CHAPTER FIFTEEN: CHLOE
Hunter travelled back to Notting Hill Gate from the Hilton by cab, glancing from time to time out of the rear window. Paranoia was catching. But he saw no pursuers, and party thoughts dispersed his fears. His flat was silent, and undisturbed, and Cradock's case nestled safely behind his sofa. He showered quickly, hesitating for a few minutes in front of his wardrobe, and decided to dress casually, but smartly, to reflect his status as a man about to trigger a bomb under British politics. He picked out a dark blue silk shirt and dark blue brushed cotton chinos, knotted the arms of a dark blue lambswool pullover loosely around his neck, combed back his wet hair so that it would dry into a youthful brush cut, checked the shine on his shoes, and felt wholly ready to conquer the world.
Nash's club seemed half asleep. The entrance was lit up, and a bouncer stood guard, but it was still too early for nightclubbing - there was no queue, and the street was virtually empty, with plenty of space to park. Hunter hopped his Clio Williams onto the edge of the pavement, locked up, and made his way to the door.
The bouncer was deferential. ‘I wouldn't leave it there, sir. Car keys.’
Hunter raised an eyebrow.
‘Along the side of your motor. They can leave a nasty scratch.’
Hunter swallowed hard, handed over his keys and added a fiver. It was a price well worth paying to keep his paintwork pristine.
A second bouncer in the entrance lobby directed him up to Nash's management suite. It was already a busy cross between a cocktail party and a victory celebration, with knots of men gossiping and drinking, and a scattering of women.
Nash stood at the centre of the largest knot, surrounded by Gorbodey and his fellow Russians. They were busy chatting up a gaggle of girls in party dresses, and Hunter could see Cosgrave and Morissey standing close together by the plate glass wall overlooking the club dancefloor. Nash waved a welcoming hand, and the Russians all beamed. He broke away, both hands outstretched.
‘Welcome, my friend, my friend, welcome.’ He bared his teeth in a great shark grin. ‘It's wonderful to have you here.’ He was spruce in white silk jersey poloneck and navyblue slacks, with his beard neatly trimmed, and his voice was a foghorn - Nash was never a man to be shy. He pumped Hunter's hand. ‘We've got wine, we've got women, a bit later we're going to pump up the volume.’
The Russians abandoned the girls to gather round them. ‘Mr. Hunter, you were very good man.’ Melnikov grabbed Hunter's hand, used it to anchor him, and flung his left arm around Hunter's neck. His chin was a mass of dark bristles against Hunter's cheek, and he smelled strongly of alcohol. ‘We are your friends, very good friends.’
He released Hunter's hand and Gorbodey seized it. He beamed, but contented himself with a vigorous shake. ‘Richard, we are grateful to you forever.’ He winked. ‘We have good news for you.’
Cosgrave and Morissey joined them, and the party girls stood in the background sending admiration signals. They could see that the newcomer was somebody very important and vied to catch his eye, and Hunter beamed generally in all directions. A couple of the girls were well-rounded up-front chicks in tight blouses and short skirts and looked very willing, but he focussed on a tall darkhaired girl standing further back and watching him coolly. She was slim, and had a reserved air about her, and her pageboy bob and dark blue silk dress made her look almost severe. But her eyes also flashed momentarily with a dark opalescent fire as they met his, and he made a mental note to find out whether she had still waters running deep.
However Nash and the Russians were already heading towards Nash's back room, with Cosgrave and Morissey en suite, and it was plain from the Russians' body language that they had something seriously attractive in mind. Hunter flashed a quick smile at the girl in blue, and followed. Nash stopped to hold Cosgrave and Morrissey back, and Gorbodey closed the door behind him. The Russians were shoulder to shoulder, beaming, and there were several bottles with Russian labels and some glasses on the table. Gorbodey half filled five glasses. He held a glass out to Hunter and the Russians lifted theirs solemnly.
Melnikov beamed a great bear beam. ‘We drink in gratitude.’ He raised his glass to his lips and downed the contents in a single gulp. Gorbodey and the two other Russians followed suit. Hunter raised his glass, swallowed, and spluttered wildly. The glass was half filled with fire, and his eyes filled with tears.
Melnikov laughed a great guttural laugh, the laugh of a hard drinking man, and signed to Gorbodey to refill their glasses. Hunter swallowed again. He could feel vodka winging straight to his brain, like a brush fire travelling across dry grass on a baking hot day, and he raised a negative hand nervously as Elektron's chairman showed signs of wanting to trigger a third round.
Gorbodey shook his head and said something in Russian: it was plain that he was apologising for the faintheartedness of a weaker man. His companions looked disappointed, and Gorbodey hurried to take an envelope from the pocket inside his jacket and hand it to Melnikov.
Melnikov held it out. ‘For you.’ He was beaming again.
Hunter took the envelope and opened it gingerly. Inside was a bearer cheque drawn on the Union Bank of Switzerland for an improbably large sum in American dollars.
‘It is for your help.’
Hunter was lost for words. He turned the cheque over and over in his fingers and for a moment felt close to tears. Wealth is a truly wonderful gift, and suddenly he found himself in a new world – as though he had won a major National Lottery prize, over and above any reward he might expect from Cosgrave, not to mention the big, big pickings Cradock would bring. A whole vista of new horizons now beckoned. He could have something big for a car, maybe a top of the range Mercedes, and a house in the country, maybe a house somewhere warm as well. Provence perhaps, or Spain. He beamed at Melnikov, at Gorbodey, and at the two other Russians. He felt an ace at the zenith.
Melnikov looked hopeful. ‘Now we drink?’
Gorbodey was already refilling glasses.
Hunter held out his hand. ‘Now we drink.’
He took his glass and the five men raised their arms, tilting their heads back in unison. Melnikov held his empty glass high and then, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it back over his shoulder. Gorbodey and the two other Russians followed suit.
Hunter only hesitated for a moment, and sent his glass flying. Life was about being smart, and being successful, and winning. He thought of the girl in the blue silk dress, and offered up a silent prayer that the Russians were not planning to drink him under the table.
Melnikov looked hopeful again, but Gorbodey shook his head and spoke again, nodding towards the door. He eyed Hunter.
‘I told the chairman he must wait. I think you had lunch with Mr. Harris?’
Hunter twitched. Gorbodey's voice was level, and conversational, but his question sounded a sudden shrill siren of alarm. For a moment Hunter's joy trembled and a lightning attack of paranoia swept the vodka in his head aside. He was a tracked man: both Croesus and the Russians were plainly now following his movements, and Cradock's tale might well cause men to hone sharp knives. Then he remembered that he had told the Russian his plans. But he was still beset by fear, and filled with an urge to escape, to be far, far away from this small claustrophobic room, lying with the girl in blue silk, naked and entwined in her arms, with her blue silk dress abandoned beside them.
Gorbodey watched him anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’
Hunter ran his hand across his face. ‘It's the vodka.’
‘Only that?’
Hunter felt cornered. He backed away instinctively. ‘Everyone knows my movements.’
Gorbodey waited.
‘I had to meet somebody at Waterloo station. I told nobody. But Croesus knew.’
Melnikov growled a short burst of Russian, and Gorbodey replied. He smiled at Hunter quickly. ‘The chairman thinks you might be tagged, but we can come back to that. What did Harris tell you?’
‘He called you a bunch of crooks.’
Melnikov repeated the word, and his companions stiffened, and suddenly their faces were set hard, and now they were no longer great amiable bears of men, but steely figures and icy in their sternness.
Gorbodey hurried to the door, and ushered in Cosgrave, Morissey, and Nash. They listened in silence as Hunter began to summarises his lunch and Croesus' game plan - with Gorbodey holding up his hand from time to time to make space for a rapid fire bursts of translation. Hunter closed off with Croesus' offer to cut him in for a scoop, and Cosgrave laughed. It was a sharp harsh sound, like the bark of a fox.
Melnikov held up his hand, palm uppermost, as an invitation for him to speak.
‘We'll bury the bastard.’ Cosgrave had his eye on the cluster of vodka bottles on the table. ‘No problem.’
The Russians remained carved in stone.
‘Well, now we know his strategy, we can call the shots.’ Cosgrave waited for Gorbodey to fire off another burst of Russian. Morissey had sat down, and was twirling an empty glass in his fingers, Nash had the look of a man who had taken his turn and moved on.
‘We'll stage a false top, dump some stock on the market to bring the price back a bit, wait for him to kick off on the bear tack, and then squeeze the bastard by the short and hairies.’ Cosgrave was fast and fluent, and had the self-satisfied look of a man who had measured all the possibilities and espied much profit.
Gorbodey fires off some more Russian, and paused. ‘Short and hairies?’ He looked baffled.
Cosgrave cupped his hand on his crotch. ‘We'll castrate the bastard.’
Gorbodey looked at his companions and Melnikov smiled briefly. Crudity plainly transcended language barriers.
Morissey stopped twirling. ‘You mean we'll win?’
Cosgrave took the glass from his fingers, poured himself a good measure of vodka, and downed it in one. ‘In double spades.’
Suddenly everyone was smiling. Cosgrave graciously took it on himself to refill the Russians' glasses, and poured Morissey and Nash good measures into the bargain. Hunter held his hand over his glass, but moved it reluctantly when Cosgrave began pouring vodka through his fingers. He had a feeling that a party was starting within a party, and a girl in blue silk was calling in his mind. He must stay sober, or at least sober enough, and he had done his good deed for the day.
The Russians drank, and more glasses smashed. Nash winced, and then shrugged. He would make money on stockmarket gyrations, and to hell with a few quid here and there. Gorbodey clapped Hunter on the shoulder.
‘Now you are all right?’
Hunter nodded at the door. ‘There are girls out there.’
The Russian beamed. They were all now rather tight, and the small room had the intimacy of a men's changing room. ‘Ok, now we let you go.’ He fired a quick burst of Russian, and Melnikov rolled his eyes. Then he said a word, and Gorbodey put his hand on Hunter's arm.
‘But first we check you out.’
He spoke rapidly in Russian to one of Melnikov's companions, and the man nodded, opening a black document case to take out a small black metal box, about the size of a cigarette pack.
Gorbodey took the box and held it close to Hunter at eye level.
‘This is detector for bugs.’ He swept the box from side to side, down Hunter's shirt to his waist, and stopped. The box had begun to click like a demented pair of castanets. ‘Take your shirt out of your pants.’
Hunter unfastened his belt and pulled his shirt free, watching the Russian with bemusement. The small room was suddenly quiet, all bar the clicking from the box. Gorbodey reached for Hunter's shirt, examined the last button quickly, slid his thumbnail underneath it, and prized it away from the shirt. He held the button up with a broad grin.
‘It is bug.’
He held it out to Hunter. The button seemed very real. But it had a kind of tiny press-stud arrangement on the back instead of thread holes, and it was metal, not plastic.
‘Somebody went into your closet and put tags on all your shirts, maybe your pants as well.’ Gorbodey had the happy look of a retriever holding a juicy pheasant in its mouth. ‘Tomorrow we sweep your car and your home.’
Hunter was still staring at the bug. It was a marker, and a confirmation, and the blade of a very sharp knife. Now he knew he was a hunted man, a prey to be trapped at any time, and his mouth was suddenly very dry. ‘You mean whoever put this here can track me around the clock?’
‘Anytime, anywhere.’ Melnikov took the bug, examined it closely, and passed it to his companions. ‘It is well made, good technology.’ He fired a burst of questioning Russian at Gorbodey, and Hunter made out Harris' name.
Gorbodey shrugged and frowns. He was silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then he held out his hand, took the button, and examined it closely. Hunter watched anxiously.
‘This bug.’ Gorbodey held it up. ‘We cannot understand why Harris should go to so much trouble. He knows where you work, he thinks you might be useful to him. It does not make sense.’
Hunter shook his head. ‘It wan’t Harris.’
‘Somebody else?’
Now all the men in the small room were watching him closely.
‘It might be.’ Hunter rapidly sketched his evening at the San Isidro and his rashness at resurrecting skeletons. But he did not mention Cradock. Paranoia feeds on itself, and he had a secret that was not for sharing.
Gorbodey, Melnikov and the two other Russians spoke rapidly together. Gorbodey fired off several bursts of Russian, and his companions nodded sagely. The huddle broke up and he beamed at Hunter.
‘Okay, we will check it out.’ He dropped the button in his pocket with the confident look of a man who could probe the darkest corners. ‘I have friends here who know many, many secrets. They will tell me.’ He smiled reassuringly, and clapped Hunter on the shoulder. ‘Don't worry about it. We will debug you, totally, and you will be a free man again.’
Hunter thought of knives, and men hiding in shadows, stalking him along streets, and waiting for him to sleep. Suddenly he was afraid. ‘But they know where I live, and they know where I work.’
Nash frowned. ‘He's right. He'd better stay away from his flat.’
Gorbodey considered his words for a moment, and then shrugged them away. ‘Maybe we will have somebody keep him company. Very discreet.’
It was a reassurance, and a release. Hunter thought of the girl in blue silk outside, beamed gratefully in all directions and made for the door. Blue silk was calling, and Cosgrave, Morrisey, Nash and the Russians could stay with the vodka and drink themselves silly, if they so chose. He had quite another ambition.
The girl in the blue silk dress sat at a VIP Lounge table on her own with a glass of champagne in front of her, but barely seemed to have touched it. She stared at Hunter coolly as he walked towards her, and he smiled hopefully. For a moment her eyes narrowed a little, as though she were assessing him, and then she smiled as well, a cool non-committal smile of polite welcome.
Hunter stopped and looked down at her, and felt desire grow in him, and suddenly sensed that he was lighting a matching flame: for now the girl's eyes began to smoulder up at him with an opalescent fire, and her lips half parted, soft and warm and red. Her dark hair made a sleek halo framing her face, and something in her reached out to him, and felt his need. Their eyes locked, and it was as though a bolt of lightning flashed between them.
Nash broke their spell. ‘Richard, this is Chloe. Chloe, meet Richard.’ He stood at Hunter's elbow, beaming a great shark beam. ‘Chloe’s my secretary, a fabulous girl, the best.’ He guffawed. ‘Treat her well, and mind she doesn't bite. She's a tough cookie.’
He moved on. He had things to do, people to talk to, a party to organise. He would catch up with one of the up-front chicks in short skirts later in the evening, and collect his due. Girls came as part and parcel of owning a nightclub.
Hunter took a chair facing the girl. But the management suite of Nash's nightclub was not the right place.
‘You know who I am. Who are you?’ The girl's voice had the same dark velvet quality as her eyes.
‘I write for a newspaper.’
‘You’re the man from Financeday?’ It was both question and affirmation.
Hunter nodded. Alice Carew was laughter and charm and brilliance, and Veronica Finch a possible passing pleasure. But this girl bewitched him in a wholly physical sense.
‘Jim says you've set the City on fire.’
Her words were a trigger. Hunter's eyes blazed, all delicacy wholly swept away. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve set me on fire.’
‘Really?’ Her eyes held his. ‘What did you have in mind?’
He only hesitated for the blink of an eye. Her question was a challenge, and a moment of truth, calling on him to speak without reserve.
‘I want to go to bed with you.’
The girl was silent for a moment, staring at him, and then she nodded slightly, as though he had voiced a wish that she recognised in her own mind. She placed her hand on the table. It was well shaped, with long tapering fingers, and Hunter covered them with his own.
‘You're very direct.’
‘It's the truth.’
‘I believe you.’ She smiled, and her fingers entwined in Hunter's, enfolding him. But her touch only lasted for a moment, and then she was on her feet, and he could see that her body under her blue silk was as well formed as her hands - small-breasted and slim, with shapely hips flowing into long coltish legs - and she was laughing. ‘But first we must have something to eat, because I'm famished.’
It was an invitation, and a promise, and Hunter knew that he would be blessed.
They joined a queue at a buffet. Gorbodey stopped to kiss the girl's hand.
‘You are smart man, Richard. You have the very best.’
Chloe smiled. Melnikov rolled past with the two other Russians in tow, Cosgrave and Morissey were already busy eating. Music began to pound down on the club dance floor, and Chloe and Hunter ate, and then danced, weaving lithe patterns with their bodies, and now Chloe was an enchantress, casting magic spells, and binding Hunter with invisible chains. They drank champagne, and then entwined as the music slows, and they were both sweating a little in the heat and their desire, sharing an imperative need.
The music switched back to a faster beat, but they stood motionless, and Chloe entwined her arms around Hunter's neck. ‘Do you want to stay?’
Hunter was rampant. ‘Come back to my place.’
She laughed softly. ‘Are you sober?’
‘I'll drive very, very carefully.’
‘I'll follow you.’
Hunter looked at her in quick alarm, but she smiled reassuringly. ‘I've got to run some errands for Jim in the morning, and I'll need my car.’
They began to drift towards the door, and Hunter remembered Gorbodey's bug. He held on to Chloe's hand as he went to hunt out the Russian, because now he was counting down to fulfilment.
Gorbodey had netted one of the up-front chicks and was teaching her cossack dancing. He beamed at Hunter: he was plainly not in a mood to be distracted. ‘I come to your place in the morning.’
Hunter hesitated. ‘Do you know where I live?’
Gorbodey winked. ‘I know everything. I will be with you at nine. It will not take long.’
It was a dismissal. Hunter waved gratitude at Nash, complicity at Cosgrave and Morissey, and hurried Chloe down the stairs towards the street. Hot blood now dictated his agenda.
He drove home carefully, checking every few minutes to ensure that Chloe was still on his tail. But the headlights of her small Ford convertible were unwavering, and she followed him deftly as he coasted down the slope into the carpark under his block of flats, pulling up beside him.
They kissed again, and Hunter smoothed his hands down over her hips, cupping them under the curves of her buttocks, and he could feel the blue silk sliding up her thighs until the tips of his fingers caressed the tendrils of hair edging her panties. Chloe had linked her arms around his neck, kissing him in little gusts of passion, pressing herself hard against him, and he freed his hands to slide them back up her dress until they were outspread between them, palms cupping the small curves of her breasts, thumbs working gently against the small hardnesses of her nipples.
She paused for breath, and pulled away a little, and pushed her own hand down between them, pressing her palm against him and working her hand up and down until she located the zip in his chinos and worked it free, twisting and turning her fingers in a bid to bring out his swollen penis.
Hunter felt as though he might be about to explode. It was the wrong place, and it was too much. He drew away suddenly. ‘We'd better go up to my flat.’
Chloe was panting a little, her forehead beaded with sweat. ‘We could do it here.’
‘No.’ He pushed himself back inside his chinos and pulled the zip back up again. ‘I want to make love to you, real love. Properly, in a bed. Not standing up in an underground carpark.’
She giggled, trying to get at his zip again, but Hunter knew his mind. ‘No, not here.’
‘Not here?’ Her face crumpled in mock grief.
‘Upstairs.’ Hunter tugged her towards the lift. ‘We’ve got to do this in comfort.’
They kissed again in the lift, and Chloe again mounted a determined attack on his zip. But fortunately the lift moved faster than her fingers, and Hunter managed successfully to manoeuvre her, kiss by kiss, across the landing outside his flat to his front door.
He felt a fresh stab of paranoia as he unlocked and opened his door. But his hallway was still and unchanged, and Chloe was already tugging at him as he hesitated.
‘Come on.’ Her voice held a fierce hoarse edge. ‘Where's this big comfortable bed you promised me?’
Hunter took her hand and led her towards his bedroom. The room was twilit by the streetlights outside. He unfastened the buttons on the shirtfront of her dress quickly, pushing the blue silk down over her shoulders, reaching behind her to free her bra, and her breasts were small curves cupped in his hands. He bent to kiss each in turn, savouring the saltiness of her skin, and then knelt in front of her, working her dress and her pants down over her hips, kissing the shallow pit of her navel, working his hands gently together across her loins, and she was standing resting her hands on his shoulders, massaging him with matching gentleness.
His fingertips probed tendrils of hair again, and now her clothes were scattered around her on his bedroom carpet. He caressed the tendrils with the tip of his tongue, but she pushes at him gently.
‘No. Now I'll undress you.’
Her hands reached under his armpits, lifting him back onto his feet, and she kissed him again, her arms entwining his neck, her naked body pressed against his shirt. Then she stepped back to unfasten his shirt deftly, unzipping his chinos as he freed his arms, pushing them down over his hips, and she took his swollen penis, stroking it gently. Hunter pushed her hand away, because he was not sure how much stroking he could take, and led her towards his bed. They fell on the bed together, to twist and turn together, and lock into each other together, and move together, and it was all that he wanted, and he paced himself until she cried out, and then drove himself into his own release.
Afterwards they lay in the dark, still locked into each other, exchanging small kisses, and stroking each other with their fingers in the fulfilment that comes with satisfaction.
‘That was nice.’ Chloe's voice was a dark purr.
Hunter cupped her breast with the palm of his hand, and caressed her nipple with the tips of his fingers. He was drinking from a well of ecstasy, and the well was bottomless. He began to move again, gently, experimentally, lying beside her with his leg between her legs, so that he was pressed hard against her, moving his body from side to side instead of as a piston, so that he could fan a fresh fire. For a moment Chloe moved lazily with him, and then gathered pace, moving her own body against his, locking her arms around his neck. She began kissing him fiercely, her tongue pressing in on him, and Hunter struggled to prevent himself climaxing ahead of her. But he controlled his body, pacing himself again so that he could time his rising urgency, and they fought together for breath as they joined in a moment of union and separation.
They remain locked together, resting again for a while, until they both rebuilt their desire, and then they moved together again, and each time they moved Hunter knew that he was barely plumbing the well of Chloe's body, and that her body was a well from which he would be able to drink again and again without drowning his need. They rested again, and united again, and sometimes they dozed, caught up in a sequence where time no longer held any significance, except to provide a carpet of pleasure spreading before them to infinity, until eventually Chloe drew away, expelling him from her body, and yawned sleepily.
‘I've got to go to work tomorrow.’
Hunter ran his fingers down her flank. He was also tired, but knew desire could drive him on forever.
‘No.’ Her voice was firm. ‘I want to sleep now.’
She spoke sharply. Hunter edged back reluctantly, closing his eyes. Chloe was already breathing deeply. He smiled to himself as he began to drift away in his turn. He would wake in the morning and seduce her again.
He slept fitfully, waking once in the middle of the night to relieve himself, curling himself up against Chloe's body as he returned to bed. But she pushed him away sleepily as he began to run his fingers gently down her spine, rolling away from him, and he slipped back into a nightmare in which he was with Cradock, and they were being pursued by a gang of men in uniform, policemen perhaps, or security guards, to take refuge in Cosgrave's cellar. It was dark, and he was quivering with fear, and he could hear a voice demanding entrance, and Cosgrave’s voice replying that the cellar was empty. But the voice was insistent, and knew that he was concealed, and Cosgrave gave way.
‘Wake up.’ A hand shook his shoulder. Hunter opened a bleary eye. Chloe stood looking down at him, swathed in his white towelling robe.
He reached up to catch her hand, but she smiled, stepping back. ‘I've been trying to find some coffee.’
He blinked, and yawned. The hands on his bedside alarm showed seven o'clock, and it was much too early to get up. He stared up at her speculatively, reaching out again. There were better ways to spend a morning at seven than drinking coffee.
‘No.’ Her voice was firm. ‘I want some coffee.’
Hunter rolled reluctantly out of bed, picked his crumpled shirt up from the carpet, and padded into his kitchen to find and grind some beans. Chloe stood watching him as he cuts a couple of slices of bread and switched on his grill. He kept his back to her as he brewed coffee and made toast - he was a little embarrassed, because he was engorged again.
They were both silent. Hunter poured black coffee into two cups, and placed sugar, butter and marmalade on the table, then flipped the toasts onto a plate. Chloe moved across the kitchen to stand beside him. She lifted the hem of his shirt deftly, and giggled.
‘Oh, dear.’ Her hand dabbed quickly at his swollen penis. ‘You look as though you need coffee as well.’
Hunter turned to grab her, but she was gone, seating herself demurely at his kitchen table to spread her toast with butter and marmalade. They crunched together in silence. Then she stretched in a langourous catlike movement, filled with grace and a feline sexuality, and Hunter licked his lips hopefully. But she frowned at her watch, and her expression suddenly changed from playfulness to purposefulness. ‘Oh, hell. Time's moving on. I need a shower - I want to wash my hair.’
Hunter got to his feet and circled the table to stand behind her. He rested his hands on her shoulders, and began to stroke the nape of her neck. She was silent, as though weighing rival options. Then she shivered.
‘All right. But we'll have to be quick.’ Her voice was businesslike and controlled. ‘I want to be back at the club by nine.’
Hunter led her back into his bedroom. But now their uniting was planned and timed: Chloe's fingers caressed him quickly, even perfunctorily, as though she had set her fingertips to some inner metronome, and they hurried through their coition. She lay against him for a moment, and then she was out of his bed and on her feet.
‘Have you got shampoo?’
Hunter stared up at her, and felt a momentary pang of disillusion. He rolled out of bed again to locate shampoo in his bathroom, shaving as Chloe bathed. He had an ominous feeling that somehow he had failed to make her first team, and might now be relegated to souvenir status, to rank as no more than a memory in some Chloe scrapbook. He dressed and returned to the kitchen: it was just eight o'clock.
Chloe reappeared as he drank a fresh cup of coffee. She was freshly washed and neatly brushed, and her blue silk dress had barely any creases. She smiled, a brief little businesslike smile. ‘I'm sorry if I rushed you, but I've got to think of moving along.’
Hunter held up his cup and she shook her head.
‘No, I'm fine.’
He hesitated. ‘Can I see you again?’
Her face clouded. ‘I'm not sure that would be a good idea.’
Hunter was silent. He guessed that he must have failed some test. He swallowed painfully. ‘It was really good.’
‘Thank you.’ Her face was neutral.
‘We could go out to dinner. Somewhere smart.’
Her face clouded again. Chloe was accustomed to men falling for her, and some had showered her with expensive gifts. But she was a free spirit, beholden to none. This man had taken his pleasure of her, and perhaps sought to create pleasure within her. But he was nobody special: he had none of the drive and charisma and power of a man capable of building an empire. Somebody else could have him: one day she would find better.
Hunter sighed. He knew that had lost, but he would not yield willingly. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ She clipped her voice, because she hated messy partings, and wanted to be away. But suddenly the woebegone expression on Hunter's face, his look of brave defeat, stirred her anger. He was a man like all other men, who thought of himself as a gift to girls, but gave nothing except to himself.
‘We wouldn't be right for each other.’ Her voice was harsh, hammering out her words in sharp little blows. ‘You're too intellectual in bed, too controlled. You played it like a kind of fitness training, doing something to improve your body.’
She turned to head for the flat door, keeping her final blow for her exit, and spoke over her shoulder. ‘I guess it must be an age thing.’
A moment later the front door of Hunter's flat closed behind her, and she was gone.