Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte
her fork and slipping it into her mouth suggestively, Chrissie’s green eyes locked onto Viorel’s lapis-blue ones. ‘I’m a big believer in listening to my body’s needs.’
‘So am I,’ Viorel grinned, revelling in the attention. He wasn’t particularly attracted to Chrissie. But since his run-in with Tish he’d been feeling a growing sense of frustration that increasingly needed an outlet. With Sabrina off limits, his options were slim. The flirtation with Chrissie was a welcome distraction. ‘I’m religious about it actually.’
Tish felt embarrassed for Dorian and wildly disapproving of Viorel. The flirting was shameless. But when she looked up she saw that Dorian hadn’t noticed anything. Eating mindlessly, eyes on his food, brow furrowed, he was clearly miles away, lost in worries of his own.
‘What are your plans this afternoon?’ Chrissie asked Viorel. ‘My husband’s going to be working, as usual.’ She rolled her eyes.
Dorian glanced up. ‘What? Working? Not the whole afternoon I’m not, honey. I need to look at some of the rushes of Rhys’s scenes, that’s all. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.’
‘Yeah, right, and pigs might fly,’ muttered Chrissie. ‘I thought maybe Viorel could give me a tour of the local countryside. Show me some of the sights.’
‘I’d love to.’ Vio smiled wickedly.
The air was so thick with innuendo, Tish almost felt like covering Abel’s ears. She certainly wished she could cover her own.
‘But I’m afraid I already have plans. I’m taking a young lady into Manchester. We thought we’d do a spot of shopping this afternoon, then grab dinner.’
‘A young lady? Who?’ Tish heard herself asking. She didn’t know why, but the idea that Vio might have scored himself a date seemed to rankle.
‘You know her, actually,’ said Vio nonchalantly. ‘Laura Harrington.’
‘Laura?’ Tish choked on her Perrier water, sending a stream of frothy bubbles shooting out of her nose. ‘The girl who came to babysit Abel the other night?’
‘That’s her.’ Vio smiled.
Last Thursday had been Mrs Drummond’s bridge night, and Tish had arranged dinner with an old schoolfriend. Laura was the teenage daughter of the local vicar, and had offered her babysitting services for eight pounds an hour. All Tish could remember about her was that she had terrible grammar, and that Abel had been wildly impressed with her ‘princess hair’. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her charms.
‘But she’s a child!’ Tish looked at Vio, horrified.
‘She’s eighteen actually,’ said Vio. ‘And very mature for her age.’
‘Mature?’ Tish scoffed. ‘Please. She was carrying a Miley Cyrus backpack! She gave Abel two chocolate cream eggs in an egg cup for supper.’
‘Did she?’ Vio beamed. ‘I like her even more.’
‘He was sick all over his bed.’
‘Yes, well, happily I’m blessed with a strong stomach.’
Tish’s glare intensified.
‘It’s only dinner,’ said Viorel. ‘I’ll drop her back home afterwards.’
After what? thought Tish furiously. Boy, had she misjudged Viorel Hudson. Being a flirt was one thing, but using his celebrity to lure an innocent local girl into bed? He should be ashamed of himself.
Chrissie Rasmirez obviously felt the same way, if her epic pout was anything to go by.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Rasmirez,’ Mrs Drummond piped up cheerfully. ‘I’ll have a word with Bill Connelly. Bill knows Derbyshire a lot better than Mr Hudson here. I’m sure he’d be happy to show you around until your husband’s free.’
Momentarily forgetting their mutual disapproval of one another, Tish and Vio locked eyes and smiled. Chrissie looked as if someone had just squirted lemon juice in her eyes.
‘Thank you,’ she said sourly. ‘I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.’
‘You should go, honey. Bill Connelly won’t mind,’ said Dorian, scoring himself no points with his wife whatsoever. ‘If the forecasters are right, we could be in for some heavy rain in the next few days. Maybe even enough to hold up shooting.’
‘Yay!’ said Abel, jumping down from the table and disloyally settling himself down in Viorel’s lap. ‘That means you can play with me more, right?’
As ever, Abel’s sunny, trusting little face brought out the lion in Viorel. He still couldn’t get his head around the fact that Tish was planning to drag the boy back to some ex-communist dump in a few short weeks. If he could, he’d have stuffed Abi in his suitcase and brought him back to America.
‘Of course.’ He ruffled Abel’s hair. ‘We can play computer games and eat Hula Hoops till our tongues fall off.’
Tish shot him a thunderous look. She was so easy to wind up, there was almost no sport to it.
Yesterday, Vio had walked in on a conversation between Tish and Mrs Drummond. Tish was droning on about her bloody charity work, again.
‘A lot of it’s about training the local staff on the ground,’ she was telling the housekeeper earnestly. ‘When we first came to the children’s hospital in Oradea, we saw seriously malnourished babies. The nurses were trying to spoon-feed them while they lay in their cots. Well, you can’t swallow lying down. It’s impossible. So that’s the sort of basic thing we teach them.’
‘I see, dear.’ Mrs Drummond nodded sagely. ‘That sounds marvellous.’
‘Except that it’s bollocks,’ drawled Viorel. ‘I know at least six girls in LA who can definitely swallow lying down. Perhaps I should send them out there, to train the kids?’
The look on Tish’s face had kept him smiling all night long.
Laura Harrington was a disappointment.
Notwithstanding her tender years, the vicar’s daughter had clearly been around the block a time or twenty. Having nixed the shopping plan (‘I can think of better things to do, can’t you?’), she’d taken Viorel out to a secluded part of Loxley’s idyllic ancient woodland, and slipped out of her clothes before he’d had time to blink. Indeed, her whole been-there-done-that, business-like approach to proceedings left Vio feeling deflated and – odd as it might seem in the circumstances – used.
Lying back, he closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the painting-by-numbers blow job that Laura was giving him. No doubt she would be cataloguing it in graphic detail on her Facebook page later – blow by blow, he thought, laughing quietly to himself. He tried to turn himself on by imagining it was Sabrina’s tongue darting around his cock, and not that of some chubby village slut with big tits and the IQ of a fossilized dog turd. But strangely, the Sabrina fantasy wasn’t working either. After weeks of denial, perhaps he’d come to associate her with frustration?
Laura looked up. His erection was still strong – a blow job was a blow job, after all – but she could sense his lack of enthusiasm. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ he lied.
‘Would you rather just shag?’
Vio raised an eyebrow. And he’d thought Hollywood chicks were fast! ‘You don’t beat around the bush, do you?’
In answer, Laura straddled him, barely giving him time to slip on a condom before she lowered her pale, freckled thighs over his hips and slipped his cock inside her. She rocked back and forth, her melonous breasts juddering like water balloons, eyes closed in concentration more than ecstasy. Lifting her up, Vio turned her around so he wouldn’t have to look at her mooncalf face. Closing his own eyes, he tried to focus on Laura’s oversized boobs and not the sizeable arse that came with them.