“Perhaps, perhaps. Tell me about the excitement you offer me.”
“A little bit of acting, a little bit – no, a very large bit – of seducing, and who knows, probably a little bit of death and destruction too.”
“You have my interest. Go on.”
“I hate to admit it, but someone beat my people to an artefact that I have been hoping to find for a very long time.”
“You want this artefact?”
“Not exactly. This artefact contains information that could lead to something the Roman Army buried in England. I have been interested in finding it for a long time. It occurs to me that this someone who possesses it can save me the trouble of looking for what was buried. If you were to – let us say – get close to this person, you can help him to disinter what I really want. And there you have it – acting, seduction, stealing, death and destruction. What more could a lady desire?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “I see the acting and seduction, but how much death and destruction are we talking about? It would need to be a lot.”
“It would be. Once the buried thing gets out, there will be chaos.”
“I know you, Uli. I know what you want. You want the chaos, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He paused, as if hesitant to go on. “Chaos is the midwife of opportunity, and I am the ultimate opportunist.”
She laughed. “‘The midwife of opportunity?’ Come on Uli, be honest with me, you’ve wanted to say that for a long time, haven’t you! I bet you rehearsed that phrase in front of the mirror before you called me. How long ago did you think it up? Years?”
“As I said, darling Lene, we know each other too well. Guilty. I did rehearse it, but be honest with me, it is rather good, isn’t it?”
“I admit it, Uli, it does sound good.”
“So you are in?”
“Well, it just so happens that I am between projects. And bored. This could be fun. So yes, I’m in. Email me with all of the target’s details, and I’ll get him in my sights.” She laughed again. “The poor man won’t know if he’s coming or going. Well, as it happens, you know me, Uli. You can be sure he’ll be coming! Ciao, darling, I’ll call you later.”
“Ciao,” the man chuckled.
The phone went dead. The woman dropped the handset into her bag, a broad smile on her face. Then she straightened out, lifted her head, pushed her chest forward, took a large mouthful of her wine, emitted some potent pheromones and resumed her performance. She was again the centre of the male customers’ attention, and she breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of male arousal and snacking on the energy of their lust.
Another mobile phone rang, this one playing the opening bars of Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’. The woman extracted it from her bag, glanced at the screen, and hit the green ‘answer’ button. In a high-pitched Essex-accented voice, she said, “Hi, this is Tori Amore.”
She listened, and then laughed, apparently delighted. “Marcel! Sweetheart! How’s things with you?” She noted with approval that just about everyone in the bar was hanging on every word. She carried on,
“What can I do you for, babe?”
There was a pause. Then, “Ooh, Marcel, that does sound like quite a project! What? Marbella?”
There was another pause. “And who are you gettin’ in as the headline name? Oh, Sophie? Yeah, cool, she’s got those gorgeous fuck-me eyes. Sophie’s great! And Tanya? That’s terriff, babe.”
There was another long pause. “Airline uniforms? Cool! Who’s supplying the lingerie?” She mentally broadcast an image of herself writhing in crimson lingerie to infiltrate the minds of all the men in the bar.
“And what’s that? A gang bang? That turns into an orgy? Fantastic climax, as the actress said to the bishop!” She laughed as she broadcast images of herself, naked, breasts swaying, astride a generic male that the men in the room could fantasise as themselves. The temperature in the bar was rising with the sexual energy, and she breathed in the delicious smell of men in heat.
“Yeah, Marcel, I can still do that thing with my hips, and my tongue, all day long if necessary.”
Male customers were wriggling uncomfortably in their chairs and bar stools, as the woman listened to the caller, and drew the raw energy that charged the atmosphere into herself with a sigh of contentment.
“I know, babe, I know what you want,” she said, letting a tone of regret enter her voice. “But Marcel, listen, I just signed up for a new gig as a favour to a really old, really dear, friend. Sorry, babe, but I’m off the menu for a bit. Yeah, I know, I’m gutted. But if a girl don’t have integrity what does she have? Tell you what, babe, why don’t you give me a call in June? We can see what we can do then, right? Yeah, very good Marcel, we’ll see who I can do then. Cheers, babe, see ya!”
She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag. She inhaled deeply, caught the faint scent of semen, and smiled at a very embarrassed looking man in a suit who was trying to cross his legs awkwardly.
“Men,” she said to no-one in particular. “Complete idiots.”
A glass was set down on the table in front of her. She looked up and saw a young man, blushing deeply, standing there.
“Um,” he started, seeming tongue-tied. “Um, ah, I wondered…” He shrugged and somehow managed to blush even redder. “Would you like to have some, er, some lunch with me? My treat.”
She looked at the glass. She could see from the colour that he’d brought her white wine, but it smelled of oaky, indifferent chardonnay, which she detested. She looked back up at him, and smiled sweetly.
“Oh, you are a sweetheart, you really are,” she said. “But no, sorry. I’ve only just eaten.”
She swallowed the last of her Samian wine, and walked out of the door.
Chapter 6
Maxwell Coupar checked his watch for the umpteenth time. He was waiting for someone, and her lateness was irritating him, though he did not let it show. Instead, he was performing for the audience of passers-by, who kept glancing his direction in recognition of his status as a minor celebrity. He was dressed in brown tweed that was old fashioned enough to make a deliberate statement, and this, with his lopsided grin and floppy brown hair, was distinctive enough that people knew he was someone, even if they struggled to recall his name. He heard the odd whisper of, “It is him! It’s the history man off the telly!” and even the occasional, but erroneous, “Isn’t that the actor? Him on Bridget Jones?” But he stood his ground, smiling at anyone who looked his way, projecting an air of infinite patience. At last he saw her coming.
“Darling!” he exclaimed, stretching the vowels and both arms into an expansive greeting. “My darling Amanda! How are you, my love?”
The woman reciprocated with a big hug and the ritual near-miss double cheek peck of the English. “Maxwell, darling! It’s lovely to see you again.”
“Thank you for sparing the time to meet me,” said Maxwell. Although he smiled his endearing lopsided smile as he said it, Amanda knew he was annoyed that she was late. Good, she thought, he’ll be on the back foot now. He leaned in close, conspiratorially, and asked, “And where are you taking me for lunch, angel?”
She flashed him a knowing smile. “Broke again, Max?”
“Maxwell,” he corrected. “And you’re the one with the tax-deductible expense account, right?”
“Over here,” she responded with a smile, and led the way to a coffee shop. “I’m afraid my time is short, dear.” The message was clear: he was not important enough for her to lavish that expense account on him. She gestured to a table in an alcove of the coffee shop. “Grab that table, darling, and I’ll get in some coffee and toasties.”