Creed (33 page)

The door slammed.

Enter Prunella this time, looking nothing like a bimbo.

‘Joe, can I come up?’

‘What makes you think I have a say in it?’ He went through to the kitchen and opened the booze cupboard, ignoring the brandy bottle that Cally had left on the table.

‘Joe?’

‘In here looking for the hemlock.’

‘Bad day?’ She stopped at the threshold as if too timid to enter.

‘So far. And there’s every chance it’s gonna get worse. D’you want to join me?’ He held up a tumbler.

‘Hemlock?’

‘Or whiskey. Gin if you want.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Why haven’t you returned my calls?’

‘You’ve been ringing me?’

‘For the past couple of hours. I’ve left messages on your answerphone. Freddy Squires has been trying to get hold of you, too.’

‘Any particular reason?’ He poured a stiff measure of Bushmills.

‘Freddy? None other than you haven’t reported in today and he’s got an assignment lined up.’

‘I’m not a staffy. I don’t have to “report” in.’

‘That’s fine with me, Joe. It’s Freddy who needs reminding. Have you been in an accident of some kind?’ She wandered into the kitchen, her eyes wide at his condition. ‘Every time I see you, you look worse.’

Creed waved a dismissive hand. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You got a cigarette on you?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘No, you wouldn’t.’ He reached for his tobacco tin and makings and took them, along with the whiskey, to the table. ‘So are you here to add to my woes?’

‘I’m sorry if you’ve got problems, Joe.’

He looked at her in surprise. Judas, she’d said that as if she’d really meant it.

Prunella took a seat opposite him. ‘Was that woman who just left one of them?’

‘The red-haired shrew? Yeah, she’s one of them, but the least of them.’ He ran the rolled cigarette paper along the tip of his tongue, then sealed the tobacco inside. ‘Why are you here, Prunella?’

‘We appear to have lost our star diarist.’

‘Blythe?’

‘He’s the only one we’ve got. Unfortunately our ulcerated editor doesn’t like the idea that he’s been mislaid. Seriously though, it’s not like Antony to go off without letting anyone know where. He usually rings in three or four times a day with items or to check what’s happening.’

‘What makes you think I know where he is?’

‘We thought you might have passed him on your rounds. Besides, the last thing he was looking into had something to do with Lily Neverless, and as you were at the funeral the other . . . day . . . Joe, is something wrong? Why are you staring at me like that? We just thought – obviously very stupidly – that you might be working on something together. As I’m general dogsbody, I was nominated to try and contact either Antony or you. I drew a total blank on Antony, so when you wouldn’t return my calls I jumped in a cab and came over. I dropped by Antony’s place first,’ she hastened to add, then blushed for some reason. (If Creed hadn’t been so preoccupied he might have realised that Prunella had relished the thought of stepping inside his ‘den of iniquity’. They’ll surprise you every time, these quiet ones.)

‘What was he looking into exactly?’

She was puzzled by the gravity of Creed’s tone. ‘Something to do with Lily Neverless’ will. Apparently he asked our own legal department to find out who her solicitors were.’

‘And did they?’

‘Yes, I rang the solicitors and they told me they’d had an enquiry about their late client’s estate from Antony this morning. Quite honestly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. He’ll turn up when he feels like it.’

Sure he will. Prunella was right – why the fuss just because Blythe had gone walkabout? So what if he did usually call in? He was probably lying under a table somewhere dozing the afternoon away after one champagne cocktail too many. Okay, so perhaps he wasn’t known as a big drinker, but what the hell? For once he’d let what hair he had down. Maybe he was even lying somewhere else with a male or female of his choice. Who knows? Who cares?

Prunella interrupted his thoughts. ‘I don’t think that stuff is doing you any good.’

‘Hmn?’

‘The Scotch. You keep losing colour.’

‘It’s whiskey, and it’s doing me a power of good. When it hits my gut it feels real – about the only thing that does today.’

‘Are you in trouble, Joe? Is there anything I can do to help?’

He could have laughed, but the mood wasn’t on him.

‘Will you go to bed with me, Prunella?’

He couldn’t believe he’d said it, but he had. What was
wrong
with him? His son was in terrible danger and here he was as horny as a goat. And it wasn’t only with Prunella: he had wanted to get it on with Evelyn – Evelyn the Untouchable, for Christ’s sake! Not just those two, either. When Cally had bathed his wounds in the bathroom he’d become aroused, only the combination of exhaustion, fear and anger quelling the uprising. Of course it wasn’t unusual for him to get lechy in the company of an attractive or semi-attractive female, but under these dire circumstances? What
was
wrong with him?

Then he understood, for (and not for the first time in the last couple of hours or so) a vision flashed into his mind. It was of the woman, Laura, kneeling before him, clothes disarrayed, her body ripe and lush, her hands moving erotically over herself. He couldn’t shake it; the image kept returning. As horrifically bizarre as it had turned out (and maybe because it was also so
indecently
bizarre) it was the most sexually intoxicating experience he’d ever had. At the time and in retrospect. Especially, it seemed, in retrospect. Christ, what
was
wrong with him?

His throat was dry. ‘Prunella, I . . . please?’

Whatever he was giving off, whatever frisson he had aroused between them, it was obviously not ineffective. She didn’t appear shocked, nor did she give him a definite no. ‘I came over to find out about Antony,’ she said, looking down at her lap.

‘You didn’t need to do that. You wanted to see me, didn’t you?’ Oh boy, the old ramrod was threatening to lift the table. How could you, you bastard? How could you get it on at a time like this?
White thighs, milky smooth, long tapering fingers delicately touching, beautifully curved breasts so enticing
. . . He closed his eyes, but the mental picture only became sharper.

A redness flushed her neck. ‘You know I like you, Joe . . .’

He swallowed. ‘I like you too, Prunella.’
Deep red lips, glistening in the gloomy light, nipples taut and pink, so erect, so thrusting, cold, marble flesh spread on the floor before him . . .

‘You did say you’d share the champagne with me . . .’

‘I did promise that, didn’t I?’ Champagne? Where was the champagne Blythe had awarded him? Probably still in the back of the jeep.

She drew in a shallow breath, her small lips parting. There was a heaviness about her eyes. ‘I do like you, Joe,’ she repeated.

Other images tumbling inside his head. The terrible phlegmy thing that had collapsed over him, the tiny-headed phantoms skiting about the room, the darkness that contained nothing at all, the storm, the hurricane that had exploded from the room . . .
her white hands feeling herself, reaching into the soft hair between her thighs, spreading her wetness on him . . .

‘Laur – Prunella . . .’

‘Yes, Joe.’

A question, or acquiescence? ‘Let’s—’

‘Yes, Joe.’

Creed rose from the table, leaving the unlit cigarette lying there, and walked – hobbled – around to her. His hand was shaky when he held her cheek and tilted her face towards him. The tension between them was so tightly sensuous that the very air seemed charged. He leaned forward and kissed her pale prim lips . . .

. . . deep red, full lips . . .

Prunella responded, her arms reaching around his neck, drawing him down so that their mouths were hard against each other’s. He felt her tongue dart between his lips, then retreat so that his own had to give chase . . .

. . . firm breasts, hips so voluptuously curved, legs so superbly long . . .

He brought her to her feet, the chair scraping back, their lips never losing touch, their bodies suddenly clenched together so that she felt his hardness, his huge incredible bursting hardness, against her stomach, and her fingers descended his spine so that she could hug him even tighter, pull him even closer, press her hips against him with firmer pressure.

His hand explored, found the small mound of one breast under her coat, ventured further, lifting the jumper she wore, tugging at the skirt beneath, feeling soft skin . . .

. . . lush flesh, so firm yet so soft . . .

‘The bedroom . . .’ he managed to gasp between frantic kisses.

She moved with him, but they only got as far as the hallway. He groaned aloud when he lifted her long pleated skirt and found instant access to Prunella’s naked thighs . . .

. . . white thighs white thighs white thighs . . .

. . . for she was wearing – Prunella, this demure, prim and proper Sloane-type – stockings and suspenders. Creed sank delightedly to his knees so that he could see what he felt, kiss what he saw. A shudder ran through Prunella as his tongue moistened her skin. She slipped off her coat and rested against the wall while Creed busied himself beneath her skirt. She felt the probing of his tongue through the flimsy fabric of her panties and was so glad that that very morning, and for no apparent reason, she had decided to wear her newest La Perla (how had she known, how
had
she known?). She squirmed at the delicate touch and even the wall at her back felt sensuous. Oh Joe, I know you’re a swine, everyone says you are, and I know you don’t honestly give a damn about me and you’d screw any female who has two legs and two breasts, but I don’t care, just do it to me, just do it to me . . .

Her knees were giving way and she was sinking down the wall, and when he slid the silky underwear down her legs she almost collapsed completely.

He let her come to him, encircling her waist with one arm and easing her passage to the floor; then she was lying beside him and his free hand had slipped the panties over her ankles so that she was free, naked, and open to him. He ducked his head again and the tip of his tongue resumed its exploration, this time with no barrier in the way. The hair between her legs was less dense, her skin less white and less rounded . . .

. . . than Laura’s . . .

. . . but it was glorious nonetheless and Creed buried himself in her so that Prunella cried out and dug her fingers into his shoulders and moved against him and clenched his head with her thighs and pleaded that he shouldn’t stop, he mustn’t stop . . .

But he needed more than just that. Creed raised his head, ignoring her moan of disappointment and pushing at her clothing, exposing her belly and then her breasts, loving the sight of those breasts as small as they were under their thin lacy wrapping. He groped behind her, found the catch and unfastened it so that the bra loosened enough to be pulled aside. His lips smothered the tiny nipples . . .

. . . those big, taut nipples, so hard and so hot . . .

. . . drawing on each one in turn so that they stood proud and eventually firm.

Prunella fumbled at his jeans, struggling for desperate seconds to press the stud button through its eye, the expansion of his own body making it more difficult; but soon it was free and the zip was sliding down so easily, and quickly he was in her hands, warm and soft-hard, and seemingly pulsating with urgent demand.

It was Creed’s turn to shudder and it ran through him in a warm wave. Now he was thinking of Prunella and nobody else; it was her body beneath his own and her body alone that filled his mind.

‘Oh yes, Joe, please . . .’

Please? Please what? Did she think he was going to stop? Did she really imagine she had to plead with him? He fell upon her and her legs spread around him. Although she was wet, she was not that easy to enter. The initial thrust caused a little shriek from her and he withdrew slightly before making his way more gently, passing the point of resistance more steadily so that the rest of the passage was smooth and easy. She gasped, gave another little shriek; but this was one of delight. Her hands clasped his bare buttocks and pulled him in further. Creed sucked on her neck and she tried to twist away (Prunella was still prim enough not to want
those
kind of bruises visible the next day). The tweed of her rumpled skirt scratched and tickled his stomach and upper legs, adding another, albeit slight, element of joy to the proceedings.