Free Heller's Revenge by J.D. Nixon Page B

computer. Heller was not amused by
Dixie’s behaviour and I’d promised him that I would ask her to stop
sending me such photos. I did ask her to stop, but she still
kept sending them anyway. And to my shame, I have to admit that I
did keep looking at them as well.
     

Chapter 5
     
    I retired early that night,
cooking myself a simple dinner – a small dish of garlic prawn
fettucine with basil, cherry tomatoes and wilted English spinach
leaves, washed down with a few glasses of a crisp and tasty
sauvignon blanc. Heller provided us with an excellent pantry
located on the sixth floor and everything was free! Have I
mentioned that I love living in the Warehouse?
    Nicely loose from the alcohol, I
watched TV in my pyjamas, sprawled on my white lounge with indolent
inelegance. But when the nation’s leading current affairs program People’s Pulse came on, I sprang up with vested interest.
The show’s host was Trent Dawson, a sleazy celebrity with a
reputation for being a love-rat and the story he introduced was
titled, ‘ City’s Foxiest Fighter? ’
    “No, no, no,” I prayed to
myself, fumbling for the remote. It was too late. The YouTube
footage beamed from my TV and I watched in horrified petrification
as my butt, barely encased in those tiny panties, broadcast to
approximately 2.8 million viewers, my mother and father but two of
them.
    I turned up the volume.
    “– now generated over two
million views on YouTube. It appears, contrary to what the fashion
gurus’ want to tell us, that men do appreciate a real woman
with delicious curves. And perhaps it’s every man’s secret fantasy
to be bruised up by a tall, masked woman in lingerie?” Trent Dawson
smirked. “So who is this superhero wonder woman who saved Jenna
Mackenzie from a crazed fan? Who recognises her? Contact me on
email or Twitter or Facebook if you think you know her.” He leaned
closer to the camera, his brown eyes intent. “I want to
interview that woman. Help me, viewers. One of you has to know who
she is.”
    I switched off the TV, stomach
sinking. My phone rang immediately. I knew who it was.
    “Matilda.”
    “It wasn’t me,” I said, invoking
the Bart Simpson defence. “It doesn’t even look like me. I was
working at the show, but I was in my uniform the entire time. The
mask is confusing everyone.”
    There was a deliberate silence.
“That’s good. You keep saying that if anyone asks.” Another
silence. “I’m going out now. Good night, my sweet.”
    “Night Heller.” My turn to be
quiet. “Have fun with Jenna.”
    His low, growly, sexy chuckle
made my stomach flip. “I will, but not as much fun as I could have
with you, Matilda.”
    He hung up, leaving me
palpitating over that little comment for a while until sleep
finally claimed me.
    The next morning I watched TV
while I ironed, nearly burning a hole in my cargo pants when the
show’s vacuous and bouncy female host interviewed Jenna Mackenzie
live in the studio. It was her last media appearance in the country
before she was flying out to Milan for yet another fashion parade.
Jenna purred her way through the friendly chat with the sycophantic
host, her lips redder and more bee-stung than I remembered, her
eyes dreamy. Her contented and languorous mien virtually screamed
out to the world that she’d spent the previous evening indulging in
an orgy of sizzling sex with a smoking hot stud. As I flicked off
the TV, I mercilessly quashed the familiar sharp burn of jealousy
and faced the day with a determined bright smile plastered onto my
face.
    The rest of the week passed
uneventfully. Clive allocated me a small assignment for a couple of
days, acting as companion to the wife and daughter of an interstate
businessman in the city to negotiate the sale of a large
residential development. I was glad for the new job, tired of
dodging Heller so I didn’t have to hear about his night with Jenna.
There’s only so much a woman can bear.
    At our first meeting, the client
confided that