Killer Diamonds Read online

  Not long now, she thought, and shivered deliciously.

  ‘Steady on!’ Randon called back over his shoulder, even as he gunned the bike down Via Britannica. She heard the rumble of his laugh, knew that he was thinking just what she was; if the paps hadn’t been chasing them, she would have reached round to stroke his penis through his jeans. She was willing to bet he was half-hard, at least; risk and danger were a huge turn-on for him, as she knew very well, and speed added to the mix was bound to increase his excitement.

  They had been sneaking around on set for a fortnight. Their attraction to each other had been obvious from the moment they met, but Randon was married, and the producers of Nefertiti were paranoid about any scandal on set, worried that it would cause Vivienne to be seen as a scarlet woman. She had never been America’s sweetheart: her looks were too sultry, her figure too curvaceous, her gaze too come-hither. However, she had grown up in the public eye, and thus was beloved all over the world. Her fans felt that they knew her almost as well as if she were a member of their family.

  This had enabled her to successfully surmount a potentially career-destroying scandal when she became pregnant out of wedlock a few years ago. Controversially, she had refused to get an abortion, conceal her pregnancy and give the baby up for adoption, or contract an arranged marriage and pretend the new husband was the father. Her publicists had wanted Vivienne to issue a public apology for her immoral behaviour, but she had categorically refused, declaring that she was a modern woman, would raise her daughter on her own like many other mothers, and that the public would understand and support her. To everyone’s amazement but her own, she had emerged triumphant, far from the box-office poison her team had feared; the takings for her next film broke records.

  But her notoriety had instantly put the Nefertiti producers on high alert once it became clear how violently she and Randon were attracted to each other. It could not have been more obvious: the Ancient Egyptian costumes were as authentic as possible, and one of the reasons for hiring Randon had been his muscular physique, which would be shown to great effect in the white linen kilt-style skirt that, together with big gold armlets and collar, he was required to wear for most of the film. The folds of the skirt, however, were not up to concealing Randon’s instant reaction to Vivienne in her equally clinging white linen dress, and a production assistant had been specifically tasked (on what was instantly nicknamed ‘Dick Watch’ by the crew) to ensure that scenes weren’t ruined by Randon sporting an erection.

  Both stars had been taken aside by the producers and lectured severely about not yielding to temptation. The production was costing a fortune, and if Vivienne were to be perceived as not just an unwed mother but a homewrecker to boot – a Jezebel who had tempted a married man away from his wife – it might finally cause film fans to stay away in droves, refusing to reward her for bad behaviour. Publicists were assigned to each of them, dogging their heels to make sure they weren’t in each other’s dressing rooms or spending time together after work.

  Vivienne and Randon had managed to sneak the occasional kiss and fumble so far, but today they had rendezvous’d in a prop cupboard for a few brief moments, during which Vivienne had fully realized how aroused Randon was by danger, the possibility of getting caught. He had been hard as a rock instantly, urgent and pressing, dragging up her skirt and almost inside her before she realized what was happening; it had taken more willpower than she had known she possessed to push him off, hissing desperately that they were bound to be heard fucking in a cupboard. God help her, she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone; just thinking about that hot, stiff dick butting between her legs was making her wet now.

  She shivered again, her hands clasping tightly together to stop them straying down below his waist. Her mouth found his neck, and she licked his skin, feeling his body jump at the caress.

  ‘Stop it, woman,’ he yelled, and his voice was wonderfully mellifluous even when it was whipped back through the night air. ‘Do you want to get us killed?’

  Behind them, she heard the paparazzi’s scooters gaining ground, the sound of their engines ever nearer. Wildly as Randon was driving, the native Romans knew their city better than he did, and had chased their targets many times down these roads.

  ‘Look back!’ Randon called. ‘How close are they?’

  Still clinging on for dear life, Vivienne turned her head as much as she could. The headlights of the scooters were a dazzling mass of brightness, as if the cameras slung around their drivers’ necks were flashing in unison. And then she heard something else, a deeper roar, a single light moving faster than the others, and she turned back and yelled in his ear:

  ‘Close – and there’s a motorbike!’

  Randon swore, a long poetic stream of words, many of which Vivienne didn’t even recognize. It was mostly Shakespearean in origin, but with some Christopher Marlowe and Ben Jonson in there too. Randon had made his name playing the major Elizabethan dramatic roles on stage, and he had absorbed a great deal of the vocabulary in the process.

  ‘Hang on!’ he yelled, even as the scooter rounded a sharp corner and shot down a short stretch of road. Vivienne screamed: Randon was racing so fast that it looked as if he were going to crash straight into the stone wall ahead of them that bordered the Parco degli Scipioni. They were very close to her rented villa on the Appian Way now, but with the motorbike gaining on them so fast she didn’t think they would make it. Its lights hadn’t yet shown behind them, but it was only seconds, surely before it was right on their tail—

  And then she knew why he’d told her to hang on, because the scooter tilted crazily; but not, as she’d expected, because Randon was dragging the handlebars round to the left, towards the historic gate of Porta San Sebastiano. Instead he was skewing a ninety-degree turn sharply to the right, almost scraping the wall: their elbows missed it by inches. The scooter skidded sideways, brakes screeching, tyres burning rubber so fiercely that Vivienne choked on its acrid smell as Randon gunned the accelerator again. Just seconds later, the brakes squealed again and the bike ripped into another sharp turn, left into a side lane that was an access track to the park. The Vespa shuddered to a halt, churning up gravel, barely a foot from the gate at the end. Randon cut the lights even before the wheels were completely still.

  Vivienne felt as if she had been through a tumble wash cycle, bounced violently up and down and side to side; she was amazed that she was still in one piece. Her breath was coming in loud pants, her body draped like a limp rag against Randon’s back, as if every one of her bones had been pounded into jelly. To the left, across the Parco degli Scipioni, they could hear the engines of their pursuers’ bikes screeching around the sharp corners, heading to the villa, aiming to catch up with Randon and Vivienne in time to snatch some pictures of the couple as they waited for the groundskeeper to open the entrance gate.

  And then the noise of the pursuit receded, silence fell, and all she could hear was her own breathing and the night breeze stirring the leaves of the trees in the park.

  ‘It worked, eh?’ Randon said in delight, his deep voice rumbling through his ribcage; Vivienne could feel the reverberations. Her hands were still entwined in a death grip around him. ‘I checked this out earlier, driving around waiting to pick you up. Recced the whole route, just in case. Impressed by my Roman driving skills?’

  ‘I nearly fainted three times,’ she managed to say; she didn’t have the energy to lift her head. ‘You’re a maniac.’

  ‘I drive like one, and I fuck like one,’ he said, and he let go of the handlebars, kicked down the bike stand and grabbed her hands, pulling them down to his waist and below it, to the zip of his jeans, distended by his erection pushing up against it.

  ‘I knew you’d be hard,’ she said, laughing as he rubbed her palms over the hump. ‘I just knew it.’

  ‘I’ve never been so fucking hard,’ he said.

  She reached out, tried to unzip his jeans, but he was already doing it, ripping open his belt buc
kle, unpopping his waist button, tearing down the zip. As her gloved hands found him, she realized instantly that he wasn’t wearing underwear.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said as her satin-covered fingers closed around his big, smooth dick, its tip already moist with pre-come, and started to pump it. He was like rock. Her words had issued in a moan of delight, and he laughed again, deep and low.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s taken us so long,’ he said, groaning as she worked him. ‘I’ve been wanking off so much I’m starting to grow hairs on my palms. Getting so close to you in that cupboard today and not being able to shove it up you was bloody murder.’

  ‘Shove it up me? How elegant,’ she said, executing a clever little double-handed twist to her palm action that sent all her lovers crazy.

  ‘Fuck . . .’ was all he could manage; that double twist had had its usual brain-paralysing effect.

  And then he groaned, because she had let go, was climbing off the Vespa and onto the gravel path. She looked back down the little access drive, but it was pitch dark, no streetlights at all, and no cars passing; even if they did, the scooter was far enough down the drive to be invisible to traffic. Another vehicle would have to make the turn itself to spot them here. And she was as desperate as he was, as wet as he was hard. It was worth the risk.

  She hitched her skirt around her waist with one hand and pushed his chest with the other.

  ‘Scooch back,’ she said, and he understood at once, shifting back on the saddle, shoving his legs forwards to brace himself, grabbing the saddle with his hands as she swung one leg up and over, managing to climb onto the bike, feet on the base plate. Like him, she had been prepared: she wasn’t wearing any underwear, just her garter belt and stockings, which made it very easy indeed.

  ‘Help me,’ she said even more urgently, and his hands clamped round her waist, lifting her up with those big muscles that he’d told her airily he must have inherited from his docker ancestors, because he’d never exercised a day in his life. The air was cold on her wet crotch. One hand was clamped in the folds of her skirt, holding it up; the other reached down to find him, positioning herself, directing the tip just where she needed it so badly. With a push of her hips she drove herself right down onto him, all the way.

  She had never done this before, especially on so big a dick. And though she’d known it would be intense, it hurt like hell even as she welcomed it in. It took everything she had, every inch of physical self-control she’d learned as an actor, to stop her from screaming her head off as it ploughed deep in her. Although she couldn’t see his face, she heard the breath shoot out of him as if she’d punched him in the stomach.

  ‘God, woman—’ he managed.

  She took a long breath, her inner muscles beginning to relax after the shock of impaling herself on him as she started to rock back and forth. She didn’t have the traction to lift and lower herself; her feet were dangling on each side of the Vespa, her hands gripping his shoulders, and if she moved too much the scooter tipped and wobbled, even with his feet braced on the ground. But it was enough, it was so much more than enough. She needed to get used to the sheer size of him, the way he filled her so completely, and the rocking action felt extraordinary.

  This time had to be fast and furious; the risk they were taking was gigantic. She leaned over, found his mouth, whispered against it:

  ‘Do it quick and dirty come on . . .’

  Randon surged up immediately, his hips rising, his thighs slamming up and pushing that huge cock even further up her; she did scream now in mingled pain and pleasure as it smashed against her cervix. But he clamped his mouth on hers, drinking in her involuntary shriek even as she felt his cock swell inside her, impossibly large, as it started to judder with its release. The warmth of his sperm flooding her, so hot . . . and his tongue in her mouth was just as wet and hot. He was kissing her all the way through his orgasm, one hand behind the back of her head, holding her close to him. It was back to front, the fuck first and the kiss later, and it was simply amazing.

  He was the first man ever to do that, keep on kissing her even after he’d got what he came for. In Vivienne’s experience, men kissed you till they got to fuck you, and then they took you for granted, stopped bothering. She adored to kiss, could do it for hours, and even as his still-hard cock filled her, stretched her to her limit, he kept on kissing and kissing her, as urgent and passionate as if he hadn’t just come. He tasted strongly of Italian brandy – Stravecchio, a cheap brand he’d found at a Roman bar and promptly insisted be stocked in his dressing room on set. It had been on his breath that afternoon when they had been fumbling in the prop cupboard; she was already coming to associate the taste with him. For the rest of her life, cheap Italian brandy would instantly evoke bittersweet memories of Randon kissing her.

  His hands tangled in her hair, pushing back the scarf, his lips traced down to her neck; she tilted her head back, unable to believe the sensations that were flooding through her. His curls tickled her skin, and she wound her fingers through his hair, exulting at how springy it was, how thick. Everything about him delighted her. His mouth, his voice, his eyes, his cock, God, his cock . . .

  Finally, he began to subside, detumescing, and Vivienne felt liquid seeping out where their bodies were joined.

  ‘Do you have a hankie?’ she managed to say into his curly hair. His head was at her bosom, kissing her décolletage, his hands cupping her breasts, and he burst out laughing against her bare skin.

  ‘Do I look like a man who has a hankie?’ he demanded, raising his head.

  He put his hands to her throat, unfastening the tightly knotted silk scarf. Even as she began to object, he pulled off the scarf, shoved it down to where their crotches were joined, and started to blot his sperm up with it.

  ‘What are you doing? That’s Hermès!’ she protested, though she undermined herself a little by starting to giggle at his sheer audacity.

  ‘So what?’ he said nonchalantly. ‘You can afford another one! We can both afford a whole shopful! I’ll take you out tomorrow and buy you whatever you want. There’s bound to be a Hermes in Rome. We’ll empty out the shop, and every single time I come inside you I’ll wipe it up with one of ’em.’

  His penis slid out of her, more sperm flooding onto the leather seat.

  ‘Here, give that to me,’ she said, taking the scarf.

  Happiness welled up in her at the way he was assuming this wasn’t just a one-night stand. She might be Vivienne Winter, sex symbol that every straight man and every gay woman wanted to sleep with, but it didn’t stop her from having the normal, human insecurities. Rita Hayworth had said, at the height of her fame, ‘They go to bed with Gilda but they wake up with me,’ a poignant comment on the fact that men expected her to be exactly like the femme fatale she had famously played.

  But Rita, despite her sex-symbol looks, was shy and introverted in person, while Vivienne was just as earthy and uninhibited as the lusty, seductive heroines she played. She wasn’t afraid that men would be disappointed in her without the glamorous costumes, elaborate make-up and clever lines she was given on screen. No, her concern was that having had sex with her would be a supreme feather in the cap of any playboy, something he would be able to boast about for the rest of his life. She was wary of trophy hunters who were simply after a one-night stand and bragging rights.

  She found herself raising the scarf to her nose to smell him. It was intoxicating; everything about him was intoxicating. She had to fight a sudden, powerful impulse to rub the scarf all over herself.

  Oh my God, she thought. Just one fuck and some funny banter and I’m really far gone. What the hell is this man doing to me?

  ‘We should be using condoms,’ she said, shifting back to wipe herself, keeping her tone as matter-of-fact as she could, hopefully to disguise how fast and hard she was falling for him.

  ‘I’ve got loads,’ he said, still nonchalant. ‘I’m going to be fucking you a lot. I came prepared. Wipe up as much as you can and then wad
the scarf up where your knickers would be if you were ladylike enough to be wearing any.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ she said as he tilted his hips up, tucked his semen-wet penis into his jeans and zipped himself up again. ‘My God, you can’t wear those jeans again tomorrow, they’ll be all crusty! We’ll have to wash them tonight.’

  ‘Just like a woman, fussing about the washing,’ he said, putting his hands around her waist and heaving her up, helping her climb off the bike. ‘Stuff that rag up you so you don’t leak all over the place and get back on behind me. Oh, and take that fur off and give it to me. I’ll put it under the bike seat. Without that and the scarf, you just look like a bog-standard Italian girl out for a ride with her handsome stud.’

  ‘Bog-standard?’

  She slapped him across the cheek, not lightly. He didn’t even flinch, just grinned at her. But then she followed instructions, unfastening the hooks of the tippet. He was quite right: without the distinctive scarf and the pale pink fur, her black dress was neutral enough not to draw attention, and her black hair made her look like a local.

  ‘I’m going to ride around for twenty minutes or so,’ he said, standing up to stow the mink away under the seat. ‘Then we’ll do a pass by the villa to check. They should all be gone by then – they’ll think that we made it in before them, and they’ll know I’ll be too busy fucking your brains out to leave for hours. But we’ll buzz by at a normal speed, just in case. If there’s no one there we can loop back, nip into the villa and I can start fucking your brains out again.’

  ‘God, you have a filthy mouth,’ she said as she slid into place behind him on the Vespa. ‘And I’ll be fucking you too, you know. It goes both ways.’

  ‘No,’ he said, revving up the engine. ‘I fuck you. I have the cock. That’s how it works. And you haven’t got the least idea of how filthy my mouth is yet.’