Lust on the Line Read online

  LUST ON THE LINE

  by

  NOEL AMOS

  Lust on the Line first published in 1996 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera eBooks.

  ISBN 9781780800318

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  New authors are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Noel Amos. The right of Noel Amos to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover image by Barbara Jensen.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Contents

  One - Blue Desire

  Two - To the Hilt

  Three - Naked in the Roses

  Four - The Bottom Line

  Postscript

  One - Blue Desire

  Chapter 1

  'So tell me, Lucian,' said Miranda Lynch, newly appointed Chief Executive of once-grand book publishers, The Whimsical Press, 'where do you stand on Erotica?'

  Lucian Swan, editor, opened his mouth. 'Er...' he said. It was expected of him to say something. Miranda's grey eyes, as threatening as a stormy sea, were demanding a response.

  But what did she mean by 'Erotica'? Was it an island in the Pacific? A Greek philosopher? Or some small academic publisher he'd never heard of?

  'Well...' he said, aware he was about to plunge into the. unknown and sound like a fool.

  Luckily for him she misunderstood his hesitation.

  'It may be a shock to one of your rarefied sensibilities, Lucian, but we've got to turn this company round somehow. And if that means churning out a line of smutty novels then so be it. Obviously I need an editor. Where do you stand?'

  For once Lucian said nothing. So that was what she meant by erotica. Jerk-off books. Mucky novels for hand-shandy merchants. Pornography. Well, he didn't have anything against it in principle though he knew nothing about it in practice.

  Lucian found himself nodding. It was one of his problems, he always agreed with his boss - whoever that happened to be at the time. And right now it was the meanest woman in publishing, imported by their new German owners to knock the flagging business into shape.

  Despite her immaculate blonde beauty and ever-ready smile Miranda had a reputation as a hatchet woman and so far that morning nine members of staff had been chopped. Until this moment Lucian had expected to take the number into double figures. Now it seemed he was reprieved. At a price.

  'Exactly how many books were you thinking of?' he asked, pushing a dark lock of hair out of his eyes with a languid flick.

  'Three a month,' said Miranda. 'Starting in April.'

  Lucian gulped. 'I can't do it. I've got a full programme of Whimsical Walks to publish,' he protested.

  'No, you haven't. I'm dropping the series.'

  'What!'

  This was a bombshell. Whimsical Walks of the World had been the cornerstone of the firm's publishing. programme since the war - a quirky, lovingly compiled sequence of rambles all over the globe which now comprised some 120 titles in print and a defunct backlist of 500. Lucian had edited the series for five years, ever since he had been appointed by the previous Chief Executive - or Managing Director as he was then styled - Basil Swan. Lucian's uncle.

  'But,' Lucian protested, 'that's madness. That's our bestselling line. That is The Whimsical Press.'

  'Quite. And The Whimsical Press made a loss of two point four million pounds last year on a turnover of fifteen. As for bestsellers what's your fastest-selling new title?'

  'Well...' Lucian was caught on the hop. This kind of conversation about sales figures was his least favourite. 'Barnacle I suppose.'

  'OK.' Miranda's fingers were already tapping at her computer keyboard. 'Here we are, that great bestseller Whimsical Walks in Barnacle Country. A hundred and thirty copies have moved in the last six months. A hundred of which appear to have gone to one customer.'

  'The author. He sells them at his lectures.'

  'I see.' Miranda narrowed her eyes and an out-of-place furrow appeared on her perfect brow. 'It seems he hasn't paid or them yet. In the same period fifteen hundred copies were returned.'

  'Oh.'

  'That's not much of a bestseller, is it now?'

  'It got terrific reviews in the area. And it won a prize from the local ramblers' association. Mind you, the author is a former president of the association, so...'

  Miranda's eyes drank in every nuance of Lucian's discomfort as the words died on his lips.

  'You take my point?' she said. 'I'm sure you understand that you would be better employed on books that actually make some money.'

  'Can I still do my literary novels as well?'

  Miranda's strawberry-pink, unpainted mouth turned down. 'Such as?'

  'Quentin Constant. He's on the point of a breakthrough, I'm sure. I bet you lunch at Grimaldi's he wins the Baxendale Prize next time.' Lucian was conscious that this show of bravado was possibly pushing it but someone had to stand up for Literature now the barbarians had taken over.

  The barbarian in front of him reached once more for the computer keyboard. A thin gold chain encircled the pale stem of her neck and the honey-blonde helmet of her gleaming hair brushed the collar of her cream silk blouse. For a barbarian, Lucian reflected, her appearance was seductively civilised.

  'What was his last novel?'

  'Lambent Peonies but there's no need to look up the figures.' Her slender, unadorned fingers paused. 'I know it was only moderately successful but there was a cock-up on the jacket. The first "e" in Peonies got lost - the designer thought it was a children's book.' The fingers resumed their clicking. 'It was only spotted at the last minute so we didn't have a jacket for the sell-in. It was nobody's fault really, just bad luck—'

  Miranda made a small hissing noise through clenched teeth a she stared at the screen in front of her. The sound of executive frustration silenced Lucian's babble as effectively as a punch in the throat.

  'It's sold three hundred and twenty copies to date,' she said in a voice of ice. 'If that's one of your moderate titles I'd be curious to see the performance of a bad one. No, please, Lucian—' Lucian bit back the urge to interrupt '—spare me any more of your past successes. Let's discuss the future.'

  'Fine,' said Lucian, sitting up and trying to appear more upbeat than he felt.

  'That's if you think you have one with this company.'

  'Oh.' Lucian slumped like a punctured balloon. 'Haven't I?'

  'Let me be frank with you. You're not the most productive editor on the staff. You edit fewer than a dozen books a year and their sales, as far as I can tell, are negligible. Your expenses exceed five hundred pounds a month and you currently owe the company nearly two thousand pounds-'

  'But that's an authorised float for legitimate expenditure—'

  '—authorised by your uncle who is no longer employed here. To continue my assessment, you talk too much and listen too little. You are poorly acquainted with the financial implications
of your day-to-day efforts. You are a pushover for any manipulative literary agent, which means all of them. And you have no idea of the prospective market for any of the books you produce. In short, you are a garrulous dilettante out of touch with the demands of the modern publishing industry. Now, am I being unfair?'

  Lucian thought for a moment. 'Sometimes I ask the agents to pay for lunch,' he said.

  Miranda laughed, a disconcerting barking noise at odds with her feminine appearance.

  'And I love books. It's in the blood,' he added, playing the family card.

  'So when did you last read one?'

  'I've just finished Quentin's new synopsis and I've got some interesting pages from a freelance journalist.'

  'That's not what I mean, Lucian. When did you last go to a bookshop, buy a book published by another firm and read it all the way through?'

  'Oh.' Lucian thought. A few years back he'd bought a bestseller about the history of time by some genius. He'd only got as far as page three though, so that didn't count.

  'You see?' Miranda's face was triumphant. 'Editors like you aren't in touch with the book-buying experience. I bet, for example, you've never even looked at these.' And she produced a bundle of paperbacks from a drawer and spread them across the desk top.

  'Erotica,' she announced with zeal in her voice. 'This is what's selling these days. Call yourself an editor - get me some of this. I want a list of prospective titles from you by next Monday or there's another interesting page you'll be reading.'

  Lucian didn't want to ask but he knew he had to.

  'What's that?'

  'Your P45.'

  Chapter 2

  From behind the curtain of his first-floor study, Montgomery Hastings watched his wife as she unlocked her scarlet Mercedes convertible. Karen Hastings was an open-faced beauty with gleaming black hair that fell like a dark waterfall onto the olive-brown skin of her shoulders. On this hot summer's day she wore a flowered frock that looked like a rag when on a hanger and a million dollars on her slender, graceful frame. It had indeed cost a few bob - as had most things to do with Karen and Monty Hastings.

  Karen even looked good as she bent to climb into the low-slung car, her bronzed legs flashing as her dress rode up her thighs. Then the car door clicked shut, the motor fired and the costly machine purred down the leafy driveway out of sight.

  Monty Hastings grinned and stepped from his hiding place. He was pleased to see his wife out of the way. He was no longer inspired by her beauty and elegance. He took it for granted, as he did everything he possessed. If his Rolex were to tell the wrong time or his swimming pool spring a leak, then he would be perturbed. Likewise, if his wife went around looking like a bag lady, he would be distinctly put out. The point of owning expensive things was that they performed their functions impressively. And Karen's function was to look impressive on his arm at book launches and first nights. In that respect she was a worthwhile investment.

  At the moment, however, Monty was not thinking of possessions or investments. This was his favourite time of the day and he was going to make the most of it.

  He took the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time and quickly ground some coffee beans. While the kettle boiled he laid a tray with two cups, a small jug of cream and a plate of fresh croissants. If Karen had seen him she would have been amazed, she was not aware he even knew how to use the coffee-grinder.

  Two minutes later, Monty was pushing open a door on the second floor which gave onto a large sunlit room running the whole length of the house. He set the tray on a small wicker table in front of a battered but comfy chesterfield and announced, above the tap of fingers on a keyboard, 'Room service.'

  The tapping ceased and a woman seated in front of a computer terminal swivelled in her chair and gazed at him through the windows of her outsize tortoiseshell spectacles.

  'Mmm, I just love the aroma of fresh coffee,' she said in a low and husky tone. When Monty had first heard that voice he had been forced to suppress a giggle, it had sounded like deliberate affectation. Now when he listened to it the blood rushed to his cock. Bestselling novelist Montgomery Hastings and Harriet Pugh, secretary, researcher and handmaiden to his muse, were in lust.

  'Has she gone then?' said Harriet, standing to take the cup Monty offered her and biting into a croissant.

  'Yes,' said Monty from the depths of the sofa. Harriet stood just in front of him. She wore a pink vest cut off below the bust and white denim jeans, the creamy plain of her bare belly peeping in between. Monty gazed with absorption at the dark whorl of her navel, like an inverted thimble, just begging for the insertion of his fingertip.

  'I wonder where she goes every morning?' she said, chewing hungrily. Monty's eyes flicked upwards to the movement of her full red lips. A flake of pastry fell downwards onto the shelf of her bosom thrusting out in unfettered provocation.

  'To the shops and the gym, I think. I don't really know,' he said.

  He didn't care either, just so long as she was out of the way when he felt the urge to avail himself of his assistant's personal services. Like he did now. He restrained his itching fingers as Harriet took a gulp of coffee and reached for another croissant.

  'Maybe she's having an affair,' she said.

  'Come off it. She's not interested in sex.'

  'You mean she's not interested in you, darling.'

  'No. She's dead below the waist. Believe me, you've got more fire, more passion, more outright sensuality in your little finger than she has in her entire body.'

  As he spoke these words, Monty placed his hands on the violin curve of her hips and pulled her close. He nuzzled her bare midriff. Harriet licked her fingers free of crumbs and laid them on his thatch of luxuriant dark hair.

  'You're only saying that because you want to fuck me,' she said, wriggling against him as his hot breath played over her skin.

  'That's not the reason but, yes, I do want to fuck you. Right now.' And he found the zip of her jeans with his teeth and began to tug.

  'I've got work to do,' she gurgled. 'What would my boss say?'

  He had her zip down and was sliding the denim over her hips.

  'He'd tell you to take your big tits out and give him a mouthful.'

  Harriet laughed, a throaty rattle of a sound. 'For a literary man and a Baxendale prize-winner, you do have a coarse way of putting things, Monty.'

  Nevertheless, she pulled the vest up to her shoulders so that the material pressed down on the bare globes of her breasts in a thin restraining line, emphasising their pouting pear-shaped perfection.

  From Monty's position, looking upwards at the twin peaks looming above him, they appeared huge, the swollen gourds like ripe cantaloupes.

  'Is that satisfactory, oh Master,' she said as she fed a fat raspberry nipple between his lips.

  He savoured the hard bud in his mouth before replying. 'I have only one complaint,' he said.

  'What's that?' Her jeans were round her ankles, her panties too.

  'I've never won the Baxendale.'

  'You poor darling. Better luck next time.'

  'If there is a next time.' He had his hands on the cheeks of her bottom, the soft flesh overflowing his fingers. The bush of her pussy was in his face now, filling his nostrils with a heady fragrance.

  'There will be a next time,' said Harriet, 'I promise you.'

  Monty would have laughed, not out of merriment but out of bitterness and cynicism and blighted hope. But he couldn't, not with his tongue deep in the honied recess of his devoted assistant's cunt.

  At the same time as Monty was indulging in elevenses with Harriet, Karen was pulling into a garage ten miles down the road.

  'Is Barry around?' she said to the big man in overalls who ambled over with a smirk on his face.

  'What do you want him for, Mrs?' he said. 'I can change your oil just as good.'

  Karen smiled good-naturedly at him. 'I'm sure you can,' she said. There was a pleasant Welsh lilt to her voice. 'But Barry knows the car, you se
e. I really need to speak to him.

  The big man might have prevaricated further but a tall blond youth had appeared at his side. He was stripped to the waist and his smooth hairless chest glowed bronze in the hot sun.

  'Hello, Mrs Hastings, looking for me?'

  'There's a funny noise in third, Barry. Have you time to hop in and listen?'

  The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the boy had vaulted into the passenger seat and Karen was gunning the motor.

  'Lucky little bleeder,' muttered the big man as they roared out of sight.

  Neither spoke as they drove. Karen turned off the A road through farmland and then into some woods. She took a track to the left that was not obviously visible and came to a halt a hundred yards on when it became rutted and overgrown. She got out and walked into the forest. She did not look back - she knew the boy was following her. She stepped up to a big horse chestnut and leaned her back against it. Barry stood in front of her and placed his hands on the trunk on either side of her head.

  'Well,' he said. 'That's a very troublesome motor you've got there.'

  She grinned and her dark eyes flashed. She was blushing. 'It needs regular servicing, doesn't it, Mrs H?'

  'Call me Karen.'

  'Want me to look at your gearbox, do you?'

  'Please...'

  'Like me to grease your axle?'

  'Oh God—'

  'You can't get enough of my cock, can you, Mrs H?'

  'Don't be crude, Barry.'

  'Why not? This is the third time in ten days, isn't it?'

  'I'm not counting. I just felt like seeing you. You didn't have to come.'

  'But you did, didn't you? You're dying for it. I bet your cunt's running like a tap.'