Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin

He looked at her as if he was examining her face and she felt her heart lurch.

‘… at least I haven’t been put in the stables,’ she blustered nervously. ‘I’m up in the attic, it’s absolutely gorgeous – loads of beams, wooden floors, and the view is fantastic: you can see all the way over to Stow on the Wold.’

‘Cate –’

Tom and Rebecca came back into the room, Tom carrying a huge terracotta pitcher of steaming drink. ‘Is egg-nog supposed to be hot?’ asked Tom. ‘Seemed like it would be better if it was hot, anyway.’

Cate glanced up at Rebecca and noted that somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, Rebecca had lost her jacket. She was now just wearing a tiny, spaghetti-strapped vest.

‘Come on, Tom, confess,’ laughed Nick, who didn’t seem to have noticed the change. ‘How are you enjoying it out here in the wilds all on your own?’

Tom perched on the edge of Cate’s armchair and lay his arm along the back of the headrest. Cate was surprised to find herself enjoying Tom’s protective presence, but she also noted that Rebecca was now looking over at her with a questioning expression.

‘Actually, I love it,’ said Tom. ‘I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that it gets a bit lonely at times, but I just love having some time to myself to do the things I want to do. Can you believe that the Women’s Institute even invited me to give them a talk on creative writing?’

‘Does your agent know about this?’ said Rebecca in a voice so serious that nobody in the room knew whether she was joking or not.

‘I suspect the fee will be in pots of gooseberry jam,’ said Tom, sipping his egg-nog. ‘I’m not sure my agent will be interested in a percentage of that. But no, I love it. And I don’t think I’ll be coming back any time soon.’

‘But what about your acting career? How can you give that up?’ asked Rebecca solemnly.

There was an awkward silence as Tom looked at Cate again, one eyebrow slightly raised. ‘Oh, I think Hollywood will wait,’ said Tom finally. ‘At least until I finish this egg-nog.’

As the evening wore on, they talked and laughed and played Pictionary, after which Tom took them on a torch-lit tour of the house, telling them tales of ghosts and spirits that he’d heard from the village gossips over the past few weeks. ‘Apparently there’s a ghost of a one-armed servant that lives down here,’ he said as they stumbled around the dusty wine cellar. ‘Oh my God!’ squealed Rebecca. ‘Aren’t you terrified?’

‘Not quite sure I want to be all the way up in the attic tonight,’ laughed Cate.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Tom, putting a hand on Cate’s arm. ‘I haven’t seen anything since I’ve been here. The only spirits in this house are in that drink.’

That wasn’t so painful, thought Cate, climbing into her cotton pyjamas and creeping in between the Pratesi sheets and thick down duvet – a relic from his old life with Serena, thought Cate with a smile. As long as they had not been left alone, Nick was not awkward and shy; in fact he had been totally on form. It had been great to see Tom too. She still wasn’t sure whether he was genuinely happy out here in the country, or whether he was trying to convince himself that the sadness he felt was not there. It must be so hard, she thought, moving from a whirlwind life of nonstop parties and socializing – and she knew from her teenage years that Serena was a loud and domineering person to live with – to Tom’s splendid isolation with just a few rumoured ghosts for company. But no, her worries about the men had been unfounded.

And she had met Rebecca and in some ways she was relieved. Now she was real at least and she could no longer just dismiss the idea of Nick having a girlfriend. After Milan she had still harboured a glimmer of hope that there was something between her and Nick, but now she had seen him as half of a couple, she knew that there was nothing there. The cocktail of gin and tonic, red wine and egg-nog was making her drowsy now. Feeling just a little scared about the ghosts, she pulled the duvet right up to her chin, tucked her head deep into the pillows so they surrounded her ears, and tried her best to fall asleep.

The Cotswold countryside is full of noises at night: barn owls hooting in the distance, leaves swooshing as the evening wind tickles their branches and the clanking of pipes and cisterns throughout the ancient brickwork. It was something Tom had learnt to sleep through. But at three o’clock in the morning, he was suddenly disturbed by a sound he didn’t quite recognize: a long creak coming from the dark area over by his bedroom door. Still semi-conscious, he dismissed it, turning over and flinging the duvet away from him as he turned. Suddenly he froze. No, this time there was someone else there. The covers moved and he felt another body slip under the sheets beside him.

‘What the –?’

Feeling a dart of terror shoot up his spine, he slowly turned to face the intruder. A long French-manicured finger brushed the hair from his forehead. ‘Shhh,’ whispered a voice. As Tom’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, the shape beside him began to take on a form he recognized.

‘Rebecca,’ he hissed, as she pushed herself up against him and he realized in the dark-greyness that she was naked.

‘Rebecca, what the hell –?’

‘Shhhh …’ she repeated, putting her finger to his lips. Suddenly his mind leapt back to earlier in the evening when she had followed him into the kitchen to help him with the egg-nog. He remembered how she had suggestively slipped off her jacket and brushed up against him, her bare arms against his. At the time, it had seemed accidental, but now her friendliness had taken on a whole other perspective. Now, as she shifted beside him, the firm curve of her breasts and nipples were silhouetted against a shaft of moonlight coming through a crack in the curtains. Frozen in terror, his mind searching for a way to escape, he was struck by how much Rebecca’s outline looked like Serena’s. The long blonde hair falling onto her bare shoulders, the firm, slim, smooth body, pushing up against his. She was so warm, so soft, he thought drowsily. But no.

Desperately, springing to his senses, Tom shook his head and moved his body away from her. ‘Look, Rebecca, what are you doing?’ he hissed urgently. ‘Don’t, no, don’t –’

Before he had time to object further, Rebecca’s head had moved under the covers, her hair brushing against his navel as she went down. Tom groaned as he felt her ripe lips surround his cock, her whole mouth going down the shaft of his penis until its tip touched the back of her throat. Up down, up, down. For a second he moaned with pleasure: it had been over three months since he had had any physical contact with a woman – and he missed it. Suddenly he came to his senses.

‘Fuck, Rebecca. Get off me. Now.’

Her head came up for air and she slid out of his bed as smoothly as she had entered it.

He turned to watch her, wretched with embarrassment, as her naked body walked away from him. Completely unaffected by what had just happened, she picked up a silk dressing gown that she had discarded on the floor seconds earlier and looked over her shoulder to smile at him.

‘Any time,’ she purred seductively. ‘Remember, Tom, any time.’

20 (#ulink_70549561-ad43-5b00-9798-852ddcdd08e5)

Diego Bono rolled back exhausted onto the crumpled sheets, beads of sweat glistening on his firm, bronzed skin and looked across the room at his new lover. He never usually felt uncomfortable bringing the many conquests he picked up in the gay clubs of Soho back to his Camden apartment, but this one was something else. Elegant, sophisticated and obviously very, very wealthy. Now he was moving in more affluent circles, Diego was definitely going to have to sharpen up his act. He didn’t want anyone to think Diego Bono was just some handsome Spanish hustler on the make. Diego Bono was going places. He propped himself up on his goose-down pillows and lit a menthol cigarette. The silhouette of his partner moved towards the window to open the curtain, letting in a thin stream of late afternoon sun. Diego blew a smoke ring as he admired his companion’s taut white buttocks in the dusty light.

‘May I just say,’ announced Diego in his lightly accented European drawl, ‘you really do have the most amazing arse.’

Jonathon von Bismarck looked over to the bed and started to pull on his crumpled chinos. ‘Yes,’ he replied coolly, giving Diego a thin, arrogant smile, ‘I know.’

Venetia looked at Diego Bono’s sketches, which were strewn across her desk, and smiled. Gosh, this young designer straight out of the Royal College of Art was such a find, she beamed to herself. The designs were perfect for the Venetia Balcon line of women’s wear she was planning to launch in September: clean, casual lines with a hint of preppiness. Cotton jackets with nipped in waists, sheath dresses with slashed necklines and lightweight cashmere sweaters in candy colours. It all added up to a classic jet-set look, Britain’s answer to Michael Kors’ sexy New York chic – exactly the vibe she was after.

She pinned up a drawing on the wall and looked around the office, which was on the top floor of the four-storey Georgian house in Mayfair’s Bruton Street. The first two floors were retail space, selling fine textiles, beautiful crystal, bedding, curtains, soft furnishings and beautiful, handcrafted pieces she had sourced from France, the third floor was their bespoke interior design department and, while she dreamt of turning the fourth floor into the fashion floor, for the moment it was Venetia’s studio.

She sat back in her leather chair and took in the creative chaos with an affectionate look. Venetia Balcon Limited was becoming quite an empire, she thought happily. Swatches of Venetia Balcon fabrics covered the sofa at one end of the room, silver paint pots containing the new Venetia Balcon paint range were piled in another corner, and fine wallpaper, curtains and piles of bedding in soft deluxe fabrics were draped across the big oak table in the centre. But it was the clothing line she was most excited about. Along with Kelly Hoppen and Nina Campbell, Venetia was fast establishing herself as one of the country’s top interior designers. Ever since her days at Vogue, fashion had always been her passion. She admired the way Ralph Lauren and Jasper Conran had created a huge lifestyle empire out of a line of clothes. If they had gone from fashion to homeware, why couldn’t she do it the other way round? She knew the yummy-mummies and bored housewives from Chelsea to Clapham were desperate for a touch of the Venetia Balcon vision of life and she was more than willing to provide it for them. At a price, she smiled.

She took a swig of strong coffee and decided that she’d been working so hard, it wouldn’t hurt to clock off early for the afternoon. She casually flipped through her diary to check she was free. Damn! There was an appointment pencilled in. Jack Kidman? Who on earth was that? She picked up the phone to call her assistant, Leila.

‘Leila – Jack Kidman? Remind me who he is again. Apparently I’ve got a meeting with him in five minutes, but I’m due for a facial in an hour.’

‘You asked me to pencil in a meeting with him after Serena’s party,’ replied Leila anxiously. ‘Friend of one of the guests, I think.’

Venetia groaned. Now she remembered. Amanda Berryman, the PR who looked after Venetia Balcon homeware had asked her to meet one of her friends, some ex-advertising guy who had bought a house in Spain and was looking for an interior designer for the renovation project. She glanced at her watch. Why on earth had she agreed to see him? It wasn’t as though she particularly needed the business. Her diary was already fit to burst with international private and corporate clients, all eager for her style overhauls in their homes or offices. She had got to the stage where she would only personally look after a select handful of projects, farming the rest out to Caroline Rhodes, a young but talented interior stylist she had poached from Kelly Hoppen. And I think Caroline will be the one heading out to Jack Kidman’s holiday home, thought Venetia.

‘Leila?’ she asked, picking up the phone again. ‘Can you see if Caroline is available to take an appointment with me?’

‘’Fraid not, Venetia. She left about half an hour ago on appointments. And Jack Kidman has arrived. Shall I send him up?’

Cursing to herself, she glanced in the huge Venetian glass mirror on one side of the room and settled behind her desk, resigning herself to another grinding meeting. Admen. Cocky, arrogant, swaggering buggers, most of them. Didn’t know good taste if it slapped them in the face. She was certainly going to need that facial.

‘Venetia Balcon?’

A tall, handsome man in his early forties, with the louche, casual air of the very successful, strode into her office.

‘That’s me,’ she smiled, standing up and smoothing down her skirt unconsciously. For a second, she felt guilty sizing up her new client. His shoulders were broad, his salt-and-pepper hair offset by a smooth, tanned complexion and a pair of twinkling dark green eyes. Only a slightly off-centre nose – perhaps a sports injury? – tempered the good looks. She took another sip of coffee to distract herself.

Jack nodded to Venetia, but walked towards the French windows that went out onto the roof terrace.

‘Nice room,’ he said, ‘what a great place for a studio.’

He walked back in and shook her hand, his grip strong and firm, and sat down quickly, drumming his hand on his leg and taking in the space with darting eyes.

Venetia started smiling.