John Matthews - The Last Witness

Michel was now doubly determined to nail the Lacailles, but now only one witness remained: Georges Donatiens. And Donatiens was practically family, engaged to marry Jean-Paul Lacaille’s only daughter, Simone, the apple of his eye.

Michel opened his eyes again, taking in the horror of what had happened to Savard in an effort to will himself on; but already he knew it was an almost hopeless quest. They’d have to move mountains to get Georges Donatiens to testify.

This was Georges Donatiens favourite time of day, that hushed, suspended moment just as the first morning rays broke through; especially given who lay beside him and what they’d been doing.

Simone. He admired her for a moment in the soft first light, the long sweep of her olive-brown back, her wavy black hair slightly in disarray and spilling over one shoulder. He gently traced down her spine with two fingers. The trick, as always, was to touch her so lightly that she wouldn’t awaken. He pulled the sheets lower to give his hand freer range, then continued tracing down, down, until he reached the cleft of her buttocks. He felt a subtle tremor run through her body, her subconscious registering that it liked what he was doing, but hopefully not enough to make her stir. Not yet.

He held his hand motionless and held his breath too, suddenly conscious of his own heartbeat in the lull, until her tremoring subsided. Then he started tracing slowly back up the ridge of her spine. If he was really careful, sometimes he could spin it out for a few minutes. Tracing delicately, as light as spider’s feet, up and down, each time being more daring, going lower, deeper between the cleft of her buttocks, feeling the heat there and her slightly damp from the night before. Or was that just from now? Revelling in her light trembling, almost seeing the goose bumps raise as the first light hit her body, pausing again breathlessly like a frightened schoolboy each time she looked close to…

She groaned throatily and moved one leg. He waited a few seconds beyond the groan dying, but with one leg now pushed wide, he felt drawn to go still lower rather than higher. Her heat and moisture pulled him in like a magnet, and he couldn’t resist pushing his luck that extra inch by probing gently with one finger. She groaned again, he froze… and was about to pull his hand away when her leg shifted back again, trapping him, and the groan became a soft purr.

‘Uuhhhm… c’est bon.’ She rolled towards him, bringing her left leg up so that it rested on his thigh. She smiled at him and blinked. ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning.’ Georges smiled back tightly.

One of her hands traced deftly down his stomach, and she watched his expression closely as she gripped him and started gently stroking.

A short hiss of pleasure, his eyes closed for a second before shaking it quickly off and glancing towards the alarm clock. 7.22 a.m. Georges started mentally totting up the time for coffee, shower, dressing and driving the six miles to Cartier-Ville.

‘Look, Simone, I don’t have time for this now. I’ve got an eight-thirty breakfast meeting with your father. I won’t make it if we fool around.’

‘If you can’t handle the beast, you shouldn’t wake the beast.’ She pouted challengingly, still stroking.

‘Who said that?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Voltaire, maybe Rabelais.’

‘Sounds more like Cousteau to me.’

Another small shrug, then she quickly ducked down and started kissing down his stomach.

He tensed. ‘No, Simone, no . It’s nice, too nice… but I really don’t have time now.’

She paid no attention, kept kissing down, and a light shudder ran up from his calves and through his body as he felt her take him into her mouth.

He surrendered to it for a moment before starting to protest again. ‘Pleasssse, Simone, not now… I just don’t-’

The ringing phone startled them both. She broke off, looking at it accusingly. Georges squinted at the call-monitor display.

‘It’s your father!’ He pulled away from her and lunged for the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘Georges… Jean-Paul. Sorry to disturb you. But I forgot to ask when we last spoke — did everything go okay with the revised plans from the architect?’

‘Yes, they did, and I’ve got them with me.’ The main reason for their urgent meeting now. Georges had been away five days in Puerto Vallarta to oversee Jean-Paul’s new investments there: twenty-seven hole golf course with integral development of two hotels, a casino, and 214 ‘greenside’ bungalows and villas. The rounding-off of Jean-Paul’s Mexican portfolio, which already included three hotels, a marina development, another casino and four clubs between Cancun and Puerto Vallarta. But delays had threatened on this latest project when one of the hotels hit a survey problem.

‘No problems now?’ Jean-Paul confirmed.

‘No. Everything’s fine now. I… eerrr.’ Georges bit his lip. Simone had reached out and was stroking him again. He shook his head and frowned heavily at her. She smiled back challengingly and continued stroking, moving her mouth so teasingly close that he could feel her hot breath on him. Her tongue snaked out, and he shook his head wilder, silently mouthing, ‘No!’ He hastily cleared his throat. ‘Err… I made sure I was there this time for the survey. There’s nothing now to stop it being passed.’

‘That’s good.’ A second’s silence from Jean-Paul as he absorbed this, or perhaps he was distracted with something else his end. Then: ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, fine… fine. ’ Beads of sweat popped on his forehead. He watched in horror Simone’s mouth move closer, lips pouting. ‘Touch of bad throat, that’s all.’ Brief wry smile. He spoke in quick bursts, still fearful of what was coming. ‘Probably the sudden change in temperature.’

She held him in limbo a second longer, mouth poised — but finally, at just an inch away, she blew a kiss, smiled lasciviously, and pulled back again.

Simone was enjoying this, he thought. Pretty much a continuation of the rest of their relationship: her fighting for his attention over and above her father. At times she was impossible; but perhaps, at 23, six years his junior, she was still allowed to be. Being born into one of Montreal’s wealthiest families hadn’t helped, especially with a father so keen to indulge her; not only to compensate for her losing her mother Clair when she was only eight, but also no doubt for the many unseen horrors being played out behind the scenes while she was growing-up. Jean-Paul Lacaille had made sure that his only daughter’s childhood was sugar-coated.

‘I’d better go,’ Georges said as he watched Simone straddle him, panicking what she might do next while her father was still on the phone. ‘Get everything ready for our meeting.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ Jean-Paul mumbled distractedly. Then his voice came back sharply, sudden afterthought. ‘Oh, one more thing. Have you seen this morning’s news yet?’

‘No, not yet.’ I’ve been too busy in bed with your daughter. He could feel Simone’s heat pressing hard against him. She reached for him, started stroking again. He could tell from her sly smile what she was about to do. He prayed that Jean-Paul signed off quickly.

‘There was an item on about Tony Savard.’ Jean-Paul sighed heavily. ‘He was killed last night. His body was found in the early hours this morning.’

‘Oh, I see.’ That killed it instantly. Simone wouldn’t be able to do much with him now, regardless of effort.

‘Now I know this falls outside what I originally brought you in to be concerned with. But given the background with Savard, I think it’s something we should discuss.’