Tiger Men (23 page)

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Mick said. ‘I’ll take her.’

It was Red.

‘Ah.’ Charles grinned broadly. ‘You’ve chosen well, the pick of the crop indeed.’

As the Dimbleby brothers were joined by the girls of their choice, Mick rose and crossed to Red, intercepting her on her way to the bar with the three empty tankards she was carrying.

‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘fancy seeing you here.’

He wasn’t sure whether he could detect a touch of mockery in her tone, or whether it was simply her genuine surprise at seeing him, but her greeting seemed warm enough and her smile was friendly. He’d forgotten how extraordinarily beautiful she was. Her red hair was not coiffed, but hung free and unadorned, and her simple green satin gown, with clearly no corsetry beneath, exposed her shoulders and bosom to perfection. Unlike the other girls, her complexion was not artificially enhanced. Her cheeks were not rouged and powdered, her lips not reddened with paint. She’s like a wild creature, he thought, natural and flawless in its beauty.

‘Hello, Eileen,’ he said.

She studied him for a moment, as if adding up whether or not he intended an insult. ‘It’s Red in here,’ she said.

‘As you wish. Hello, Red.’

‘Hello, Mick.’

‘Would you care to join me for supper?’

‘For supper, really?’ The fox eyes held a challenge: an invitation to dine meant far more than supper. ‘I had the impression you were the sort who didn’t pay for it.’

‘Well, there’s always a first time, isn’t there?’

‘There is that.’ She smiled gloriously. ‘In which case, Mr O’Callaghan, I’d be delighted to join you for supper.’

‘A surname,’ he said with mock disapproval. ‘Shame on you now – where’s your sense of propriety? It’s Mick in here.’

She was still laughing as they joined the Dimbleby brothers.

Several minutes later, the group adjourned to the drawing room, where Mrs Bingham showed them to their table. A number of men were already dining, although only two others were accompanied by women. The more common preference of club members and guests was to dine quietly together before retiring to the lounge for cognacs and cigars, and perhaps the choice of a girl for upstairs.

They dined on lamb cutlets and potatoes, a meal which Mick found inferior to Freddie’s stews. The two bottles of wine that Charles ordered as an accompaniment, however, and which he informed them were from Bourgogne, were truly magnificent.

Throughout supper, the brothers ignored the women, choosing instead to discuss the latest news, which had arrived via
The Times
, of the ongoing dispute between Lord Raglan and the Earl of Lucan. Like the rest of the colony, the brothers avidly followed the reports of the war in the Crimea, and the disastrous charge of the British Cavalry’s Light Brigade at the Battle of Balaclava just the year before remained a subject of great controversy. So much so that of late the war itself appeared to have taken a second seat to the personal battle between the cavalry commander, Lieutenant General the Earl of Lucan and his superior, the Commander of the British Army, Lord Raglan, about who was responsible for a military disaster of such monumental proportion as that charge.

‘Lucan’s being made a scapegoat for the whole disastrous botch-up,’ Gerald said heatedly. ‘His character is being assassinated and he’s quite right to defend himself in
The Times
as he has, and also in the House of Lords might I add. It’s his God-given right.’

Like many caught up in the general public debate, Charles and Gerald vehemently disagreed upon the subject.

‘Rubbish.’ Charles was dismissive. ‘Lucan misinterpreted his orders, it was as simple as that. The man should stop trying to squirm his way out of things, and take responsibility for his actions instead of excusing himself through
The Times
.’ He looked to Mick for support. ‘Don’t you agree old chap?’

‘I haven’t been following the matter much myself,’ Mick replied pleasantly. It was true, he hadn’t, but he had no wish to be drawn into the discussion in any event. He would rather have conversed with the women and he thought the brothers were rude to exclude them. The women might be whores, but they were women nonetheless, and beautiful ones at that. Mick liked whores, good honest working girls, and he was certainly not accustomed to ignoring beautiful women. One glance at Gerda and Yvette, however, told him they were completely unbothered. They were enjoying their wine and meat and potatoes, and were even feigning interest in the men and what was being said. But they’re just waiting to be fucked, Mick thought. That’s their job.

‘What do you think, Red?’ he asked, turning to Eileen.

‘I don’t think,’ she said, smiling at all three men. ‘I try very hard not to think. It’s not healthy.’

The brothers laughed and continued the conversation on their own. What’s the point in seeking a contribution from Mick O’Callaghan anyway? Charles thought. The man is Irish.

Finding himself as ignored as the women, Mick concentrated on his meal and gave up any pretence of interest in the discussion.

Beside him, Red eyed him up and down approvingly. ‘You’ve filled out, Mick,’ she said. ‘Hard work obviously agrees with you.’ She slid her hand under the table and caressed his thigh, feeling the muscularity beneath the fabric of his trousers. He quivered involuntarily, he couldn’t help himself. ‘You’ve toughened up,’ she murmured, and she smiled as her fingers slowly made their way towards his groin.

A charge of excitement ran through Mick’s entire body. The mere touch of her hand had been enough to arouse him. But he had a plan, and he would not be swayed from it. He shifted his leg slightly, signalling her to stop, and picked up the bottle of wine.

‘May I tempt you?’ he queried.

She laughed lightly. ‘Of course you may.’ Her hand re-emerged from beneath the table to hold the glass as he poured her wine. ‘I’m always easily tempted,’ she said, her eyes teasing him.

The moment Gerald had finished eating, his focus changed. Still chewing on a final mouthful of meat, he shoved his plate aside, pushed his chair back from the table and hauled Gerda onto his knee, even though she had not yet finished her own meal. As far as he was concerned supper was over, conversation was over and the night was about to begin. Gerda parted her legs obligingly as he ferreted his hand up under her skirts.

Charles signalled to the waiter that it was time to go upstairs. ‘Put the meal on my slate,’ he instructed as the man cleared the dishes.

‘No, no, Charles,’ Mick protested. ‘I can’t allow that.’

‘I insist, old chap. I absolutely insist. As a regular club member, it’s my pleasure to welcome a newcomer to Trafalgar.’

Gerald had already jumped to his feet and, with Gerda in tow, was on his way to the door that led to the stairs. Charles now stood, putting his arm around Yvette, who had risen to stand beside him. ‘It’s your first visit, Mick, you must allow me to treat you to a meal at least.’ His eyes flickered to Red and back. ‘All other expenses are your own,’ he added with a meaningful wink.

‘That’s very generous of you, Charles.’

Mick watched as the Dimbleby brothers disappeared with their women. Then he turned to Red.

‘There won’t be any other expenses,’ he said.

She was understandably confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I shall take my departure now, that’s what I mean.’ He made no move to leave, however. He intended to savour the moment.

‘I see.’ Red looked around the drawing room, which was now quite crowded. ‘You wish to humiliate me, is that it?’

‘That’s it exactly.’ He drained the last of his wine.

‘And this was your plan from the outset? When you invited me to supper you had no intention of going upstairs?’

‘No intention whatsoever. I never pay for it.’

‘But you said in the lounge that there’s always a first time.’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I was referring to the supper.’

She was silent, her animal eyes appraising him, her expression unfathomable. What will she do? he wondered. Would she make a scene? Would she slap him and walk off in high dudgeon? Or would she simply sit there and watch as he walked away himself? Whatever she did, she couldn’t win. But to his surprise, she smiled.

‘Ah, Mick, how very clever of you.’ She shook her head admiringly and glanced about once again at the men who were dining. ‘To be left here on my own would indeed be humiliating.’

‘I had hoped so,’ he said, ‘which makes us even.’

‘There’s a more pleasurable way of getting even though, surely.’ She leant in to him, her face as intimately close as a lover’s. ‘What if I gave it to you for nothing?’ she whispered. ‘You’d be the first, Mick. I’ve never once offered myself for free. If you were to ask Ma she’d bear me out on that, I swear. You’d be the very first.’

He made no move. She leant even closer, her hair caressing his cheek, her breath warm against his skin, the voice of temptation whispering in his ear.

‘No-one’s ever had me for nothing, Mick. No-one. Just imagine it. I’d be giving myself to you. I wouldn’t be a whore at all. We’d be like lovers.’

Beneath the table her hand was once again on his thigh and this time, as her fingers edged towards his groin, he did not signal her to stop.

‘That’d be the best way of getting even, wouldn’t it?’ she whispered. ‘To be the very first. And you know you want me, Mick.’ Her hand was on him now. ‘We both know you want me.’

What the hell? Mick thought. Why refuse such an offer? He didn’t need to publicly humiliate her. The victory was his anyway.

They went upstairs.

He knew that once they were alone there was the possibility she might drop the seductive performance, give him a quick poke and send him on his way. He was prepared for such an eventuality, but something told him it wouldn’t be like that. Something told him that they really would be like lovers, just as she’d said they would. She was giving herself to him after all.

She didn’t drop the performance. Quite the opposite. She sat him down in the chair that faced the giant gilt-framed mirror that dominated the room, and slowly, teasingly, she undressed herself, her eyes on him all the while. He watched mesmerised, remembering that day at the Hunter’s Rest, upstairs in Ma’s room when she’d tantalised him in the same manner while putting on her gloves and her cloak. It was the performance of a true artiste. Finally, when she stood in nothing but a flimsy chemise, she undressed him, just as slowly, just as teasingly, running her fingertips lightly over his body as she did so. Not a word was spoken, not a sound uttered. When he was half-naked she knelt before him and, slithering his trousers down over his buttocks, she freed him, caressing him with the same lightness of touch, sending tremors through his whole being. She was about to take him in her mouth, but by now Mick had had quite enough. He did not intend to lose control.

He stepped out of his trousers and slipped the chemise from her shoulders. It dropped to the floor and she stood before him naked, her body as flawless as he’d known it would be. By now he was rampant with desire.

She was good in bed. Physically she was the most exciting woman he’d ever been with, and he’d been with many. The way she responded to his every movement, the very tightness of her, the undulation of her muscles, all compounded to excite him beyond measure. He told himself that it was hardly surprising: she was an expert at her trade. He’d never been with a high-class whore – naturally he’d never known a woman as adept as Red.

But he could feel himself losing control. Mick was not accustomed to losing control. He was accustomed to pleasuring women. He liked to hear a woman moan and to feel her final quivering moments. Only then would he let himself go.

He stopped, determined to recover himself, and as if obeying an unspoken command, she stopped with him. Both remained frozen; her body was deathly still beneath his. But she was not allowing him to recover himself at all. He could feel, deep inside her, the wave of her energy as the muscles surrounding him urged him on. He was not in control. Red was in control. This was a competition, and Red was winning.

Barely a minute later, he acceded defeat – he could hold back no longer. She met his thrusts with equal force, driving him to his climax, but as the moment approached, she deftly twisted her body to the side, freeing herself from him. She did not desert him, however. She took him in her hands, spilling his fluid over her breasts, and then it was done.

She rose and crossed to the washstand.

He rolled over onto his back, still breathing heavily, and watched as she poured water from the jug into the basin. She didn’t give herself to me at all, he thought, and we certainly weren’t like lovers. She’d been a whore doing a job. A very talented whore, admittedly, but a whore nonetheless. He shrugged off a vague feeling of disappointment, recognising that it had been foolish to think they might have shared something special. A bit of wishful thinking there, Mick me lad, he told himself.

He watched her as she washed the semen from her breasts. She was certainly the most beautiful of all whores, he thought, and he chastised himself for feeling cheated. Dear God in heaven, Mick O’Callaghan, you’ve been given a gift like that, possibly the most expensive whore in Hobart Town, and you dare to feel cheated? Wake up to yourself lad.

She slipped the chemise over her head, rinsed out the flannel and poured fresh water onto it. Then, returning to the bed, she sat beside him and proceeded to wash him. The water was delivered to the room along with clean linen after the departure of each client: it was all part of the service.

‘You’re very good, Red,’ he said, looking down at his cock as she bathed it, gently but efficiently.

‘Of course I am. I’m the best.’

‘You are that indeed,’ he said heartfelt.

‘It’s a matter of pride. I always give men their money’s worth.’

He grinned. ‘Even those who aren’t paying,’ he said.

‘Oh, you’re paying, Mick, have no doubt about that.’

‘Eh?’

‘You didn’t think things through, did you?’ She stood and smiled down at him, kindly but patronisingly. ‘Did you really believe I could give you a free fuck? Come along now, Mick: you’ve worked in a brothel, you know the score. Trafalgar might be a fancy place, but it’s no different from the others. The girls don’t take the money or make the negotiations. The girls have no say in things – they just do the hard work.’