vittorio’s studio, a lavish space on Lilla Erstagatan, which he used on trips to the capital. Vittorio had residences in every city going; Calida couldn’t imagine how he possibly found time to make use of them all.

Fading sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She gestured for Astrid to take a seat at the panorama and asked her to reposition herself. The soon-to-be princess had arrived with three bodyguards and been escorted through a covert entrance, but had insisted her security wait out in the hall. Calida preferred that. Other people changed the dynamic of a shoot: she wanted to reach the spirit of Astrid Engberg, to photograph her as a young woman as well as a future monarch.

Forty minutes later, they were done.

‘Wow,’ said Astrid, scanning the images. ‘They were right.’

‘It helps to have a good subject,’ said Calida, who was being modest.

Astrid nodded. ‘You are hired. Gustav will agree.’

‘How do you know Vittorio?’ she asked, as Astrid collected her coat.

‘I am friends with his wife,’ she replied, flicking her hair out of her collar. ‘Scarlet introduced me to Gustav, as it happens, at one of Vitto’s parties.’

‘I didn’t know.’ There was a bitter taste in Calida’s mouth. How easy it was to forget that Vittorio was married—and, in
spite of what he told her about his celibate marriage and separate living arrangements, she was still in on a hurtful betrayal.

‘Such a lovely couple,’ said Astrid, ‘and so happy. Don’t you think? If Gustav and I can take one piece of that into our lives together, we will be lucky.’

‘Yes.’

Calida’s voice must have given her away; that one syllable, treacherous. Astrid gave her a sideways look. Quickly, Calida changed the subject.

‘I hear his parties are infamous,’ she said. ‘It must have been fun.’

‘Oh, yes—I was just at his place in Long Island last week. He has many actor friends. Even though I am part of that world, still I am bewitched by Hollywood.’

Bewitched.
Calida liked the word, thought it interesting that Astrid used it.

‘There were so many people there,’ Astrid went on. ‘Natalie Portis, Erin Fletcher, Kate diLaurentis, Tess Geddes … So many people—and they love him!’

Calida forced a smile. The thought of Vittorio inviting Tess to one of his homes was anathema. So they knew each other? How well? Did Tess like him? Did she want him? Of course she did. Every woman did—Astrid too, probably. Did Tess covet him as she had coveted Daniel? No, she was married. She was faithful to Steven Krakowski.
As if a detail like that’s
going to stop her. She’s
ruthless. You know that.

The worst part was the possibility that Vitto liked her back. If something had happened between them … No. Even considering it was like venom in Calida’s blood.

You wouldn’t dare do it to me again. Just you try.

‘He knows Tess Geddes?’ she blurted.

‘You are a fan?’ Astrid asked, brightly.

‘Yes,’ said Calida automatically.

‘You would like to take her photograph, I am sure.’

‘One day.’

‘I will arrange it.’ Astrid headed for the door.

‘Wait—’

Astrid turned. But Calida couldn’t find the words.

‘You gave me a wonderful gift today.’ Astrid smiled. ‘You made me look like me again. So many days I am surrounded by people who never know the real me and I never feel like a regular girl. I know I am lucky but I do miss her sometimes.’ A beat. ‘You turned me back into that girl and I am grateful. I would like to repay you.’

‘You don’t need to.’ In all Calida’s painstaking steps to access her twin’s glittering world, she had always been in control. She had been the one calling the shots and deciding the moves. Now, it was running away from her, too far, too fast.

‘Yes, I do.’ Astrid rushed back, and embraced Calida and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said. ‘I hope she is everything you wish her to be.’

Calida nodded.
I’m ready. I’ve been ready for nine years.

‘So do I,’ she said.