Palmer: Fashion Week Ch. 03

Jenn's nipples came to life again when the model's warm hands cupped her breasts and she exhaled a heavy breath of air as she tried to regulate her breathing. It was coming as fast as her pitter-pattering heartbeat.

"Yes, just like that. Now, get into it, girls! Just touch those perfect lips together, like a little over the shoulder kiss."

Jenn saw Michelle's lips widen as she turned her head towards her. She could see her waiting tongue just inside her open mouth. The young model slowly licked it across her lips as she whispered breathily.

"Go ahead ... Kiss me ... I know you want to."

Jenn felt light headed. Was this really happening? With the arousal she was feeling, and the wine she'd consumed, it was all too much. But when she gave in and moved closer, tilting her head to touch those pouting lips with hers, Michelle pulled fractionally back at the last moment.

"Tony is going to make you a star," she murmured, keeping her smiling mouth a fraction of an inch away. "All you have to do is obey the rules and enjoy the ride."

With that, she turned her body so that it pressed into Jenn's and curled one hand around the back of her neck. When their lips finally came together, the Sapphic kiss was softer and yet far more demanding than any man Jenn had ever been with.

Michelle's hand held her head in place as one kiss turned into two, and then three. Suddenly, they began to make out like rabid animals.

Jenn could feel herself growing dizzy from desire. Kissing another woman did this to you? The feeling of her breasts pushing against her own was a thrill she'd never anticipated, but all of a sudden the feeling of Michelle's nipples scraping against her skin, her smooth sex rubbing against her thigh, was too much.

She was here in Dubai for a reason, and this was way beyond her brief.

When she finally yanked her head away, Michelle's pouting lips were smeared with lipstick from both their mouths. It somehow created such a wonderfully wanton, slutty look. Jenn realised that her mouth would be the same and inexplicably found that another sudden surge of arousal hit her. Even though her face burned with embarrassment, she thought Michelle was going to kiss her again. Wanted her to...

But Isobel came to her rescue.

"Alright, I have everything I need," the photographer's voice came from the side of them.

This time it was panic that surged in Jenn's body. She hadn't realised that the Spanish woman had been clicking away during the whole encounter. If those photographs ever found a wider audience, she could kiss her career goodbye.

For a moment she couldn't speak. She just stared wide-eyed at photographer, then Michelle and then back again.

"You did great," Isobel reassured her, with a knowing smile. "And if I'm a representative sample, you've already got me wanting to buy the lipstick. Tony's going to be delighted with you."

*

Nikolay Volkov's mind worked in a cold, logical manner. He didn't have time for sentiment. Establish the facts. Consider all options. Then take the necessary action to eliminate the problem—immediately and ruthlessly. He'd trusted Tony Yamamura. Tony Yamamura had betrayed him. There was only one solution.

Once he'd returned to his office from his encounter at Sheikh Amir bin Khalid's palace—all three girls had been very good, but the blonde was exceptional—he'd reassessed every detail and arrived at the same conclusion. Tony Yamamura had to be eliminated, but in a way that couldn't be traced back to the Russian.

That was why he was in the centre of Dubai now, taking the early evening open-top Big Bus tour. Boris was seated three rows behind him, keeping an eye on proceedings, just in case.

At first glance, the man who had casually taken a seat next to Volkov seemed to have no connection with him. They were simply two tourists, coincidentally sharing the same bus tour. No-one would think anything else. No-one would realise that the few words they were about to exchange would be in Russian.

"I flew in immediately, as requested," the shaven-headed man said, his accent thick and strong.

"I should hope so. I'm paying a fortune," Volkov said, his cold eyes appraising the assassin through his shades.

Not only did the large sunglasses offer protection against the still bright sunlight, they guarded his anonymity, too.

"You're paying what I'm worth, Mr. Volkov," the assassin said through gritted teeth. "We both know that."

"Don't use my name," Volkov snapped irritably. "Not even when we speak in Russian. I'm not paying for stupid mistakes."

The assassin nonchalantly shrugged and glanced out of the window to his left. For a moment, neither man spoke, not until Volkov's anger subsided.

He'd employed this man through a contact of a contact, who assured him that he met the specifications laid down. He had asked for someone expendable, who wouldn't be missed in the event of the job going wrong. He'd also asked for someone who wasn't blessed with the greatest intelligence. Vladimir Kazakov met both criteria.

The shaven-headed man embodied all the qualities expected from someone who had worked for the Ukrainian mafia—single mindedness, the strength of a bull and a vicious determination to succeed. Those qualities were necessary if he was to take care of Tony Yamamura.

That would be the last job he ever undertook.

Volkov had already manufactured evidence to suggest that Yamamura and Kazakov had met before. Not only met, they had unfinished business between them. A gambling debt. That information would be found at the scene of the crime, beside both bodies.

The plan was foolproof. Nikky Volkov would be nowhere near the scene when the killing occurred, he would make sure he had a cast-iron alibi, his contact with Kazakov was untraceable, and a motive would be left for the two deaths. Perfect!

"I want a down-payment now, comrade," Kazakov suddenly muttered, "and an extra twenty thousand once the job is completed."

"We have already agreed the terms," Volkov quietly said, glancing in the opposite direction.

"I'm renegotiating," Kazakov said, turning to stare at the Russian. "You want Vladimir's services then you have to pay for them.

"Look the other way, for fuck's sake," Volkov snapped.

Any conversation between them couldn't be understood, but he hated taking even the slimmest chance of someone putting them together.

He paused for a moment to allow his temper to settle. Boris would be watching them closely and he didn't want his bodyguard thinking he had an issue. He didn't. Everything was under control.

He surreptitiously pulled a buff coloured envelope out of his pocket and slid it onto Kazakov's lap. The money inside was counterfeit, but the assassin wouldn't know that. And the extra twenty thousand was irrelevant. The numbskull wouldn't be around to collect it.

"You strike a hard bargain," he lied, pulling his baseball cap down more tightly on his head. "But I want the contract carried out tomorrow at the time and place I specify. That's crucial."

Kazakov nodded gruffly. "Then you'd better give me the details, comrade."