Coquette Read online

  Lazarev waved a hand airily. "Perhaps, but I'll let you decide that."

  "Why wait for tomorrow? Perhaps you should enlighten me now?"

  Lazarev took a sip of his champagne, then looked back to his hostess, a sinful little smile on his lips. "As you wish. When your husband investigates me, he will be advised that though I have no criminal record, the police have a strong suspicion that my clubs and my businesses, are financed by a criminal organisation headquartered in Moscow, and that these clubs are used to launder drug money."

  Blood drained from Laura's mother's face as the exposition continued.

  "You'll also be informed that there is a belief that I am a major player in the drugs and prostitution businesses in Europe." Lazarev smiled a wayward little smile, and took another sip from his glass.

  For long seconds Sally stared at Lazarev, barely able to comprehend what she was being told. "But why are you telling me all this? Surely you should be doing everything you can to keep it quiet...secret."

  "Why bother? As you say, Laura's father is a prominent politician so you're bound to find out sooner rather than later, so why pretend, why dissemble? And then your first reaction will be to protect Laura by dragging her away from me," another slow sip of champagne, "and I find knee-jerk reactions so...ill considered. If you spent a few moments in reflection you'll realise that there is only one person whocan protect Laura from me...and that's me."

  The conversation paused, then, "I don't follow you. Are you asking me to believe that your intentions towards Laura are—this sounds ridiculous—honourable? You're saying you'll protect her?"

  "No, not at all. What I'm saying is that I could protect her," he paused, "if I was motivated to." "She'll run a mile when she learns the truth about you." Lazarev's laugh was irritatingly sardonic. "You really believe that? I think, in the eyes of an infatuated eighteen-year-old, such a raffish past might make me appear a little more rakish, even more appealing."

  "You're much too glib, Mr Lazarev, Laura is an intelligent girl who'll see right through you." "Laura is eighteen and in love." The simple, bland statement halted Sally Smith. She knew what Lazarev said was true, she had seen the way her daughter had looked at the Russian, how she had hung on his words, and the way she'd touched him and held him. Sally knew that her daughter was mesmerised by Lazarev. But she had to protest, "In love? With whom?" "With me, of course," replied Lazarev casually. "You bastard," she snarled. Lazarev was unmoved. "Not strictly true, but I recognise the sentiment." He edged forward until his face was only centimetres from hers. His dark, dank perfume washed over her, his breath caressed her ear. "And moreover, the accuracy of the description, as a synopsis of my character is perfect. Yes, Sally, I am a bastard, an extremely evil and callous bastard."

  Staring into Lazarev's cold, unblinking eyes, Sally was shocked by the blank malevolence she saw in them, "Why?" she asked. "Because I can." Sally shook her head. "That's baloney, no one makes these sort of threats, makes the sort of enemies that you will be making without a motive. This isn't just some cruel whim."

  An elusive smile flickered across the man's face. "You're right, of course. As soon as I realised who Laura's parents were I knew I was being presented with an opportunity, an opportunity to trade the continued well-being of Laura for...well, that's to be negotiated. So, Mrs Smith, I am determined to extract a price for my keeping your daughter out of harm's way." "And what would that be?" "Why, you, of course." He reached out a hand and, to Sally's astonishment, trailed a fingertip slowly and lasciviously around one of her nipples, then just as casually took her glass from her hand. "Refill, perhaps?"

  Flushed with embarrassment and anger, Sally snapped out, "You're mad. Once I've spoken to Laura she'll wash her hands of your."

  "Perhaps. But do you want to take that chance? If you're wrong...the music business is fraught with dangers and temptations. So many jazz musicians succumb to the allure of drugs..."

  "This is the most ludicrous conversation I've ever participated in. I suggest that you leave immediately."

  They locked eyes for several seconds. Finally Lazarev smiled and bowed his head in acquiescence. "As you wish. Perhaps, you would be kind enough to give my apologies to Laura, say I've been called away urgently on business."

  Sally beckoned to a large man standing alertly at the side of the room. "Sergeant Perkins will escort you out. We don't want you getting lost now, do we? Goodnight, Mr Lazarev."

  Lazarev took her hand and raised it to his lips, "Goodnight, Mrs. Smith, until our next meeting."

  Sally Smith watched as Lazarev and the Special Branch officer walked across the room and out into the hall. She sighed in relief, but had a grim feeling that this would not be the last of the matter. * * * * It had been a grim week. The Lazarev problem had escalated, George having gone at Laura like the proverbial bull-in-a-china-shop, demanding that she dump Lazarev immediately, that she stop being a silly bitch, and that she grow up. And the result? The result was that Sally had had to spend hours on the phone trying to calm her daughter down, whilst simultaneously trying to convince her that though Daddy shouldn't have been quite so nasty about Viktor, maybe Viktor wasn't quite the man for her...

  Oh, boy , thought Sally, wasn't that the truth. Viktor Lazarev most certainly wasn't the man for her darling Laura. When George had had him checked out, they'd found that everything he'd insinuated at the party was true, and then some. The police did suspect Lazarev of being involved in the drugs and pornography business. He did have connections with the Russian mafia. He had been linked with mob violence.

  But, no, they'd never had enough evidence to arrest him, and there most certainly wasn't a strong enough case to have him deported. Viktor Lazarev—as were his two brothers—was a vicious, horrible man. But, he was also a clever, well-connected man, a man who had the best lawyers in England at his beck-and-call. A man who had Laura at his beck-and-call. It was a dark dilemma that was giving Sally sleepless nights, and she couldn't even turn to George for help. He was off canvassing for votes in his constituency in Yorkshire. With an election looming he had no time for family drama.

  So it was a worried and lonely Sally who sat sipping tea in their apartment in Kensington that Wednesday afternoon when the security guard for their building rang. "Mrs Smith, I've a young gentleman here who refuses to give me his name but who seems to think you would see him. He says he's a friend of your daughter; that you met last week at a party."

  Sally stood for a moment dumbfounded, the handset frozen in her hand. Her first reaction was to turn Lazarev away, but that, she knew, would be cowardice. Better to beard the lion. "You'd better send him up."

  As she opened the door in reply to the buzzer, she knew that Lazarev was the harbinger of trouble. He looked insufferably smug— though if anything smaller than she remembered—his overweening cockiness more than compensated for his lack of inches. "This is a beautiful apartment, Sally," he said admiringly as he wandered past her at the doorway and into the lounge, "a beautiful apartment for a beautiful woman, eh?" Sally's mouth set. "Just what can I do for you, Mr Lazarev?" "Oh, it's rather what I can do for you, Sally." He stopped at a display cabinet. "My, my, I didn't realize you were such an athlete." He whistled as he catalogued the host of medals, cups and shields commemorating Sally's sporting successes. "Hockey, tennis and swimming. You really were a tremendous swimmer, weren't you: county champion, Olympic trialist," he shook his head sarcastically, "maybe that accounts for your great figure?"

  There was nothing that Sally could say, the very sight of this loathsome man strolling about as though he owned the place, mocking her achievements, made her blood boil, if it hadn't been for Laura...

  "I have never been a great fan of the water," Lazarev continued, "the consequence of an unfortunate experience in my youth when I was nearly drowned...but no matter."

  Sally really wasn't terribly interested in Lazarev's reminiscences. "I'm sure you're here to discuss something more important than my abilities as a sportswoman, Mr L
azarev." She couldn't keep the distaste out of her voice.

  Lazarev turned, and with unashamed relish ran his eyes over Sally's long, slim body, "Indeed; I'm filming a scene fromRazorTime tonight. I seem to remember telling you that in the film I'm trying to demonstrate that there is only a small dividing line between that which is sexually acceptable and that which is sexually repellant," he paused to light a cigarette, "I'm thinking of giving Laura a starring role."

  Sally said nothing, suddenly all the worries that had tormented her for the last seven days seemed to take on a physical presence, she was dumb with fear.

  "Yes," continued Lazarev nonchalantly, "it will be a role that demands a certain...broadmindedness, involving as it does her being filmed in congress with three men..." "She'd never..." "Oh, don't be a fool," Lazarev snapped, "of course she would if I asked her to. I might have to dress the request up in some pseudointellectual mumbo-jumbo, something along the lines that pornography is a relevant and vital art form that breaks down the barriers of social respectability that prevent an audience from objectively examining social taboos. That sort of thing; though I suspect Laura would do it anyway. She likes being fucked." He smiled at the reaction his last comment provoked. "Oh, I am sorry, I'd forgotten the aversion you English have for the prurient." Paralyzed by fear, Sally waited for the pay-off line. Lazarev flicked ash uncaringly on her white carpet. "Of course, if I were to be otherwise occupied here in London, tonight's shooting would have to be cancelled." "Occupied?" "With you." So the cards were on the table, all that Sally needed to do was play her hand as adroitly as she could. "And what guarantee would I have that if I...acquiesced, that afterwards you'd leave Laura and me alone?"

  Lazarev shrugged. "None whatsoever. I offer you a reprieve, not an absolution." "What would you have me do?" "That's a wonderful blouse you're wearing," the comment caused Sally to look quizzically down to the prim, white silk blouse she was wearing, "an Armani, if I'm not mistaken?"

  This is becoming increasingly weird , thought Sally. "Yes...yes, I think it is." "I want you to grip it in your two hands and tear it open." Their eyes locked for a moment, each of them testing the resolve of the other. Taking a deep breath, Sally raised her hands to the front of her blouse and, taking hold of the two sides, pulled the blouse savagely apart, the pearl buttons pinging off to be lost in the white carpet. In deathly silence, she stood motionless as Lazarev studied her delightfully formed breasts and the pristine white bra that held them. Finally, he nodded, "Very nice, you're as lovely as I suspected you would be," he tossed a switchblade across the room to her, "now cut the bra off. I'd like to see your tits." For a moment Sally almost told him... But then an image of Laura flashed through her mind and she stooped down and picked up the knife. She clicked open the blade, which flashed wickedly, and slowly, with studied reluctance, she cut first the right strap and then the left strap of the bra. She glanced up and saw Lazarev's black, feral eyes watching her, drinking in her humiliation. Her temper flared, and with an angry slash she severed the strap at the front and pulled the tattered bra from her body. If she was going to be stripped she would strip with style.

  "Nice tits; small but pert," observed Lazarev approvingly, "I particularly like your nipples. I like large dark nipples, I find them so very, very pleasant." He took a long drag of his cigarette. "Now, if you'd lose the skirt."

  To her surprise Sally found that she was becoming indifferent to the humiliation that Lazarev was trying to inflict on her. In fact, as a plan formed in her mind, she decided that it might be better to play to her audience, to lull him into a false sense of security. Thus resolved, she put just a little more sway into her undressing. She exaggerated, just by an iota, the wiggle she needed to shimmy her tight, black pencil skirt over her bottom and down her long legs. She stepped theatrically out of the skirt. And her showmanship was rewarded: Lazarev sat up a little straighter, a smidgen more interest flickered in his eyes, and he had to cross his legs to more comfortably accommodate his stiffening cock.

  "Great legs, must be all that swimming, eh? I must say, though, that I hate tights," he waved distractedly towards the black tights Sally was wearing, "I remember reading somewhere that tights had done more to promote chastity than the church had ever accomplished. Take them off. On our next date I'd be obliged if you'd wear hold-ups rather than tights. That's if you wear anything at all," he added ominously.

  As Sally discovered, it was impossible to remove tights in any way that could be construed as sexy, they just weren't built that way; but she did her best, and from the look that draped over Lazarev's face as he watched her struggle out of them, she succeeded. Now she stood in the middle of the room, naked except for her white cotton knickers, standing proudly and arrogantly. In Sally's experience, confidence and self-belief in a woman were attractive to men, whilst doubt and self-deprecation were merely turn-offs.

  Unfortunately, though, her knickers weren't the most alluring, which was a shame; but then she hadn't expected to be forced to strip for a psychopath when she'd dressed that morning. Lazarev agreed. "The panties are a disappointment, white cotton most definitely isn't you. I think we can dispense with them."

  Along with his blackmail, the very ungentlemanly comment about her underwear was another thing for which Sally would never forgive Lazarev.

  With a subtle roll of her hips, Sally eased the knickers down her legs, then raised herself to stand with one haughty hand on her left hip. Sally knew what was to come and steeled herself. The only hope that both she and Laura had rested on her ability to remain cool, calm and...beguiling. By her estimation she would have to sacrifice herself to Lazarev twice, and only twice...if she had the courage to do what she'd decided to do.

  Lazarev stood up from the chair, a smile of intense satisfaction on his thin face. "And now to fuck you." He moved slowly around her, examining her, assessing her. Raising a hand, he drifted his fingers over the swell of her breasts, and trickled his palm against her stiff nipples. It was only with extreme self-control that Sally prevented herself flinching back from his cold, malevolent touch. Trailing his hand down across her stomach, Lazarev murmured his admiration of how hard, how taut her body was, before running the hand over the curve of her hard arse, along her thigh, finally bringing it to rest with his fingertips tousling her thatch of brown pubic hair. "My instinct is to use you anally. I am always encouraged by the pain it imposes on women, I have always associated anal sex with defilement, with shame. I am so aroused when a woman offers herself to me in that way…when she submits. And women must be taught to submit. However," and he smiled what Sally presumed was meant to be a benign smile, but which made Lazarev look like a benevolent rat, "in deference to the fact that this is our debut as a couple, I am willing to forgo that delectable pleasure. Instead I would ask you to use your mouth..." His hand left her pubis and he slid the zip of his black jeans open, standing in front of Sally, expectantly, legs akimbo.

  All hesitation gone, Sally dropped to her knees, and eased her hand inside Lazarev's flies, plying his hard, hot penis from his trousers. He wasn't terribly big, and Sally idly wondered if his haughty, aggressive manner might be in some way a compensatory mechanism for his lack of inches. Could it be, she thought, that he acts so cocksure because he really isn't very sure of his cock?

  This, though, was not, she knew, the time for psychoanalysis, this was rather the time to bewitch and entice. Leaning forward, Sally brought her full lips to the tip of Lazarev's ripe penis and butterflied a kiss on the very end of his cock. The touch might have been tentative, dancing only delicately on the purple crown, but the effect on Lazarev was electric: his cock twitched and Sally heard a groan of pleasure. Encouraged by this success, Sally opened her mouth, and slowly, oh, so slowly, slid her lips over his stiff penis, rippling her tongue over the veins, teasing and testing, stiffening her lips to ensure that there was resistance to his entry, that his cock had to work to move deeper into her mouth. And this, coupled with the ephemeral touch of her long nails on Lazarev's
taut scrotum, brought a mew of pleasure from the man. Rocking slowly on her knees, Sally drew him into her then slowly released him, then into her...seesawing her mouth around him, gently though firmly bringing him ever closer to crescendo.

  Despite the fact that Sally serviced Lazarev for less than a minute, even without being able to see Lazarev's face, Sally knew from the change of his skin texture, from the way his aroma altered, becoming heavier and more intense, that his body was approaching climax. She inhaled, sucking Lazarev's tool deeper into her mouth, urging his passion, tempting him like a supplicant with her surrender, with her willingness to yield, with her erotic submission.

  She felt Lazarev's hands drop onto her head, his fingers tangling through her bobbed, brunette hair, felt him pressing her mouth down onto his prick, felt him roll his hips and arch his back in a desperate attempt to better penetrate her, to better violate her.

  With a curse Lazarev came, shoving himself forward, his body demanding that Sally swallow him, drink his emission. And Sally didn't hesitate, this was such a small sacrifice to make to save her daughter, and her retribution would be immense. Lazarev staggered away, awkwardly zipping his flies, then slumping back into the easy chair, "Terrific," he gasped, "you've got a really wicked mouth, Sally, wicked." He laughed and stretched like some large, black and very satisfied cat. "That was the best blow job I've had for ages." He smiled at Sally. "Yes, I think I'm of a mind to stay in London tonight. Maybe I'll cancel the RazorTime shoot. Maybe I'll take you out to dinner. What do you think, Mrs. Smith? Will it be worth my while staying in London tonight?"

  Kneeling naked on the carpet, Sally listened, her excitement growing, trying to judge just when to speak, just when to make her suggestions. Timing, as in everything in life, was of the essence.

  "What do you think?" prompted Lazarev, a little disconcerted by Sally's silence.