Anna-Lou Weatherley - Wicked Wives

For Mum and Pops. Respectively, of course.

‘I generally avoid temptation unless I can’t resist it.’

— Mae West

Table of Contents

Title Page ANNA-LOU WEATHERLEY Wicked Wives

Dedication For Mum and Pops. Respectively, of course.

Epigraph ‘I generally avoid temptation unless I can’t resist it.’ — Mae West

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Epilogue

Why Does It Feel So Good Being Bad?

Read an extract from Chelsea Wives

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Well, here it is, the difficult second novel all my fellow writers warned me about that (thankfully) turned out to be a complete joy to write, though it would be fair to say it would never have got off the ground without Sammia Rafique and Claire Bord at Avon (HarperCollins) – I can’t thank you enough for all your continued passion and support. Also, special thanks to Becke Parker and indeed all the Avon team for all their hard work and dedication. You’re the best!

I have the greatest agent ever, Madeleine Milburn, without whom I would not be writing these words. Maddy, your belief, support and advice has been essential in helping me get to this point. Thank you so much for all your faith and confidence – I look forward to our continuing journey together.

Thanks as always to my dearest friends (in no particular order), the amazing Laura Millar, darling Susie Ember (Rabbit), my girl Sarah Quefs (and the boys), Andie Redman, Michelle Langan and Nyree Boardman. Also, Maya, Christina, Karen and the lovely Limor Katz (you wanna come in my house?). You’re my inspiration and mean so much to me. Also a special mention to the Mykonos crew, LM, Daniel, Chris, Katrina and Pauline – happy memories guys!

I would also like to thank all the wonderful magazine girls who have supported me including Jane and Marianne at Grazia , Marina Gask, Wendy Rigg, Ally Oliver, Suzy Cox and Chantelle Horton – and anyone else I might have missed. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.

As always, thanks to my lovely family, Mum, Pops and Sheila, Hannah and our kid, Marc – Vegas this year kiddo, woop woop!

A special mention to net-a-porter.com for fashion and outfit inspiration (and a wonderful, if expensive, distraction from writing), ditto matchesfashion.com. I would also like to thank the beautiful and stylish women of Italy – those girls really know how to work it!

And last but never least, my amazing boys, Louie, Felix and Alan for everything you do for me, for all the support, cuddles, encouragement and late night runs to the off-licence. I love you!

The view from the yacht was superlative. The ocean, a faultless shade of azure blue, stretched out as far as the eye could see, its perfect blue ubiquity broken only by the crystal-white shoreline of St John’s Bay. The sun had begun to set in the distance, a mix of blood-red orange and purples erupting seamlessly into a rich ombre pattern, painting the sky like an oil canvas.

Tom Black peered over the top of his mirrored Ray-Ban Aviators and rested his forearms lightly on the shiny chrome edge of the smart Sunseeker 75, appreciating the final rays of the Antiguan sun on his tanned skin. He took a cursory glance at the diamond-encrusted Rolex on his wrist – a welcome reminder of just how far he had come in recent months. It was 8.28 p.m.

Casting a critical eye around, he admired the shiny teak wooden deck and opulent white leather furnishings of the yacht with a fleeting sense of satisfaction. A huge, cocoon-shaped day bed took pride of place on the sun deck, affording its lucky recipients both seclusion and exposure to the best of the day’s rays as they relaxed – or otherwise – on the sumptuous white cushions. On one side of the bed a magnum of Dom Pérignon Vintage Rose 1959 was chilling to -25 degree perfection in a solid silver Tiffany champagne bucket. On the other, a matching bowl filled with the finest Beluga caviar and two silver spoons nestled on crushed ice. Tom silently congratulated himself. It was a miracle he’d made it here, all things considered; he knew he was on borrowed time, that it wouldn’t take long for them to find him, but he just needed tonight. Just one more night to make things right .

A light breeze caught the fine, silk curtains that draped provocatively from the vast dome-shaped bed, lifting them in a ghostly manner, and, finally satisfied that all was to his exacting standards, Tom made his way down to the master suite below and showered quickly but thoroughly in the lavish, marble and sandstone floored en-suite bathroom, anxious to admire himself in his new, custom-made Tom Ford suit. Only the best for his imminent guest.

Stepping into a fresh pair of white Calvin Klein briefs, he spritzed himself liberally with Grey Vetiver and slid into a crisp, white Richard James shirt that he’d picked up on Savile Row. Enjoying himself now, he slipped on a pair of flawless gold and diamond Cartier cufflinks, pulled on the midnight-blue trousers and single breasted jacket, and added a thin black silk tie. Alluring and glamorous, it was the perfect blend of American minimalism matched with Italian class. Seductively whispering (rather than screaming) wealth and sophistication, it suggested the wearer was a no-nonsense kind of guy who knew his way around the boardroom and the bedroom, the kind of suit that stopped women dead in their tracks. The kind of suit Tom Black liked.

Surveying his masculine, gym-honed reflection in the full length Venetian mirror, he resisted the urge to say aloud, ‘the name’s Bond … James Bond,’ grinning childishly as he ran his thumb and fingers across his well-defined jawline, forgetting himself. For a moment he felt a flutter of excitement, a brief transient state of happiness that was swiftly replaced with one of sharp guilt as he thought of Jack … of Loretta … of her .