Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry

cars. She looked up into the sky. She had never seen it look so dark, like the pure black of printers’ ink. She tried to make patterns with the constellations: a dog, a bear, Jack’s face …

      ‘Venetia!’

      She turned round quickly just in time to see Jack jumping forward and grabbing the sleeve of her dress.

      ‘Be careful,’ he said softly. ‘Watch you don’t step off the edge of the cliff. I’d hate to lose you.’

      Even in the dark she could see his eyes glisten. Sangria and the beat of the music still filling her head, she allowed herself to move close to him. She tried to tell herself she was just very drunk, but the sensation of her nipples ripening told her she was experiencing the very unfamiliar sensation of pure lust.

      ‘I’ll be careful.’

      ‘Are you OK? I turned my back for a second and you were gone.’

      She smiled. ‘Don’t panic. I’m still here.’

      Her eyes looked out into the pitch-black valley as Jack moved closer to her side. ‘Listen. Can you hear it?’ she said. ‘The silence.’

      ‘I love the fact you can hear silence,’ smiled Jack.

      ‘It would just be fantastic to live somewhere like this. No noise, no problems. Oh dear,’ she smiled. ‘Listen to me rambling. I’m a bit drunk.’

      ‘A beautifully mannered drunk,’ replied Jack.

      Despite the calm, she began to feel restless, disturbed by Jack’s presence at her shoulder.

      ‘I think we should go home,’ said Venetia huskily.

      He stared her straight in the eye. ‘If that’s what you really want.’

      Her inner voice was warning her she was being charmed. The guy was an adman! A professional seducer. Get the interior designer out to your Spanish retreat and get all the added services thrown in for free. He took a step towards her and rested two fingers underneath her chin. ‘Is this what you want?’ he whispered.

      But her resistance weakened to practically nothing. The air was so charged she felt sure it would light up the whole of the valley. Her eyelids instinctively closed as his lips moved towards her.

      ‘No, I don’t want to go home,’ she whispered.

      Jack grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her in closer, his hands weaving through her hair.

      ‘Don’t stop,’ she pleaded, feeling every sexual instinct in her body being activated from its dormant state. Jack manoeuvred her gently against the bumper of a battered truck, unknowing or uncaring whether its owner was anywhere nearby. His hands slid higher and higher up her leg, under her dress, until his fingertips reached the inside of her thigh. Hearing her gasp, his thumbs flipped inside her panties, pulling at the soft cotton until they slid over her hips towards the ground.

      Still vaguely aware that she should stop, Venetia nevertheless felt powerless to make herself do anything but pull him towards her. She unzipped him and, totally aroused, guided his throbbing cock towards her. Jack licked the top of his fingers before they went to stroke the soft folds inside her, but she needed no help in getting wet. After months of Jonathon’s coldness, and endless sessions of perfunctory sex in the name of conception which had left her feeling empty and worthless, she finally felt like a ripe, sexual woman ready to explode.

      ‘Please, now,’ she moaned into the curve of his neck, and Jack cupped her buttocks in his firm hands and lifted her onto the bonnet of the truck. She felt a cool breeze on her exposed pubic hair as she straddled her legs, resting her feet on the bumper.

      Jack relaxed the full weight of his body on top of her, inching his shaft into her warmth, so slowly, so sweetly, she had to bite her lip to stop herself screaming out. They moved together, slowly, intensely. Venetia felt the bonnet of the car creak gently under the rhythmic thrust of their bodies. She felt the beginnings of spasms deep inside her as Jack quickened his pace. Every sensation was heightened: her stomach knotted, her skin prickled, her clitoris felt so swelled with pleasure, she thought she’d pass out.

      She came powerfully as Jack exploded inside her, collapsing immediately on the warm metal of the bonnet as his hot juice trickled down the inside of her thigh. They said nothing. Jack rested his head on the mound of her breasts as she waited for the guilt to rush over her. It never came.

      ‘Bloody hell, you’re up early. It’s only half past seven,’ grumbled Cate, sloping into the kitchen with bed-head hair and a sleepy scowl. Serena was sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping a glass of grapefruit juice and nibbling on a toasted bagel slathered in honey. Dressed in tailored black Dolce trousers, a crisp white shirt and ballet flats, it was a look that Cate had rarely seen on Serena. Any traces of the soft side of Serena that she had seen last night were gone; now she looked as if she meant business. Serena fished around in her tan Birkin bag and pulled out a notebook in which she scribbled a series of numbers.

      ‘This is where I’ll be over the next few days,’ she said officiously. ‘The studio have got me booked in at the Du Cap but I’ll probably be at Michael’s villa. You can try both.’

      She glanced at her watch and discarded the bagel. ‘Now my car ought to be here any moment,’ she said, wandering over to the window and peeking through the blinds. ‘Not sure where Farnborough Airfield is, but my friend Elmore said he’d give me a lift to Nice in his jet if I get to him by nine o’clock. He has a house out there.’

      Cate poured herself a coffee from the cafetiere and rubbed her sleepy eyes.

      ‘I thought you weren’t due in Cannes until Wednesday?’

      ‘Silly,’ sighed Serena. ‘In case you’ve forgotten last night’s revelations, I have a few things to sort out. No point hanging around in London shopping.’

      ‘But what about your meetings …?’

      ‘Everything else can wait,’ she snapped with a brusque, ‘let’s-get-on-with-it’ efficiency that Cate didn’t recognize. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

      ‘But Serena …’

      ‘Ah, the car’s here,’ she chirped, already at the door. ‘Now let’s go and sort out my life.’

      Elmore Bryant, ageing rock star, screaming queen, and Serena’s New Best Friend after relations with Roman LeFey had soured, was humorous, distracting company for the eighty-minute journey to Nice. His in-flight menu was luxurious, but a hazard for a pregnant woman, thought Serena, declining the shrimp puffs and steady flow of Cosmopolitans from the beautiful, chiselled male steward. Besides, with the ripples of nausea she was feeling, particularly once they were airborne, the last thing she felt like was snacking.

      Generous to a fault, Elmore had arranged for a white Bentley to pick her up from the runway and take her to wherever she wanted to go on the Côte d’Azur. Flipping down his diamond-encrusted sunglasses when they reached the terminal, Elmore gave her a penetrating look as he said his goodbyes.

      ‘Short but sweet, my love, but always a pleasure to see you. Now remember,’ he added ominously, ‘if anything happens and you need somewhere to stay while you’re out here … Someone to talk to?’

      Serena wondered if telepathy was one of Elmore’s many talents. She kissed him on both cheeks and got in the car. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

      The traffic was foul and they moved at a snail’s pace down the busy coastal road towards Cannes. Above her head, the helicopters doing the Nice – Cannes shuttle buzzed about like red wasps. She sank back in the cream leather seat and wondered how to break the news to Michael. There was no easy way to tell him; she just had to come straight out with it. To her surprise, she found her mind wandering to wedding dresses. Caroline Herrera could concoct something wonderful: elegant, timeless, beautiful. Then again, John Galliano had the magician’s touch. She wouldn’t have had the pink flourishes on the wedding gown he’d made for Gwen Stefani, but still, a wonderful Dior fantasy in tulle and duchess