him a smile.
It was Mateo, the model she’d shot a fragrance campaign with the previous afternoon. After the shoot he’d invited her to a bar, then hours later, somehow, they’d ended up back at her place. It was hopelessly unprofessional.
‘You’re beautiful in the morning,’ he said, reaching for her.
She resisted. ‘Thanks. I’ve got things to do, you’ll have to go.’ She slid out of bed and padded towards the en suite.
Hungrily he watched her naked body, marvelling at the way her jet-black hair fell so smooth, right down to the dip of her ass where it cut off in a blunt line. ‘So soon?’
‘Yes, so soon.’ She grinned. ‘Last night was fun–let’s leave it at that, OK.’
He sat up. ‘I’m sad.’
‘Don’t be.’ She grabbed a towel.
Dragging his jeans on, Mateo fought down his erection. Chloe French made him indescribably horny. He approached her from behind, burying his face in her hair.
‘You were incredible,’ he murmured, his hands moving down her body. She smelled like sex. ‘Last night blew my mind.’
She pulled him off and wrapped the towel around her. ‘Mateo, I mean it. It’s late and I’ve got things to do. Go.’
When she came out of the shower he’d gone, his number scrawled on a scrap of paper he’d left on her chest of drawers. She looked at it, smiled, tore it in half and threw it in the bin.
An hour later her phone rang. She was in the fitting rooms at Fred Segal and had to fumble, half-dressed, to free it from her bag.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Chloe?’
She frowned. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Jimmy Hart.’
Unexpectedly her stomach did a somersault. In the three-way mirrors she could see her top half, clad only in a lacy pink bra, from every conceivable angle. She folded her arms across her chest, feeling exposed.
‘We met at Harriet’s dinner party in December,’ he went on. She could see the glint in his eye when he added, ‘Please tell me you remember.’
‘Of course,’ she said evenly. ‘Hi.’ She’d thought about Jimmy intermittently over the past three months, vaguely impressed that he hadn’t yielded to another extra-marital temptation and yet slightly disappointed that he hadn’t. The episode with Nate had taught her one thing: men couldn’t be trusted and fidelity didn’t exist. In the game of love and war, if you didn’t become a player you ended up getting played. Kate diLaurentis knew it as well as she did.
There was a pause. ‘Are you busy today?’
‘Yes,’ she said smoothly.
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘I’m busy tomorrow as well.’ She fingered the label on a six-hundred-dollar blouse.
‘The day after.’
‘Busy.’
‘The day after that.’ There was a grin in his voice. ‘I should warn you, this could go on a while.’
Chloe met her own gaze in the opposite mirror. She could see her other selves looking on.
The old her. Jimmy’s married. He’s a father. It’s the wrong thing to do.
The new. Grow up, Chloe. This is the real world. It’s how things are.
‘Actually, I can meet today,’ she said quickly, before she could change her mind. Any twinge of regret she might feel for Kate diLaurentis was quickly replaced with antipathy when she remembered how horrid the woman had been to her when they’d first met. She owed her nothing.
Jimmy’s voice deepened. ‘Come on over,’ he said, ‘I’ve got the place to myself.’
Chloe knew the deal. It was sex, pure and simple. Nobody else in this city thought twice about it-why should she? In this town, it was a means of survival.
‘You like risk, don’t you?’ she flirted, enjoying her newfound confidence.
‘Never get bored.’
‘You won’t with me.’
‘I’ll bet,’ he choked. Hurriedly he gave her the address.
After a moment she said, ‘I’ll be there. And, Jimmy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t keep me waiting again.’
Later that afternoon Chloe arrived at the Bel Air mansion, her trademark hair tucked under a Yankees cap and dark glasses obscuring her face. She buzzed the gates and was let in immediately, making her way up the massive drive towards the house. Palm fronds rustled in the warm spring breeze, their shapes reflected in a sheet of curved glass at the front of the building.
Kate’s got the right idea, she thought. Make sure you see ‘em coming.
Jimmy met her at the door. He was not as handsome as she remembered, thinner and with less hair, but nevertheless the attraction she’d felt at Harriet’s remained. His brown eyes sparkled with promise.
‘Good to see you,’ he said with a crocodile grin. ‘Come in.’
‘Thank you.’ She stepped inside, pulling off her cap and tossing her raven hair loose. Her jacket peeled away to reveal tight black jeans above a pair of wicked-red ankle boots, and a tight lead-grey top displaying plenty of cleavage. Jimmy’s eyes raked over her.
‘You look good,’ he said throatily.
Chloe made her way slowly and casually round the expansive hall, running a finger over the surfaces, pausing here and there to touch vases, ornaments, an antique china figurine carrying a basket of what looked like eggs, or potatoes, she couldn’t tell which.
So this was what it was like to be the other woman. As she bent to examine a family photograph, smiling faces on a beach somewhere, Jimmy’s pale chest alongside his wife’s golden tan, she realised what the overriding feeling of it was: it was one of power.
‘You’re sweet,’ she said in an echo of his words at Harriet’s dinner party. She turned to face him. He wondered how long it would take to get her knickers off.
Jimmy realised his palms were sweating. He’d brought plenty of girls back to the house, but none who took it in with such concentrated interest as Chloe French. He remembered her differently, as more shy, more timid somehow. They needed to get down to business–this was making him nervous.
‘Where’s Kate?’ Chloe asked, crossing her arms. Jimmy observed the generous curve of her breasts as she turned to one side.
‘At a meeting,’ he said gruffly. Then he added, a sparkle in
