Carrie Duffy - Idol

Jenna woke groggily from a deep sleep, wondering why her limbs ached so badly. Sunlight streamed in through the high arched windows and, as Jenna slowly opened her eyes, she was shocked to realize she’d slept all night on the sofa.

Blearily, she glanced up at the wall clock: 9.50 a.m.

‘Shit,’ she swore, wondering what time she was due in the studio that day. Oh well, she shrugged, deciding she didn’t care. They could damn well wait for her. Let Ryan explain why she might be a little late, Jenna thought drowsily, as the events of last night began to come back to her.

Last night. What had happened exactly? Oh God, groaned Jenna, as she rolled over and buried her head in the cushions. Had she made a complete fool of herself? She remembered flirting outrageously with Nick, and then Ryan had brought her home … Oh no, she’d been really upset – she remembered yelling at him in the street. Shit, how embarrassing.

Ryan had been sweet though. He was such a nice guy, and hopefully he wouldn’t hold her behaviour against her. She just hoped it didn’t get back to Zac – he already thought she was acting like a diva, and she didn’t want him to know that he had upset her so badly.

I’ll show him, Jenna insisted, pushing last night’s feelings of insecurity out of her mind. Letting her emotions run out of control was not the way she had got to the top, Jenna reminded herself. Today, she would be completely in command.

She stretched luxuriously in an effort to shake some of the heaviness from her limbs. She needed to start getting a handle on her life. She had been so stressed and tired last night that she hadn’t even made it to bed – hell, her standards were really slipping. Thank God she’d taken off her make-up when she got in, Jenna thought, reaching up to touch her face. It felt soft and smooth, and Jenna sighed with relief; the last thing she needed was a break-out on top of everything else.

Sitting up carefully, Jenna swung her long legs over the end of the sofa and paused. She needed a glass of water – or maybe some coffee; rocket fuel would certainly get her going. Picking up the empty tea mugs, Jenna padded through to the kitchen. While she was waiting for the kettle to boil, she flicked on her laptop.

‘Oh fuck, no. Oh Jesus!’ swore Jenna as she logged on to TMZ and saw the lead story.

The offices of Willis & Bourne were located on the twenty-fourth floor of the Broadgate Tower, in the heart of London’s Square Mile. Paul Austin, as a senior executive, had a private office at the far end of the corridor, guarded by his PA. As the early morning sun filtered through the tinted windows, Paul sat behind his kidney-shaped desk, leafing through a copy of the Financial Times. There was an unfavourable report on a Japanese telecoms firm in which he’d just invested a large portion of his clients’ money. It did not make for happy reading. Irritably, he tossed the paper aside and turned his attention to the Internet, flicking through share prices, business headlines and breaking news.

One headline caught his attention – it involved Jenna Jonsson. Paul read swiftly through the article and found himself even more interested. So, Miss Jonsson wasn’t as squeaky clean as she made out, it seemed, and some lucky guy was getting to bang her. Paul’s cock leapt in his pants at the very thought of it. Jenna was one hot piece of ass – he’d have sold his own grandmother for a fuck with Jenna. Then again, Paul Austin would willingly have sold out his grandmother for a lot of things in life – loyalty was not one of his defining traits.

Paul’s interest in Jenna went beyond that of the casual voyeur or horny teenager. As of last month, she was one of his newest clients. It was still fresh in his mind, the way she’d strutted into his office dressed like Business Barbie, in a tight pencil skirt that showed off her high, round butt, and a low-cut white blouse that strained against her tits every time she leaned forward. Of course, she’d brought her manager with her, some jumped-up flunky in a suit who’d watched Paul’s every move like a hawk, so he’d had to keep things professional. He’d talked at length about dry stuff – real estate in Bulgaria, mineral mining in South Africa, investment yields, long-term trends and so on. She’d nodded that pretty little head and all he’d been thinking about was how much he’d like to put his dick between those luscious, glossy lips and force it deep into the back of her throat until she gagged.

It was highly unusual for a client of that calibre to visit him in his office – usually it was a question of their accountant contacting him directly and all communication went through them. But he gathered she’d been on some kind of independence kick since her mother died. Wanting to take over her own affairs, manage her own money or some such bullshit. Stick to singing, sweetheart, thought Paul with a sneer.

But hell, as long as it had led Jenna Jonsson straight to his office, who was he to complain? Maybe next time he could get her to come over without that ape of a manager. He could ring her up with some spurious excuse; pretend to be consulting her because he really valued her opinion on whether they should invest in American pharmaceuticals or ethical fashion in India. They could conduct business over dinner. Or in a hotel room. Yeah, that’s the kind of business he’d like to conduct with her …

Which reminded him …

‘Come through please, Angela,’ he requested, pressing a button on his phone. Angela Lee was his PA. She was in her mid-thirties, short and a little on the chunky side, with mousy hair cut into a bob and black-rimmed glasses. It was better that way. In the past Paul had hired a succession of attractive and willing temps, but numerous affairs and one narrowly avoided harassment claim later, he’d plumped for the plain yet capable Angela.

She arrived in his office with her notebook and pen at the ready. Her clothes were smart, and she’d made an effort with her make-up, Paul noticed, wondering whether to point it out. He decided not to. ‘I’d like you to order something for me.’

‘Yes?’ Angela gazed up at him, her expression eager to please.

‘Well, when I say for me, I really mean for a friend of mine,’ he smirked, as Angela pressed her lips into a disapproving line. She knew what was coming – it wasn’t the first time he’d made this request.

‘I’d like you to order some lingerie. The recipient’s name is Sadie Laine and I’ll email you the address. Get something from Agent Provocateur. Something red and trashy.’ If Sadie was going to behave like a whore, he’d treat her like one.

‘What size?’ Angela’s pen hovered above her notepad.

Paul sat back in his ergonomic chair, brushed a piece of lint from his Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suit and looked her over appraisingly. Behind him the wide glass windows offered a stunning panoramic view over the City, the world’s financial hub where billions of dollars were traded every day by the rich and powerful. They were the Masters of the Universe. Men like Paul Austin were untouchable and they made their own rules.

‘I’m not sure exactly.’ He pretended to consider the issue. ‘She’s considerably thinner than you are – she works out, you see. You don’t go to the gym, do you Angela?’

Cheeks flaming, Angela shook her head. She made a mental note to join tomorrow.

‘I didn’t think so. She has a flat stomach, slim hips.’ His eyes trailed over Angela’s body, coming to rest on her chest. ‘And her breasts are larger than yours. Do you think you can work out the sizing from that, hmm? Just do your best, sweetheart.’

‘I will,’ Angela assured him. Her face was still flushed from the way his gaze had lingered on her breasts. She found herself wondering who his latest floozy was – where she lived, what she looked like. What she had that Angela didn’t …