The Penance List Page 4

  Enough of this nonsense; the alcohol from lunch made her brave, if not a little bossy.

  “Stop, please, everybody, one minute… Seb, can I have a word with Franco for a second?” she shouted in her best authoritative schoolmarm voice. All looked around to see who had spoken.

  Without waiting for an answer, she marched out of the darkness from behind the camera, past a stunned Seb, strode on to the set, put her hand on Franco’s arm and led him off before he could get his bearings. He was relieved to be away from the hot lights, but who the hell was this bird?

  “Franco, my name is Tara, I’m the assistant producer on this campaign. Apologies, I should have been here earlier to meet you but got delayed. I just want to stop wasting your time by having a quick word with you, follow me, please.”

  Tara dragged the dazed footballer to the back of the studio in search of some privacy. She clicked an iPod player into life as they passed an equipment-laden worktop. Marvin Gaye’s soulful tones ‘Let’s Get It On’ filled the room.

  She noticed the quizzical look on Franco’s face; maybe his English was not that good. Now, where could they talk? The loo was the nearest door she could spot. To the shock of the whole studio and Franco, she pulled the £55 million star into a scruffy entrance marked ‘Gents’, closed the door and locked the heavy iron latch.

  Luckily it was a spacious, old-fashioned, high-ceilinged gentlemen’s loo. A line of magnificent marble sinks proudly lined the facing wall, with an ancient mottled mirror hanging over them. A row of cubicles lay to the left-hand wall, a hat stand and old cartoons picture collection to the right. Sherlock Holmes came to mind, Seb was clever to have kept the old traditional features.

  She turned happily to him, ready to make her much-used boost the celebrity’s confidence speech, when she was bowled over by a torrent of Italian abuse (well, it could have been Italian, she wasn’t sure). It sounded distinctly like “What the fuck is going on? I’ve had enough, I’m off!” this was not going to plan; he was not a happy chap. Mustn’t upset the star, first rule of producing.

  She leaned calmly against the line of sinks and let him rant on for a few minutes. Waving his arms, stomping up and down like a bull. Shit, he was lovely; she could almost smell his hormones… I guess this is what he’s like at half time when his team are losing, such a delicious deep voice. His face began to glow again. She stood, arms and legs crossed, patiently waiting for him to finish.

  Hands on hips, in the middle of the room, he suddenly stopped, as if realising she didn’t speak Italian. He looked at her properly for the first time, taking her in from head to toe. She assumed he was assessing her as a bossy bitch. His eyes could have killed; he looked ready to walk, again. She took her moment.

  “OK…you—want—out—of—here.”

  She talked painfully slow broken English, arms waving theatrically, pushing each syllable home with a nod of her head.

  “We—want—job—done—everybody—happy. You—listen—me. We—go—home—soon. I—show—you—how, ok?”

  He couldn’t hold back any longer; his face broke into a huge smile.

  “Why are you talking like an idiot?” he purred in perfect English, with just the hint of an Italian accent.

  “Shit… sorry,” Tara giggled, scrunching face and shoulders with embarrassment, wanting the ground to open up so she could disappear.

  “I thought you couldn’t speak much English, what an idiot,” she hit her forehead with her hand. “Duh…”

  They giggled; the tension in the air loosened its grip.

  “Look, we both want out of here as soon as possible. All you have to do is get a few shots of you holding the girl, looking happy and sexy. How easy can that be?” she pleaded.

  He wasn’t convinced. Reluctantly he shrugged his huge beautiful shoulders… down girl, crossed his arms and listened to her. She wished he wouldn’t stand so provocatively, with his legs apart like that… concentrate, try not to look at his crotch. Too late, he caught her checking him out.

  “I know you are bored, the girl is coked out of her head, the photographer is losing his rag, it’s hot under the lights, and not a football in sight,” she gave him a playful tap on his shoulder, trying to raise a smile.

  “Watch,” she said as she spun around to face the mirror over the middle sink. Her hips leaned against the cool marble; her hands gripped the sides of the basin. He stood still behind her. Their conversation carried on through the age-mottled mirror.

  “There is nothing to this acting game; just a bit of confidence. The mirror is what the camera sees. We’ll practice the look they want, take it out to the studio, repeat it with the model in front of camera, and then we can all go home. All you have to do is pretend you are holding someone you really want,” she turned to look back at him over her shoulder; a thought came to her.

  “Are you gay?” he didn’t flinch; sexy dark eyes stared back at her.

  “Whatever,” … oh God, what a waste.

  “Just pretend. Here, it’s easy, put your arms around me… it’s ok, I won’t bite,” she smiled.

  He didn’t move, arms crossed insolently across his chest. He wasn’t making this easy for her.

  “If you can fake a dive on the pitch, you can fake this, much less painful,” she thought she saw him wince; oops, had she said the wrong thing? She waited.

  Nope, still nothing, face blank… legs still apart, watching her. Another tack was needed.

  “Okay, what do you want? Do you want a drink? Do you want drugs, hookers, more money, ice cream, what? You’re the star here; command whatever you want, but let’s just get it done, please…’cause I’m gonna be in the shit and lose my job if we don’t deliver this on time and within budget…please!” she pleaded.

  His eyes narrowed as he took in her last words, he came to a decision, and finally he smiled.

  “Ok, tell me what you want me to do,” he moved in close behind her. The heady sensual smell of him hit her first, the intense looking eyes hit her second, he patiently awaited instructions.

  The shift in energy within the room was palatable; an electrical current zapped through her. She squeezed her grip on the sink to steady herself. Here she was in a smelly ‘Gents’ with a bloke, the body of an Adonis, worth £55 million, leaning up behind her, expensive studio time and crew waiting outside the door, her job on the line, and stinking of garlic from her boozy lunch, it was beginning to feel very hot…she blew her fringe out of her eyes in an effort to cool down.

  “Ok,” she cleared her throat. “Lean in close… that’s it, now, put your arms here,” she reached back and pulled his solid arms around her torso, spreading his… large masculine…stop!…hands across her stomach.

  “Hold me like I’m the FA Cup,” she ordered, impressed that she’d remembered the name of a bloody football trophy. Where had that come from? TV osmosis had a lot to answer for.

  He tightened his grip. Finally he looked comfortable holding something. She wondered what an FA Cup looked like.

  “Good, now lean in and smile cheekily at the mirror, the camera. Rest your head on my shoulder, whispering something in my ear; you’re really happy, you’re about to get laid …what if he’s gay?… or…have just scored the winning try… I mean over, err… goal, or saved one…err…what position do you play again?”

  She was babbling, trying anything that came to mind, the closeness of his body was making her giddy. He smelled SO delicious… concentrate girl!

  Her brain gabbled away, trying to keep her mind on the job… he’s probably a goalie; all that fearless leaping around… guess they work their upper and lower bodies, and his upper body is definitely worked.

  Following her instructions a little too well, his lips brushed against her ear as if to whisper something. She felt his warm breath exhale and tickle her neck, instinctively she closed her eyes and let her head rock back against his… oops, am in trouble now. Her neck was one of the most sensitive parts of her body, touching it had a seriously sensual effect on h
er, it was one of her G spots, apparently, whatever that was, a past boyfriend had commented that it was a sure-fire way of getting her into the sack, it made her lose control.

  Franco heard the small sound caught in the back of her throat, it was unexpected. Miss Cool had weakened a little. He surveyed her face in the mirror, eyes semi closed, head rocking back as if she were in heaven. Actually she was cute, she had a sexy efficient secretarial look about her, he was beginning to enjoy this. He leaned into her, her body took his full weight, forcing her hips hard against the sink; she didn’t feel the pain.

  Looking up, she caught his face watching her in the mirror; he had a full-on beaming cheeky smile, it was perfect, he looked utterly sexy.

  “That’s it, Franco!” she squealed a little too loudly. “Fantastic, that’s the look they want, let’s go outside and do it for the camera, quick.”

  She wriggled to move out of his arms; he didn’t move. She wriggled some more; he was not budging. Was that the beginnings of a hard-on she could feel nudging the bottom of her spine?

  Franco felt her body stiffen; was she nervous or excited? He would teach this know-it-all lady a thing or two. No way was he stopping just yet, he’d only just started. He was gonna have some fun.

  “I haven’t finished,” he growled into her ear, his lips barely brushing the fine hairs of her neck.

  She jumped as his hands cupped her breasts. He felt their warm skin through the flimsy blouse material. She wasn’t wearing a bra; he liked that. This was too easy.

  Reinforcing who was the boss, he slammed his hips hard against her ass. Dirt and dust powdered the air as the sink’s rusty hinges smashed against the wall, the crash echoed the room. The force of the sudden strike expelled the air in her lungs with a groan.

  She fell forward, her head just missing hitting the mirror. Outstretched arms pushed up against the glass to steady herself. Releasing one of his hands from her chest, he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, forcing it to lay on his shoulder, twisting her face to his, their mouths almost touching, her back arched, pushing her chest out, her arms flailed away from the glass. He had a firm hold of her breast in one hand and her scalp in the other. He meant business.

  Silence.

  Their eyes locked hard in the mirror, who would make the first move?

  What was he going to do, rape her? She glanced sideways to the door, she could scream out, cry for help; it was just the other side of that door.

  Silence.

  “What are you doing, Franco?” she spoke first, calmly, softly with a half-smile. “If you want to fuck, ask, you don’t have to force yourself on me.”

  Her voice was so low and soft that he had to strain to hear it; the absolute control in her tone took him by surprise. The position of power shifted. What was this… he started to release his grip.

  “No… no… don’t stop,” she whispered. “I like it.”

  Was she messing with him; what was she doing? She looked and felt so good. His cock was hard against her, it would be easy to take her right now. Ok, let’s see how far she dare take this.

  Perspiration glistened across her chest and neck. Her body was heating up; being locked in a hold like this was a turn-on. It had been so long since she had had a man touch her. She held her breath and silently begged him not to stop; every cell in her body tingled with excitement.

  She arched her back further, causing the blouse to strain open across her chest. Noting the invitation, he couldn’t resist flicking the top three buttons to release beautiful, full tits. She didn’t flinch. He expertly dipped his hand beneath the material, following her face in the mirror; he gently rolled her left nipple between thumb and forefinger. Her response was immediate; her breath quickened, the nipple hardened. Half smiling, her head rocked back onto his shoulder; her knees slumped, giving him the weight of her body.

  He nuzzled his nose against her neck, whispering encouragement to let go; his sultry accent and the tingling sensation brought on by his lips drove her mad. It was so long since she’d felt like this; he had no idea what he was unleashing.

  Time to return the favour; she began a slow rhythmic grinding movement of her hips, rubbing herself into his crotch. His cock throbbed to life against her teasing ass. He couldn’t believe it; she was horny as hell.

  “Yeah, that’s it, keep moving, baby… that’s nice!” he whispered, his hips following hers, joining her rhythm.

  Both hands now toyed, roughly kneading her heavy tits. She moaned, head back, chest arched. Their hips danced, grinding in circles. Her supporting arm refound the coolness of the mirror and pushed hard against it, forcing her body back into him, meeting him with equal strength. Her free hand went down between the top of her legs; she rubbed her fingers through the material of her skirt.

  She was going too far, she knew it. She caught his eyes watching the movement in the mirror; they were so bloody powerful, with his sexy half smile; he had the look of just holding back before a great fuck, it would be perfect for the shoot. Should she stop and get him out there?

  Before she could think, he released his grip and swung her around to face him. Holding her fast by the shoulders, he yanked her into his chest and guided both bodies from the sink to the right-hand side wall, knocking over the hat stand. It clattered noisily to the floor, they didn’t notice. He pushed hard against her, forcing her back onto the welcoming cold stone wall.

  “I’m gonna have you,” he whispered close into her ear. She felt the heat of his mouth, smelled his breath; he was so fucking sexy, she arched her back with pleasure.

  “Do it!” she ordered, grinning like the cat that’d gotten the whole fucking dairy farm.

  His hands grabbed either side of her neck and pulled her close to his mouth. So close, but not touching… making her wait. Breathing in her smell, eyes on her mouth, watching her lips.

  What was he waiting for? She couldn’t bear it any longer…

  “Do it… Mr Big Footballer… kiss me… all mouth and no trousers, are we?” she taunted.

  He wouldn’t. He teased her with his breath, she felt it warm on her lips, she opened her mouth, reaching, begging to be kissed. He backed up as she neared him; he was enjoying making her wait… the bastard. She tried again and again… that’s it. Having had enough, she grabbed the back of his head and forced his mouth onto her; her tongue sank into his warm, soft mouth.

  … finally, he thought. God, she was sexy; this was getting beyond him now. He was hard and he knew she would be wet; he could just pull up her skirt and sink into her.

  They ate each other hard, hands everywhere, groping, squeezing, pulling at clothing, groans echoed the room.

  BANG, BANG, BANG, the door shook.

  “What the hell’s going on in there, Tara? We must get on…” Seb’s angry voice bellowed through the door, followed by the hammer of an irritated fist.

  “Just coming, Seb.”

  Tara managed to unlock her mouth from Franco’s and push herself free.

  “Literally,” she whispered with a giggle… shit, why is my sex life always such a disaster?

  Franco staggered back into the centre of the room, pissed off at the interruption, but still smiling. They surveyed each other with laughing eyes as they quickly brushed down clothing, flattened hair, and fumbled with buttons. Tara giggled at the tent effect in his crotch, the perfectly ironed designer tracksuit crumpled.

  “Ok,” he said, grinning.“I’ll do it, but let’s get a few things straight. I’m not gay and I don’t dive… got it? And I’m a striker, not in goal… got it?”

  She nodded, gratefully… what the hell’s a striker? does he hit people… sit on the bench, boycotting, refusing to work… I wonder if there is a terminology book I can buy somewhere?

  “And next time you’re gonna snog the face off me, let me have eaten garlic also… you’re lucky I love the stuff,” he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, licking his lips.

  Tara cringed apologetically… ohmigod, shit, how embarrassin
g.

  “So sorry,” she muttered flushing red. She’d almost fucked a complete stranger, but breathing garlic on him was a complete no-no, SO not a good look.

  He laughed at her Englishness, dragged his fingers through his hair, tugged at his collar, and turned to the heavy ‘Gents’ door. He pulled back the latch, swung it open, and strode out onto the studio floor as if nothing had happened. Tara timidly followed, walking a few steps behind, her knees weak, tell-tale perspiration on her top lip. Praying no one could tell what had just taken place.

  The whole crew were waiting outside with bated breath. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Their celebrity looked thunderous.

  He spoke firmly and clearly to a bemused Seb and the rest of the room.

  “I want classical music, Strauss if you have it, or Mozart will do. I want the shoot to be done differently. Tara will be in the shot with me. Her back to the camera. She will wear the clothes the model was wearing. The model gets double pay and champagne for all of us. You will try it my way; if it doesn’t work we go back to your way. Otherwise, I leave.”

  They tried to talk him out of it. You couldn’t just change a story board at whim; hours of costly preproduction analysis had been put into a project such as this with every minuscule detail pondered over and agreed at numerous meetings and levels. Tara’s bosses wouldn’t like it, besides, she needed to get agreement from the New York office, which could take days, but he was adamant; it was his way or the highway. Finally, she was beaten down, against her better judgment, they played along with him.

  It turned out to be the best shoot ever. The model was not put out for long, champagne and the wage packet helped; she ended up being the stylist and having fun, she was good; maybe she should change profession. Anton agreed, but gently warned her that she couldn’t support her cocaine habit on a stylist’s wages; it would have to go… hmmmm, she would have a rethink.

  Franco was right. Tara’s blonde hair spread across the back of the client’s shirt was all that could be seen of the girl. No one could tell it was her, the crew were sworn to secrecy; her bosses would have gone mad at her for putting herself in front of the camera, but it was worth it, every female that saw these pictures in the future wished they had been the mysterious girl. Wished Franco was looking at them in that way, holding them the way he held her.