Palmer Fashion Week Ch 05

Chapter 5 — THURSDAY — The Aftermath

Jack Palmer emerged from the hotel into the bright sunlight and adjusted his sunglasses as he glanced around. To the casual observer, he was a hotel guest looking for his wife as she relaxed by the pool.

But there was more to it than that.

Jennifer Finney had phoned him early that morning, in a state of shock. The news of Tony Yamamura's death was just emerging. After a brief discussion, he'd suggested she move hotels. Sandra Wilson would have to foot the bill, but having her stay at the same seven stars Burj Al Arab hotel as Roxanne and him made sense.

As agreed, she'd telephoned him again as soon as she'd arrived and settled in her room. They'd arranged their first meeting in the pool area outside and he'd sent Roxie down first. That way, it would look like they were two women who had casually bumped into one another by the pool.

Glancing around the sumptuous pool area, he saw that they were already laughing and chatting together.

At first sight, he immediately understood why Sandra had chosen this woman for the assignment. Jennifer Finney was a knockout. Her cream coloured designer bikini, with its delicate gold lace-work on the straps, contained a body every bit the equal of any model he'd seen here. She was beautiful, too, with jet black hair and full, pouting lips.

It reminded him, not for the first time, of the different world he'd entered out here. Full of beautiful women everywhere he looked.

She glanced at him through her pair of ridiculously oversized Gucci glasses as he approached. Palmer couldn't help but smile to himself. Maybe that was trying too hard to look the part?

"Hi," he said to Roxie, as he came up behind his girlfriend.

Like Jenn Finney, she was half-sitting up on her lounger. Her tiny checked bikini left nothing to the imagination and he felt an instant reaction as he looked down the perfect landscape of her body. When he lovingly rubbed her bare shoulders, her skin was burning to the touch under the midday sun.

"Hi, darling," she casually replied, turning her head to smile at him. "This is Jenn. She's staying here, too."

Palmer made a show of shaking Jennifer Finney's hand, but couldn't stop his eyes from finding her cleavage when she leant forward. That string bikini top barely contained her large breasts.

He took the spare lounger next to the two women, the pretence over. They could speak freely now. There wasn't anyone else within hearing distance of them, but even so he kept his voice low.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Her large brown eyes were wide as she lifted her sunglasses. Without them, she looked even more stunning. Her large brown eyes were searching as she tilted her head to look at him. She'd been hyper on the telephone earlier but she looked calmer now.

"Better, thanks," she softly said. Her voice was even, although he could detect a hidden tremor there. "I feel happier now that we've made contact, Jack. Thanks for helping me out."

Palmer nodded. Her words had tumbled out one after another when they'd spoken on the phone, as if she couldn't get them out fast enough. Now they were calm and measured.

"Everything was such a shock when I heard the news," she continued, twisting in the lounger and shielding her eyes before dropping her shades back over them. "Tony Yamamura was my contact. I talked to him yesterday and now he's dead. I can't believe it."

"What do you know about the killing?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Hardly anything. I don't know anyone else here, apart from Michelle and Isobel. I've yet to meet Nikolay Volkov. More than anything, I'm unsure where to go from here."

Palmer nodded and scratched the back of his neck. "You've spoken to Sandra Wilson?"

"Yes. She suggested that I should wait until more details of the killing emerged, try and work out exactly what happened. Take it from there. But she said I should talk to you, first. Get your take on it."

Roxanne sent her boyfriend a wry smile. Even though his career at the London Met had ended so dramatically, they were still relying on him for help.

"How exactly did you find out about Yamamura's death?" he probed.

"I was supposed to be meeting up with Michelle this morning but she telephoned to cancel. She sounded like she was pretty shaken up. I know from the photoshoot that she and Tony were very close."

"Michelle?" Jack asked, glancing at Roxie.

"Michelle Park," she softly answered, pulling a face.

The reaction was unlike her. Roxanne was rarely judgmental.

"She's one of Nikky's models," she explained. "She won season two of Supermodel. Some of the other girls say it's gone to her head."

"She was very friendly to me..." Jenn cut in, feeling a faint blush tinge her cheeks at the confession.

For a moment, she thought about adding something but decided to leave it at that. She didn't want to advertise what had happened at the studio.

"We did the shoot together," she tailed off.

"You've done a shoot?" Palmer asked, raising an eyebrow.

"For Clinique," Roxanne interrupted, with a beaming smile. "I spoke to Izzy, the photographer. She spoke very highly of you, Jenn."

"She did?"

Jenn shivered, thinking of the kiss. Had Isobel mentioned that small detail? Fortunately, there was nothing in the way the redhead was looking at her that suggested she was any the wiser.

"She thinks you have it all," Roxie confirmed, her green eyes sparkling enthusiastically. "And believe me, Izzy is a great judge. If you ever decide on giving up your career in the Met, fame awaits..."

The two women laughed out loud together, but then Palmer was talking again and he was all business.

"If the shoot was that successful, Volkov isn't going to pass up on the chance of adding a new model to his stable," he said. "Someone will get in touch with you, and soon."

He tapped his fingers on his teeth as he thought.

"Look, Jenn," he went on, leaning forward on one arm. "If you ask me, Sandra Wilson's plan was flawed from the start. You can't play around with men like Volkov. He's far too dangerous for that. And Yamamura's death has added an extra element of risk."

"But..." Jenn protested.

A whirlwind of emotion filled her head. Disappointment, hurt, bemusement, flabbergast. All of it at once. It had all been going so well until she'd spoken to Michelle this morning.

"It's true," Roxie interrupted, reaching across to take her hand. "It's not a reflection on you, Jenn, believe me. I've dealt with men like Nikolay Volkov in the past and they'll stop at nothing to get what they want. That's why I've changed my mind about signing the contract he's offered me. My advice is not to go anywhere near him."

Jenn didn't respond. She just sat there, looking shell-shocked. She'd been full of self-belief when she'd volunteered for the assignment. She was finally getting her teeth into something meaningful and this case was going to enhance her career. Now she was being told that she'd completely wasted her time coming to Dubai.

"I'm just giving it to you as I see it," Palmer said, backing off slightly.

It might have been tough for her to hear, but he wouldn't be doing her any favours by pulling any punches. Still, he hated to be the cause of that crestfallen expression on her face.

"But this is your case, Jenn," he conceded. "All I can do is offer advice. Just think about it. Then we can decide on where you want to take it."

*

Michelle Park had spent part trying to come to terms with the news. Tony was dead! It was shocking. She'd even shed a few tears. Almost. But she had learnt a long time ago that emotions were a luxury she couldn't afford.

In some ways, she was going to miss him. He had a good sense of humour, despite his serious side, and he had aspirations. She loved men with aspirations. He had contacts, too. Once she had come to her senses, she had telephoned them, one by one, to see whether any of them could shed any light on what had happened.

No-one could.

She might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but that didn't make sense, even to her. Someone had to have knowledge of her dead boyfriend's gambling debts, didn't they?

Or had the brainless bastard been as proficient at hiding his addiction from them as he had with her? Fuck! She'd worked so hard with him to set everything up the way they had and now, because of his mindless stupidity, it was all going to be snatched away from her.

But ... she was nothing if not practical.

Any thoughts of usurping Nikolay Volkov had vanished into thin air and Bree Jensen was already on a flight back to Vegas.

Her task now was to ingratiate herself with the Russian, make herself indispensable to him. She'd done it with other guys—Tony Garza and his father, Leo—so why not Volkov? Then she'd work out a way to turn things to her advantage again.

And her back-up plan was on the coffee table infront of her. She had pulled together every single document that she and Tony had prepared over the past twelve months. Some contained details of their plans, and those would have to be destroyed for fear of falling into the wrong hands. That was okay.

But others, especially the dossier they'd built on Volkov's illegal activities, would come in useful if things got sticky in the future. Thank God that Tony had insisted they keep their relationship secret, but if the Russian ever did get wind that she and her dead boyfriend had been plotting against him, he'd want revenge.

That scared the shit out of her.

*

"You asked my opinion," Palmer remarked down the phone line. "So now you have it."

Despite his calmness, his exasperation was evident in every word. Maybe he shouldn't have made the call to Sandra Wilson? Roxie had advised him against it. She thought it was unfair on Jenn. But it was the young brunette he was trying to protect. The more he'd thought about what Wilson was doing, the bigger a crock of shit it became.

He had no reason to doubt Jennifer Finney's qualities as a cop, but even an experienced professional wouldn't have been able to pull off what Wilson expected. Volkov was dangerous. What the fuck had she been thinking in letting loose a relative rookie on such an assignment?

"There's nothing to be gained by having her here, Sandra," he repeated, for the third time during their lengthy conversation. They must have been talking for over an hour so far.

"I understand everything you're telling me, Jack," Wilson softly replied.

Her voice had an air of resignation to it and he understood why. She wanted to nail Volkov in the same way that he had Dominic DeVere. But he was an experienced cop and he'd had Wilson's back-up with that investigation. Jennifer Finney was out here on her own. If the manipulative Russian got his claws into her, he wasn't sure she'd be able to cope.

"So?" Palmer replied, trying to contain his frustration by leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other.

"So, I'll bring Jenn home in the next day or two. But ... in the meantime, I have one more favour to ask."

Palmer couldn't help but grin to himself. That was typical Sandra, always wanting just a little more.

"I'd like the three of you to attend the party that Volkov's throwing tonight. Pick up anything you can, but more to see who else is there. Whether there's anyone we recognise, something that might give us a clue as to what he's up to next."

Palmer sighed. Was she really that desperate?

"That's a long shot, Sandra."

"I know, I know. But I badly need a break. And, well, there's something else..."

He felt his heart begin to beat faster. There was more? If there was something more concrete that would help them take things forward, why had it taken her this long to raise it? And yet, even before she said it, he somehow knew what she was about to divulge.

"Yamamura's death," he simply said.

It was clear from the soft exhalation of breath down the line that he'd hit the nail on the head.

"How did you know, Jack?"

"Instinct. Tell me what you have."

"It's more what I don't have. The story is that Yamamura had a gambling addiction and he and the other guy he killed had crossed swords before. Yamamura owed him money, and he'd gone after it."

"So?"

"I can't find a single shred of evidence that Tony Yamamura has ever been involved in gambling, let alone run up big debts. Nor can I find any connection between him and this other guy ... er, Vladimir Kazakov is his name. In fact, I have so little on Kazakov it's as if he didn't exist. All of which makes me wonder..."

"Some kind of set-up?"

"Possibly, Jack."

He paused to consider the implications, before thoughtfully continuing.

"Yamamura worked for Volkov, I know that much. So what we're speculating is that maybe they had a fall-out? If Volkov wanted to get rid of him for any reason, this would be the perfect way."

"My thoughts exactly," Wilson agreed. "I have a contact inside the Dubai police, don't ask how. He's based at their Al Rashidiya station, but has managed to get himself involved in the case. He'll get an unauthorised copy of the official report on the killings to me tomorrow. If that leads us down a blind alley, and you guys draw a blank at the party tonight, we'll call it a day."

Palmer nodded to himself. Another day wouldn't make any difference as far as Jenn Finney was concerned, and it would give him more time to think things through. Not that it would change the outcome. It would take months of painstaking surveillance to get anything of substance on Volkov. Out here, that was an impossible task. Dubai was a different environment, a different culture and different rules.

"Okay, Sandra" he agreed, "we'll speak again tomorrow."

As he ended the call, Roxie entered the room from the bathroom. She'd taken a hot bubble bath while he was speaking to Wilson, but had followed his side of the conversation through the open door.

Dressed only in a fluffy white towel, she looked amazing. Was he the luckiest man ever? She brushed her fingers through her damp red locks as she smiled in his direction and it was clear to see what was on her mind from the way her green eyes sparkled at him.

Walking towards him, almost in slow motion, her gaze stayed locked on his as she slid between his knees. She smelled like fresh scented flowers and he could feel his stomach begin to roil with desire.

"Sandra gave you plenty to think about?" she asked, those beautiful eyes staring up at him as her hands floated to his trousers.

He nodded. "Sorta, although I'm not sure any of it will take us much further forward. The thing is—"

The finger she put to his lip shushed him. Then her hands were working on his belt, unbuckling the clasp before drawing the zipper down. His thick girth rose majestically as she teased it from his boxers.

"There'll be plenty of time to tell me later," she teased, stroking him with both hands. "Right now, it feels like this beautiful thing needs a good home..."

With that, she slowly pushed up to her feet and took a step back. When she reached for the knot of the towel behind her and dropped to her feet, his breath caught. Was there a more beautiful woman in the world than his girlfriend? If so, he'd yet to meet her.

"I take it you approve?" she teased, as her long fingers searched lazily for her navel, slowly, lightly, brushing around it.

Her other hand slid upwards to cup her right breast. Her skin was soft and her caramel nipples stood out like knobs on an old fashioned radio. She twisted one with her fingers, while her left hand slithered downwards between her legs, stroking her smooth sex.

"I've been thinking about this for the last hour," she breathed, taking a delicate step forward and climbing across his body.

They both grunted out loud as she sank down on his manhood. His aroused stare was that of a hypnotised man as she tightened her muscles around him, trapping him, holding him there, her willing prisoner in a maelstrom of eroticism.

"Sit back, fasten your seat belt and let me do the work," she continued, kissing around his neck as she slowly began to gyrate. "This is going to be a long, comfortable, ride..."

*

As Michelle Park soaped her body beneath the hot spray of her shower, a wicked voice inside her whispered, "You can do this. You can turn this to your advantage. With your talents, you can have Nikky Volkov eating out of your hand. Men can be so predictable where sex is concerned. Even someone as influential as the Russian..."

It was an impish thing, that voice. It had been with her since childhood. It was with her when she first learned to masturbate, and then later when she'd had her first cigarette, her first taste of alcohol, her first joint, her first fuck. It was the naughty voice that had long ago subsumed the good girl in her. Good girls were losers!

She and Volkov had met before. He couldn't have forgotten that, could he? Like all his other models, she'd sucked him off as part of her initiation. She remembered it only too well. She'd never felt a man flex his will upon her so strongly. And yet, when she was on her knees before him, his rigid cock glistening wet with her saliva as it slid in and out of her mouth, she remembered thinking that he was at her mercy.

As powerful as he was, it was her mouth that he was getting off on.

As the recollection brightened in her mind, the soapy scruff from her luffah sent little electric jolts through her as she passed it over her nipples. They tightened into little points. She set it down, switching to her hands to spread the liquid soap across her curves.

In her mind, she could remember how his bright blue eyes had drunk her up as he loomed over her. So possessive. So dominant. That made her sigh with pleasure, and the little voice inside her whispered, "just keep your head, and everything will work out just fine."

As if in celebration, her right hand crept along her flat stomach, down into the juncture between her legs. She brushed her fingers across her swollen clit, which had already emerged from her hooded sex. She had full, puffy labia that remained tight-lipped, even when her clit was fully engorged. She liked the clean lines of her pussy and had been shaving herself bare even before it had become all the rage in fashion.

It was only a couple of days ago that Tony had mentioned the photoshoot and Volkov had responded by asking to meet her. They'd known why. He wanted to fuck her, that's why. And tonight, at the party, he was going to get his chance.

That thought sent her arousal even higher. Resting her slender back against the cool tile wall, she yanked the showerhead from its perch and directed the hard spray directly across her cunt. A moan eased from her lips, and for once her mind was blissfully empty but for the sensations of the pulsing nozzle and her playful fingers. That was the way it had always been. When she was with a man or woman, she thought of them. When she was with herself, she thought of nothing.

Her climax arrived almost instantaneously. Had she been that worked up? Her back arched back away from the wall as she came, rolling her head back along the wet tiles as she thought about the dirty things she would be doing after tonight's party with the Russian fashion guru.

As she made her way back into the bedroom, she could hear the unmistakeable sound of her second mobile phone ringing. That was strange. Not many people knew that particular number...

*

Nikolay Volkov loved life. He loved his models. He loved the way they looked in and out of clothes. He loved the way their skin could feel so smooth it was like running your fingers across silk. He loved the way they made money for him, either carrying out their 'official' modelling duties or providing the 'additional services' to an influential client in return for business favours.