matched
the description Devlin had provided. There was no doubt this woman
was Signora Gianni.
Taking keys
from a small black clutch-bag, the woman strode to a red Ferrari
Testarossa that was parked in the driveway, and climbed into the
driving seat. Seconds later the engine roared into life. Pumping
the accelerator, like a Grand Prix driver on the starting grid,
Signora Gianni let in the clutch and, in a squeal of tyres and
spray of gravel, swung the car through the squared columns of the
entrance and off down the street. In the four seconds it took to
reach the T-junction at the end of the road, the car must have
touched eighty miles an hour. With a squeal of brakes it halted
before turning left and disappearing from view. The noise of its
engine passing through the gears lingered, however, shattering the
peace of the neighbourhood.
Calmly,
Stephanie adjusted her hair in the mirror set in the rear quarter
of the Rolls, picked up the heavy leather bag she was carrying - a
bag that resembled the type used by doctors - and got out of the
car. Purposefully, she walked through the Palladian columns at the
entrance to the drive and up to the front door, her boots crunching
on the gravel. There was a small illuminated bell to the side of
the door, which she pressed.
After a
moment, the door opened. A woman dressed entirely in black stood in
the doorway. She was in her early fifties, her dark hair scraped
into a bun, her face wearing a scowl. She was a big woman - her
arms looked strong, her body hard with years of physical work, her
legs meaty and trunk-like.
The woman
asked a question in Italian.
Whatever it
meant, Stephanie ignored her. She walked past her into the house,
as though she owned it. Slipping out of the full length wolf-skin
fur she was wearing against the chill of the Roman night, she
simply let it fall on to the black and white tiled floor of the
huge vestibule. She looked around her. A wide, sweeping staircase
led up to the first floor. An elaborate chandelier hung in a domed
ceiling. There were artefacts everywhere; ancient busts and
sculptures stood in every corner.
'Gianni?'
Stephanie said to the astonished woman, who still stood by the open
front door.
'La,' she
said, indicating a pair of double doors to one side of the
vestibule.
'Grazie,'
Stephanie said.
'Prego,' the
woman in black intoned, the response automatic.
Stephanie
strode over to the doors, her high heels clacking on the tiled
floor, and threw them both open. Gianni was sitting in front of a
huge marble fireplace on one of two matching sofas which were
covered in the hide of what had once been a brown and white cow. He
was watching football on a large-screened television.
'Gianni!'
Stephanie said.
'Stephanie?'
His surprise was total.
She stood in
front of him, her legs apart, her arms akimbo. She had chosen her
outfit with great care. The sleeveless, black Lycra cat-suit fitted
her like it had been sprayed on to her body, hugging every curve
and line of her figure from her breasts to her waist, from her
thighs to her buttocks, even, she knew, following the delicate fold
of her sex. The Lycra made the material shiny: it looked slippery,
almost wet. The black high-heeled boots were an equally tight fit,
so tight they almost seemed to be part of the cat-suit. A pair of
elbow-length gloves in the same material as the cat-suit completed
the outfit. The only flesh visible below the neck was the flesh of
her upper arms above the gloves. Somehow, by contrast to the black,
it seemed incredibly white, white and exposed, soft and almost
obscenely naked.
Stephanie
dropped the leather bag she was carrying on to the sofa. It clanked
heavily as it fell.
'What are you
doing here?'
'That's not a
very nice greeting. Aren't you pleased to see me, darling? I'm very
pleased to see you.'
'My wife...'
He used the remote control to turn off the television.
'I saw your
wife leave, don't worry. She won't be back for hours, will she?
Plenty of time. You don't
the description Devlin had provided. There was no doubt this woman
was Signora Gianni.
Taking keys
from a small black clutch-bag, the woman strode to a red Ferrari
Testarossa that was parked in the driveway, and climbed into the
driving seat. Seconds later the engine roared into life. Pumping
the accelerator, like a Grand Prix driver on the starting grid,
Signora Gianni let in the clutch and, in a squeal of tyres and
spray of gravel, swung the car through the squared columns of the
entrance and off down the street. In the four seconds it took to
reach the T-junction at the end of the road, the car must have
touched eighty miles an hour. With a squeal of brakes it halted
before turning left and disappearing from view. The noise of its
engine passing through the gears lingered, however, shattering the
peace of the neighbourhood.
Calmly,
Stephanie adjusted her hair in the mirror set in the rear quarter
of the Rolls, picked up the heavy leather bag she was carrying - a
bag that resembled the type used by doctors - and got out of the
car. Purposefully, she walked through the Palladian columns at the
entrance to the drive and up to the front door, her boots crunching
on the gravel. There was a small illuminated bell to the side of
the door, which she pressed.
After a
moment, the door opened. A woman dressed entirely in black stood in
the doorway. She was in her early fifties, her dark hair scraped
into a bun, her face wearing a scowl. She was a big woman - her
arms looked strong, her body hard with years of physical work, her
legs meaty and trunk-like.
The woman
asked a question in Italian.
Whatever it
meant, Stephanie ignored her. She walked past her into the house,
as though she owned it. Slipping out of the full length wolf-skin
fur she was wearing against the chill of the Roman night, she
simply let it fall on to the black and white tiled floor of the
huge vestibule. She looked around her. A wide, sweeping staircase
led up to the first floor. An elaborate chandelier hung in a domed
ceiling. There were artefacts everywhere; ancient busts and
sculptures stood in every corner.
'Gianni?'
Stephanie said to the astonished woman, who still stood by the open
front door.
'La,' she
said, indicating a pair of double doors to one side of the
vestibule.
'Grazie,'
Stephanie said.
'Prego,' the
woman in black intoned, the response automatic.
Stephanie
strode over to the doors, her high heels clacking on the tiled
floor, and threw them both open. Gianni was sitting in front of a
huge marble fireplace on one of two matching sofas which were
covered in the hide of what had once been a brown and white cow. He
was watching football on a large-screened television.
'Gianni!'
Stephanie said.
'Stephanie?'
His surprise was total.
She stood in
front of him, her legs apart, her arms akimbo. She had chosen her
outfit with great care. The sleeveless, black Lycra cat-suit fitted
her like it had been sprayed on to her body, hugging every curve
and line of her figure from her breasts to her waist, from her
thighs to her buttocks, even, she knew, following the delicate fold
of her sex. The Lycra made the material shiny: it looked slippery,
almost wet. The black high-heeled boots were an equally tight fit,
so tight they almost seemed to be part of the cat-suit. A pair of
elbow-length gloves in the same material as the cat-suit completed
the outfit. The only flesh visible below the neck was the flesh of
her upper arms above the gloves. Somehow, by contrast to the black,
it seemed incredibly white, white and exposed, soft and almost
obscenely naked.
Stephanie
dropped the leather bag she was carrying on to the sofa. It clanked
heavily as it fell.
'What are you
doing here?'
'That's not a
very nice greeting. Aren't you pleased to see me, darling? I'm very
pleased to see you.'
'My wife...'
He used the remote control to turn off the television.
'I saw your
wife leave, don't worry. She won't be back for hours, will she?
Plenty of time. You don't
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