When She Was Bad... (41 page)

After Pappy’s mercifully short speech, Mark tugged at Lita’s hand, and

they slipped out through the throng to the ballroom’s large terrace, carved of solid white marble. Mark shut the doors and circled his arm possessively around Lita’s waist as they stared out over the magnificent view of Central Park and uptown. It was a glorious New York summer day, with the sky as clear blue as a robin’s egg and the .sun glittering off the lake in the park, while tiny stick figures of humans ran around below them and the constant river of traffic crawled up the tarmac streams of Manhattan.

‘Don’t you miss it?’ Mark murmured in her ear.

‘Sometimes.’ Lita shrugged. ‘I have to build up in Europe before I can

come home. With wages and stuff, it’s going, to take me a few years to see any actual profits. I’d like to make more t.han just a good salary. Besides …’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I can’t come back, because now there’s you.’

Mark smiled dryly. ‘ ‘I’m portable. Sick people are everywhere.’ ‘This wedding has been perfect,’ Lita s.aid.

Mark tugged at her sleeve. ‘Mmm. Yes. Now, can we get the hell out

of here?’

To escape the crowds of their families, Mark had booked them into

the Plaza. They had a suite on one of the higher floors, looking towards the Park - that was if you ever managed to escape from the bedroom. 1Loses were crammed into silver vases, and there was a magnum of Krug chilling in an ice-bucket by the bed. The bathroom was a fantasy of gold and ivory, and the bed was king-size and made up with silk sheets.

‘We never have to leave this room if we don’t feel like it,’ Mark said.

He tipped the valet twenty dollars and shut the door firmly behind him.

‘Mrs Conran.’

Lita blushed. For some reason, she suddenly felt nervous, almost Self conscious. This would be her first time with Mark, and even though she was sure she loved him, she didn’t really know how to handle it. What would he be expecting, and what …?

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He was looking her over, slowly, deliberately.

‘You’re tense. I thought I was the one who was supposed to have jitters.’

‘I am not,’ Lita lied, reaching for the champagne.

Mark’s firm hand came down across hers. ‘No, no medication. I want you fully conscious for this.’ He walked across the room and drew the inner chiffon curtains so that they were protected from the eyes of any stray pervert with binoculars but so the warm sunset light still spilled into the room, washing Lira’s ivory gown with the faintest suggestion of rose. Mark walked up to her and stood behind her, tugging at her zip so that her wedding dress slithered off her in a rustle of silk and satin, sliding down the taut, olive length of her calves and pooling around her ankles.

Lita stood there in La Perla snow-white lace, a little demitasse bra, strapless, that fought to contain her breasts. They spilled out deliciously over the top, and Mark found his breath catching in his throat. Her small waist tapered down to flat stomach, lean from exercise, then flared out again as the swell of her ass was caught in another wisp of white lace, cut high on the thigh, that seemed to make her more naked than bare flesh alone would have, because it teased him unmercifully. Bisecting the firm, creamy flesh at the tops of her thighs were the lines of her garter belt, matching cream against her tawny skin, with see-through white stockings running down to her kitten heels, sheer enough so he could see the colour of her smooth thighs through them.

‘Mmh,’ Mark said. It was more of a grunt. He swooped up her dress and flung it unceremoniously over the back of a Louis XVIII chair. ‘I could eat you. In fact, I think I’will.’

Lita felt a prickling of desire crackle oVer her skin, raising all the downy hairs on the back of her arms and legs. She reached out and

tugged at his tie, but Mark’s hand brushed hers back.

‘Not yet.’

He stretched out one finger and traced a light, teasing line down the line of her jaw to her bra, circling just above her nipple, which was red and peaked through the lace. Lita gasped faintly, little tendrils of desire shooting from her breasts down to her belly .and between her legs, burning there. Mark expertly unhooked her bra, letting her full breasts bounce slightly free. Lita heard his own breath shorten. His hands moved forward, but didn’t touch her, maddening her. His eyes dwelt on her swollen, dark nipples, and his hands slid down her wai;t, snapping her garter belt free. He gently tugged the stockings from her slim legs, his thumb and forefinger rubbing against the arch of her foot.

Lita suppressed a moan in the back of her throat. Mark was making

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her wait, touching her everywhere that wasn’t obvious, lighting up her whole body, her whole skin. Tiny hairs rose everywhere. She became desperately conscious of the sensation of the soft carpet under her toes, of the whisper of inadequate lace between her legs, where she was completely moist and slick. Mark was fully dressed, even to having his shoes on. His eyes trailed possessively over her body, where she stood in front of him, trembling.

He was on his knees now and he raised his hands, tormentingly slowly, up her calves, touching her, massaging her, keeping his eyes level with them, until he drew up between her legs and his stare bored right through the tiny snatch of white fabric. He inserted his two thumbs under her panties and rubbed the sides of her hips, tugging the tiny triangle free so that she was completely naked, and she could feel his

hot breath against her skin …

‘Mark. God,’ Lira panted.

He pressed his mouth closer and trailed the tip of his tongue over her. Lita sobbed and bit against the sides of her cheeks to keep herself quiet. When she was squirming hard against him, he stood up, grinning, and kicked off his shoes. Lira wanted to tear the buttons from his shirt, but her fingers were shaking so much she knew she wouldn’t be able to control them. Mark stripped off his clothes fast, working efficiently, like he had total control of himself. His body was the way she had known it would be - wiry and hard, with his erection thick against the dark silky hair of his groin. He moved back closer to her, pressing himself against her, not taking her quite yet, his hands raning over her skin, lightly brushing over the nipples, then darting down her back, cupping the firm swell of her ass. His breath was hot against her skin. Lita writhed in his arlllS.

‘Mark, Mark …’

‘What?’ His voice was a whisper in her ear. :You didn’t expect this? You have to be prepared. You see, I’m a doctor. I know how your body works. Every inch of it.’

He lifted her up and carried her lightly to the bed. Her weight was as nothing in his arms. He laid her down, and she felt the satin coverlet against her body.

‘You’re mine, Lira. I waited to claim you, and now you’re mine.’ He kissed her hard and pulled her hands over her head, pinning her wrists together with one hand while the other one strayed over her thighs, gently pushing them apart. Then he thrust, hard, into her, still controlled, his mouth working its way along her jawline and down her neck, the little butterfly kisses contrasting with the hard movement of his hips pressing into her. Lita’s back arched with sheer pleasure. She was

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so primed, so ready for him. Her nails dug into his back, but Mark didn’t stop, didn’t even seem to notice. Small waves of pressure broke from the centre of her, her pleasure building up relentlessly, until she was moving with him, gasping out his name. Mark twisted his hips, angling his thickness even deeper into her so that he pushed against the small, melting, white-hot spot in the slick walls of her which Lira hadn’t even known was there, and she shuddered into a huge, relentless orgasm, and somewhere felt Mark gasp and surrender himself inside her, until they were sweating and panting in each other’s arms.

Becky placed a call to Ken Stone, who had refused a position at Wilson in favour of a directorship at KPMG. He told her the name of the woman. Rosalita Morales, the president and founder of New Wave, apparently over in England to expand a New York business. Becky called Aunt Mindy, who knew a friend that worked on Madison

Avenue, and she relayed that New Wave was a well-regarded boutique. Not for long, Becky thought bitterly.

Her sunny nature had retreated behind clouds of anger and disappointment. Logan didn’t call. He had sent her one card, a beautiful Victorian valentine with a pressed four-leafed clover inside it. Becky had never seen a real one. She looked at it, then tossed the card out.

Then there was 1Kosalita. You goddamn bitch, Becky thought. She knew, deep in her heart, that the woman had come here to destroy her. A little digging confirmed this fact, at least in Becky’s mind. Her hatchet job on Lancaster had been the first thing her stupid little firm had done in England. Probably with the blessing of Rupert.

That was OK, Becky told herselF. Lita would get hers. But until she had some power, she couldn’t do a damn thing to her. Becky longed for Logan, the bastard, but the drive to reinvent her father’s company was

ever-present, and the only thing that could distract her.

‘You can’t get a hotel?’

Sharon was supportive and dismayed for Becky.

‘No.’ She shook her head, and her long golden hair gleamed in the sunlight. ‘But I have an idea.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Sharon blew out her cheeks.

‘I already have a building.’ Becky gestured to the house behind her.

Sharon looked horrified. ‘You can’t be serious. The government will never let you touch this place. This is Grade I listed.’

‘I’m not going to touch the place. At least, not much. i’m going to get permission to install plumbing in a couple of the rooms, so that they can be bathrooms. This isn’t going to become a Holiday Inn. I’m thinking super-luxurious, high-end clientele, and not many of them

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either. Perhaps room for ten couples. We have six spare bathrooms right now. I won’t touch the walls, I’ll just run in some new pipes. I bet if I call English Heritage and ask them to design a plan in keeping with the house, I’ll get permission.’

‘That’s a bloody good idea,’ Sharon said slowly. ‘You would make

them feel you gave a damn about their opinions, so they wouldn’t block

you.’

Becky was enthusiastic. ‘I have enough money not to need financing

from anybody. Sure, it’ll wipe me out, but what the hell. There’s a market for that kind of luxury.’

Sharon looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know… Inflation… strikes, taxes

… Nobody’s spending much on luxury here.’

‘Not in the UK. But that doesn’t apply to the States.’ Becky smiled. ‘I

know both places. And I know enough about conventional hotels to be

able to run this well.’

‘Go for it,’ Sharon said. ‘Bags I be Vice-President.’

‘I don’t know,’ Becky said, looking her friend over critically. ‘Just

how cheap will you work?’

‘Cow,’ Sharon retorted, grinning.

After all the humiliations with the banks, this plan worked perfectly. Becky had her own money, and she knew how to kowtow to mandarins. Her plan for four more bathrooms was approved, and she spared no expense. The fixtures were designed to look like antiques but to work like new, with freestanding iron laths on little lion legs in the corners of the rooms, hot, powerful showers encased in glass but inlaid with marble and stone carvings of the Lancaster coat of arms. Becky kept records of every last penny she spent for tax, and Sharon helped her find labour - reliable friends who were maids, cooks and musicians. She knew a girl who had opened a professional massage salon, and drafted her in too.

‘They’ll expect a certain level of luxury.’ Becky showed Sharon an old, musty storeroom in the back of the house. It had large, dirty bay windows that looked down towards the maze. ‘I’m going to clear out this rubbish, spruce this up and set up a massage table, speakers for soothing music, a manicure desk, foot massage… Ellen will stay in the house every day while the guests are here, so they can have beauty treatments twenty-four seven.’

‘I know a make-up artist that’s on the dole,’ Sharon suggested. ‘She’d be glad to come, too. If I were a rich lady on vacation I’d love to have my hair washed and my make-up done professionally every day. Seduce the husband, like.’

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‘History and hairstyling. I love it. Can she do hair, too?’ ‘She can’t cut it, but I think she can set it.’ ‘That’ll have to do.’

Becky asked Mrs Morecambe to arrange for the old chauffeur, Jenkins, to be ready to make airport runs, and she used Irish linen for the sheets and Royal Doulton for the dinner service. Mrs Morecambe had a cousin who was a butler. Unemployment was ridiculously high in Heath’s Britain, and people jumped at the chance of a new job. When she thought she was ready, she booked herself on a flight to New York, first class there and back.

She couldn’t afford it, but that didn’t matter. She was selling luxury, and that meant she had to think luxury.

Thank God she wouldn’t be charged to stay at Aunt Mindy’s.

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Becky spent the first week catching up with her family. That was fun, almost too much fun. She didn’t want anybody to know she found she had nothing in common with her old classmates, though. The girls were mostly full of plans to marry; rich bankers and lawyers were favoured. She found the old crowd, with their endless tennis matches and talk about nothing, to be completely uninteresting. But Becky put herself through it. She went horseback riding, put on her little white tennis skirt and sneakers, and chatted idly about the weather, movies and who was having whom to dinner.

She waited for her opportunity. She would spot it when it came.

‘God, I’m so tired of Mauritius,’ Katherine Simpson drawled one night

over the pheasant and claret.

They were staying at Philip Simpson’s ‘farm’ in Dutchess County. Simpson ran one of the more exclusive hunts in New York State, and owned exclusive health and racquet clubs in Manhattan. Becky was dining with her cousin Susie and her husband Bob, who shot game birds at the Simpsons’ country club. They had twenty couples ranged around a long, seventeenth-century farmhouse table, all of them social register types, with a couple of nouveau Wall-Streeters thrown in for good measure. Becky liked the Wall Street types best, but she wasn’t going to be fussy. She’d had to endure a bunch of needling from the others as to why she wasn’t married yet, not to mention forcing polite conversation when seated next to the bespectacled, veedy nerds they seemed to think were good ‘prospects’ for her.