Scarlet Women

secret lover. But then, it was just casual sex. And business, she told herself.

Oh sure.

She knew she was lying to herself. Trying to keep it cool even though, more and more, she was coming to crave Constantine Barolli like a boozer craves alcohol.

She put on a black silk shift dress and matching jacket, pinning a red silk rose into the dress’s plunging decolletage, a red silk rose in a screaming hot red to match her lipstick. Slipped on highheeled black courts, brushed her dark hair until it lay on her shoulders in a thick gleaming curtain.

When she was finished she looked at herself in the mirror and thought, Not bad, girl. And then of course she was reminded of Aretha, Aretha and her ebullient high-fives and huge grin, Aretha who was dead and gone. And then of Chris, banged up in Wandsworth on remand, awaiting trial for her murder, and possibly the murders of two more.

Dig deep, she thought. Hadn’t she always done that? With a drunk for a mother and an absentee father and more shit than you could shake a stick at being thrown at her from all directions ever since she could crawl, there was nothing else she could do.

She went out of the flat, locked it. Went down the stairs.

‘Mrs Carter?’ One of the builders stopped her just inside the main door. He was a youngster, just learning his trade, spotty and bashful. She’d seen him around a lot. He approached her, carrying something wrapped in rustling cellophane. ‘Someone left these out on the step.’

He handed the gift to her. She gasped. It was a bouquet, a bouquet of dead roses. All neatly put together, beautifully wrapped. But the flowers were dead, the petals curled and blackened, the leaves wilted and yellow. Annie stared at them and a spasm of unease gripped her. Who the hell…?

There was a card, tucked in there. She tore at the cellophane, pulled it out. Read it.

Annie Carter, it said. Nothing else.

She looked at the youngster. He blushed. ‘They were on the front step?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said, and tried a smile. ‘Practical joke, huh?’

Not much of a bloody joke, thought Annie. She slapped the dead flowers and the card back into his arms. ‘Chuck ‘em out,’ she said, and went on outside into the sunshine. What sicko would send a thing like that?

Tony was there, holding the back door of the car open for her. She sank back into butter-soft leather, still seeing those dead flowers, that carefully printed card.

‘Where to, Boss?’ asked Tony, getting behind the wheel. The gold crosses were glinting in his ears as his eyes met hers in the mirror.

She told him the five-star hotel in Park Lane. Aretha had died in Park Lane. Annie pushed the thought aside. And the thought of the flowers too. She was in a position of influence, running the manor—of course she had enemies. But, just for today, she was going to forget all that bollocks. Tomorrow, she’d have to face up to it all, and she’d have to do it, that thing she was dreading. Today, she was going to drink a little champagne—even she could manage that—and forget.

Chapter 28

A doorman in dark green livery and a gleaming top hat greeted her at the door. She told reception that she was with Mr Barolli’s party and was quickly shown to the penthouse’s private dining room. It was so exquisitely beautiful that she felt as though she was dreaming when she stepped into the room.

A big circular dining table was covered with white linen and set ready for lunch with silver cutlery, costly crystal glassware and low bowls of fragrant pink roses.

Living ones, not dead sprang into her brain and she threw it straight back out again.

All around the walls of the room were huge mirrors, edged with ornate and exquisitely delicate gold filigree. Vast windows, draped with ivory sheers, led out on to a terrace overlooking Mayfair. There was even a semicircular fountain out there and, as she took a glass of champagne from the tray offered by one of the staff, she saw Constantine standing out there beside it, glass in hand, talking to his son, Lucco.

Constantine’s head turned and his eyes met hers.

She felt it again, that same hard physical jolt of sexual attraction that hit her every time their paths crossed. He was so gorgeous, so striking. His silvergrey suit exactly matched the tone of his hair and was clearly bespoke and straight from Savile Row. The blue shirt and striped grey and blue tie complemented his eyes. He was confident of his own attraction, an Alpha male to his bones. He was watching her with drink in hand, casually eating something, some little appetizer, and his eyes clearly said first this—then you.

Lucco had looked round too, alerted by Constantine’s sudden distraction.

Well, there’s one person who don’t look pleased to see me, she thought.

Lucco had always made his feelings about her very clear. He didn’t want her anywhere near his father, and he had always taken pains to make that obvious. It must be creasing him, having her show up here, invited by his father as an honoured guest.

‘Mrs Carter?’

A young replica of Constantine came forward to greet her. She smiled.

‘I remember you. Alberto.’

‘That’s right. And this is my Aunt Gina.’

Gina, an imposing-looking woman of middle years was standing by the dining table. She glanced at her watch.

‘Mrs Carter,’ she acknowledged frostily. ‘You’re a little late.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t believe you’ve met Cara? And her husband, Rocco?’ Alberto indicated Constantine’s daughter and her new husband. The couple moved forward to be introduced. Cara, prettily blonde and with an unappealing spoilt pout to her lovely face, gave a sour half-smile. Skinny, dark-haired Rocco shook Annie’s hand.

‘My father’s expecting you, come on out here,’ said Alberto. ‘It’s beautiful, you can see the whole of Mayfair…’

Alberto had all the charm of Constantine without his dangerous edge. Instinctively she liked him. Out on the terrace, with the fountain tinkling prettily in the background, Constantine came forward and kissed her on both cheeks. For a moment, as Alberto moved off to talk to Lucco, they stood alone.

‘You look ravishing, Mrs Carter,’ said Constantine in a whisper against her cheek. ‘I’d like to fuck you right now.’

Annie felt her body respond to that, to his nearness, his power, his strength. He smelled delicious, and she caught herself inhaling the scent of him, identifying the cologne he always wore, Acqua di Parma—and, under that, a muskier, darker scent of pure animal maleness. No kissing of the hand this time. She looked into his eyes, knew he was thinking about that too. Constantine put a hand on her back and turned her toward Lucco.

‘Mrs Carter, you remember my son—Lucco?’ he said.

Lucco gave an exaggeratedly formal half-bow and kissed her hand.

Oily little creep, she thought, and stifled the impulse to wipe her hand afterwards. He was still the same smoothly attractive package, all dark hair, black eyes and slimy poise.

‘Shall we eat then?’ asked Constantine, and led the way back inside.

They ate very well—seared scallops, rack of lamb with accompanying vegetables, lemon cake and lime sorbet, all washed down with exquisitely well-chosen wines—but Annie had known this was going to be a tricky occasion, and it was. Cara and Rocco were quiet, both obviously fulminating from some private row, Gina had a nasty smell under her nose the whole time and yes, Annie knew it was because she was there. Only Alberto set out to charm her, but then after a little while Annie realized that Alberto would charm anyone; he was a very likeable young man.