‘Her death.’
‘Yes, it was very sad.’ She saw his eyes narrow a fraction. Enough to register disapproval.
‘How well did you know Amy?’ he asked.
‘Barely. And you?’
‘The same.’ His eyes were cold.
Anna knew now what sort of people she was dealing with: men who would use young girls until they became inconvenient, until they threatened to undermine their cosy domestic situation – the golden handcuffs, as Johnny had put it – at which point they were disposed of like flat champagne, casually tossed down the sink.
‘Are you going to take off that dress?’ Peter said finally. He moved up against her and pushed her gently back on the bed.
Not a chance, she thought.
She stood up and stroked his cheek. Her pulse was racing.
‘Stay there and close your eyes,’ she commanded.
‘Where are you going?’ said Peter.
‘I’m going to get my friend Tanika, that tall blonde I came in with. I can see you’re more than one woman can handle.’
‘Wait,’ he said firmly, taking her arm in a strong grip. ‘Just you,’ he added quietly.
‘No,’ she said, trying to wriggle away.
He curled his arm around her waist and pulled her close. His hand pushed against the bare triangle of skin on her back.
‘Get back on the bed,’ he ordered, breathing strong whisky breath all over her.
‘Hang on,’ she said, pulling free and tugging her dress back on to her shoulders. ‘I’m getting Tanika.’
She raced towards the door, stumbling into the corridor and hurrying downstairs as fast as she could.
‘Having fun?’
Anna’s heart gave a lurch. Johnny Maxwell was standing at the door of the drawing room, a slight frown on his face. He’d clearly seen her leave with Peter and was wondering why she was back so soon.
‘Just stepping outside for a cigarette,’ she purred. My goodness, Natasha really is coming to life, she thought.
‘And what about Peter?’
‘Waiting upstairs.’
She scurried outside, inhaling deeply as if she had just come up for air.
The drive was empty. Shit, where are you, taxi? she thought, stepping from one foot to the other.
‘You all right, miss?’ asked one of the security guards, stepping forward, his hand on a heavy walkie-talkie strapped to his hip like a Western gunslinger.
She fumbled in her clutch bag for a cigarette and lit it.
‘Fag break,’ she said as casually as she could.
Come on, she pleaded silently, willing the taxi to arrive. She glanced back at the house, realising how stupid she’d been to come. It was one thing to infiltrate the society swingers’ ball posing as a bohemian good-time girl; it was quite another to reveal to Peter Rees that she knew something about his past.
But then, like the cavalry coming over the hill, Anna heard hope driving towards her. The grumble of a taxi’s diesel engine. She tossed her cigarette away and ran towards it.