Lust on the Loose Read Online Free

Mr
Dazzle,' she said. 'Do you always walk around with lipstick on your
nose?'
    Billy gulped.
In her high heels she was as tall as he was and a pair of wide-set
eyes of limestone grey bored directly into his. She was in her
early forties but with barely a wrinkle to show for it. Blonde,
elegant and expensively clad in caramel cashmere, she was as
immaculately groomed as a champion show-jumper. Billy fancied her
rotten immediately.
    'Katie,
darling,' said this imposing presence, 'why don't you pour us all a
glass of wine so we can break the ice?'
    Ms Crisp
positively dimpled to be so addressed and jumped to fiddle with a
bottle and some glasses standing on a low table in front of a sofa
and a straight-backed dining chair. Obviously this was where the
get-to-know-you process was to take place. Billy sat as instructed,
surreptitiously dabbing at his nose with a tissue and observing La
Crisp in a new light. In all their dealings he had never seen her
smile before; it brightened her up no end. His regard for the woman
who had induced this reaction was climbing.
    Imogen Almond
sat next to Billy on the sofa. Ms Crisp handed them both a full
glass and perched herself on the chair opposite them. The elder
woman began to speak.
    'I run a very
special business here, Mr Dazzle. I represent a variety of artists
from opera singers and concert pianists to performers whose talents
are less rarefied. I don't have many clients and I don't have a big
staff - despite appearances,' she added, as Billy's gaze flitted
round the vast room. 'I like to keep the whole business of
representation as personal as possible and my clients treat me as a
friend or a sister or a bossy aunt - whatever. Each relationship is
different. With some I run their entire lives, I tell them what to
eat, what to wear and which shoelace to tie first. With others I
just negotiate the deals and tell them where to show up. You get
the picture, Mr Dazzle?'
    'Please call
me Billy.' There wasn't much else to say, she hadn't got to the
point yet. Ms Crisp was pouring herself another glass of wine,
she'd probably heard all this stuff before.
    'There's one
thing I hate. That's parting company with an artist. Sometimes
that's inevitable and, frankly, sometimes that's to my advantage.
But sometimes a client will threaten to leave and I won't want them
to go. Particularly when I have worked very hard to bring them to
the brink of success.'
    There was a
pause in the monologue. 'That must be very frustrating,' said
Billy, aware he was expected to react. 'But what can you do about
it?'
    'I persuade
them by whatever means are available. Non-violent means, of
course,' she added, seeing a look of alarm cross Billy's face.
'Don't worry, the means I prefer are entirely pleasurable.' And she
placed one long, exquisitely manicured finger on his thigh. 'That's
where you come in.
    'Katie,' she
continued, 'bring me the book that's lying on the desk will you,
darling?'
    In a rustle of
skirts Katie rushed to do so, handing Imogen a large black album
and reseating herself clumsily on the chair in a manner that
displayed a flash of stockinged thigh. Billy noticed that her glass
was empty again. He placed his own, virtually untouched, on the
table in front of him to accommodate the portfolio which Imogen was
opening across his lap.
    'I bet you
know who this is,' she said as she began to leaf through the pages
for his benefit. A tousle-haired blonde with a snub nose and sky
blue eyes strutted her stuff before him. In some shots the hair was
up, in others down, she wore leotards and boxer shorts, T-shirts
wet and dry, mini-skirts and thigh-high boots, she lolled on golden
sands, sprawled on Formula One racing cars, splashed in pools,
clowned around with a cheesy grin and posed deadpan in tiara and
floor-length evening gown. And the one constant in all these images
was the emphasis, by some magic of the flesh or art of the
photographer, on her breasts. To Billy and, he guessed, to every
man who had ever