Free In Too Deep by Roxane Beaufort Page A

gin and tonic, cleared her throat and asked, 'Can you tell
me anything about Vincent Gabor?'
    Will's eyes
sharpened and he leaned forward. 'Is he mixed up in this?'
    'We don't know
for sure, but yes, Arlene suspects him. What do you know?'
    'Vincent Gabor
is a self-made man, son of mid-European refugees. He was born and
educated in England, went to Oxford, I believe. Rumour has it he's
made a fortune through wheeling and dealing, and has invested some
of it in the fashion industry. He has contacts worldwide. Dips his
fingers into any number of pies, and is never over-scrupulous when
it comes to making a profit.'
    'Arlene's
suggested I get a job modelling for Marty Blake,' she said. 'He
won't know I'm her friend, and maybe I can find something out.'
    'And how is
Denise going to take it if you have too much time off?' he asked,
ever practical.
    'I've a
holiday due, and anyway, I thought we might sell it to her with the
offer of a story, if I find that Blake's guilty.'
    'That's sound.
She might wear it.'
    'Will you help
me persuade her?' Julia asked, remembering Arlene's pep talk and
pasting on her most winning smile.
    It was after
ten o'clock and the crowd was thicker. The pub provided a showcase
for aspiring bands, the skittle alley used for gigs most weekends.
Now the younger element was herding towards the improvised stage,
but this didn't do much to lessen the crush in the public bar. The
noise was deafening as the support band struck up, and Will moved
over to the banquette where Julia sat. She couldn't slide away from
him, blocked by a gangling youth with a shaven head and rings in
his eyebrows.
    Will, ever the
opportunist, bent closer and shouted in her ear. 'Marty Blake is
Gabor's protégé. I've heard they're thick as thieves, and that
seems to be the case, if what Arlene suspects is true. Gabor's
useful; he can get garments made in the sweatshops of Sri Lanka,
and will front up the money. In exchange he enjoys all the glamour
of the industry and gets to fuck beautiful models, to boot.'
    Sure enough,
she felt his hand close on her knee. It was like a self-fulfilling
prophecy. Up it travelled, pausing momentarily to see if she would
protest, then journeying on, finding the curve of her mons under
the little white panties. Julia's exclamation of indignation was
lost in the uproar surrounding them. Will didn't look at her, just
kept on talking.
    'Gabor's a big
fish, Julia,' he said, and tickled the spot at the top of her
cleft, where the outer labia protected her clitoris. 'It's not wise
to tangle with him.'
    'I must help
Arlene,' she insisted, increasingly uncomfortable, unable to stop
herself from resting against the back of the bench and slipping
down a fraction so that her mound was lifted towards his
fingers.
    'Did I say you
shouldn't?' he went on calmly, and she felt him easing round the
edge of her knickers and starting to brush over her floss. 'Just be
careful.'
    'Don't,' she
hissed. 'Someone may see you.'
    'Unlikely,' he
answered, chuckling. 'You don't really want me to stop, do
you?'
    Before she
could answer they were interrupted by a weedy man with a ferret
face and sparse, sandy hair who clapped Will on the shoulder,
shouting, 'Hello there, chummy. How's your belly off for spots? And
who are you, deary? What a choice bit of totty.'
    He leered at
Julia and she was certain his base instincts had drawn him there,
just when Will was fingering her crotch. She disliked him
instantly, hating the way in which he smiled as he addressed her in
that disparaging tone. She escaped Will's hand under cover of the
table, sat up and rearranged her skirt, all without the newcomer
seeing, or so she hoped.
    'Hello, George,' Will said, unimpressed. 'Sit you down, if you
can find a chair. This is Julia Jones. Julia, meet George Comby. He
was with me at the Daily Courier in our misspent youth.'
    She nodded and
made appropriate noises, while George continued to give her
lecherous glances. With typical bad timing, the pierced