"Adora what?" Luke frowned at his playboy friend – the self-named, self-made Billy o'Naire – who'd gone rigid on his barstool.
"La Bocca d'Oro. She's here. There. No, don't look."
Luke sipped a beer that cost more than his shirt and swept his eyes across the uber-cool terrace-bar, all sculptures, sea-views and suits. He did not belong here. He was not to be fooled by the smiles of those who caught his eye, which were – as ever – more lecherous than accepting. In fact, if it wasn't for Billy begging Luke to be his 'totty-hook' he would have only seen this place in the airplane magazine on the way back from Italy.
A couple were being settled at the terrace's best table, its original occupants being moved on without a fuss. The man looked like 'family', or at least Luke's idea of what a gangster looked like: A handsome, very well-dressed, very well mannered, thug. But the woman. The woman was astonishing. Brigit Bardot, Audrey Hepburn astonishing.
Luke sniggered. "Bill, you look like you've seen a ghost."
Bill necked his beer, he shrugged. "Yeah, that sexy one in Ghostbusters, maybe. The one who goes down on Dan Ackroyd." He leant toward Luke. "La Bocca d'Oro means The Golden Mouth. You get my drift?"
Now Luke looked. The woman took off her dark glasses, and tucked a wind-blown curl of black hair behind her ear. Her big eyes were sun-glassy-dark even without her shades, and cheeky as hell, but her lips were the star. Massive, pillowy and curled. She laughed, a hiss that caught her pink tongue between little teeth. Luke all but jumped as she cut a glance at him.
"Lucky bastard," Luke sighed, his already ill-fitting clothing tightening further. "Is that his wife or his mistress?"
Billy shook his head. "Neither. They say La Bocca is a predator. She's no working girl, she... feeds."
"Feeds?"
"Feeds. Cost you a million dollars, though. To feed her."
They drifted into silence, lost in furtive glances at those exquisite, expensive, lips. Luke squirmed. "Have you... ever?"
"I wish. La Bocca chooses, and she's very, very picky. Only the chosen can reward her." He puffed a long moan. "Man, I would blow a million in a heartbeat."
Luke laughed. "Probably why you've never been asked, my friend."
"Hey, my over-excitement would qualify me more than you think." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "La Bocca has a rule. If you can last more than five minutes, she won't take your money."
"Last..."
"In her mouth."
"Seriously? And no-one—"
"She is very, very wealthy."
Luke growled. Then as if to prove her power, La Bocca d'Oro leant across the table and whispered in the Mafioso's ear. He stiffened. She kissed his neck. He gripped the table, twitched once or twice, then slumped. The woman blinked slowly and turned away. She fiddled with her bag, writing on something. Suddenly her date, her prey, did not exist for her. He stood and marched off.
Luke and Billy stifled laughter, following the thug's awkward departure through the bar. "Easy money, there," Billy sniggered.
"Quite," said La Bocca d'Oro, suddenly beside them.
Billy – veteran of every debauched party the fashion world could offer, and many it wouldn't dare – turned white as a sheet and coughed. If that wasn't embarrassing enough, Luke jumped to his feet, and for the first time in his life, clicked his heels and bowed.
La Bocca d'Oro clapped her hands, threw back her head and laughed. Luke didn't know whether he wanted to kiss her hand or defend himself with a chair. He smiled. She sighed and slipped a card into his shirt pocket and patted his chest, then rolled away, waving brightly to knuckle-biting waiters and flushed, scowling women.
Luke dropped onto his stool, digging the card from his pocket with trembling fingers. Printed on it, simply was: Maria de Fiorente, 'La Bocca d'Oro' along with an address. Luke stared, not a phone number or anything. What was he supposed to do now? Then he became aware of Billy's glare, scrutinising the back of the card. Luke flipped it to find, written in florid loops: 'You are magnificent! And very beautiful! Come tomorrow 9.00am. (Dress for the pool)'
He grinned. His heart hammered. His trousers threatened to burst. Then he frowned. "Mate," he said, but Billy was already shaking his head. "Mate, could you lend me a million dollars?"
#
Maria de Fiorente's house appeared to slide out of the clifftop landscape, dipping in and out of Cyprus-trees and olive-groves as the winding path led Luke's taxi to her door.
The taxi driver refused Luke's proffered notes when they arrived in the driveway. "Maria, she pay." He knocked knuckles on Luke's chest. "And I wait. And have gun, Capisce?"
As the taxi-door slammed shut behind him, the house's front door – a monumental slab of wood – slid open. Maria stood with a towel wrapped around her, fingers coming out wet hair. Out of her power-clothes and make-up she looked fresh-faced and girlish. Innocent even. Luke's head swam with the unreality of why she wanted him here.
She clasped the towel tight to her breasts as Luke approached, sparkling up at him and even blushing. Her eyes darted about his face and she bit her lip. Despite Maria's state of undress, it was Luke who felt naked in shorts and shirt.
"You are even bigger than I remember," she said, standing on tip-toe, reaching up to his neck and pulling his face down to hers so she could press those fabulous lips to his cheeks. They were cool, cloud-soft pads that left ghosts of themselves on his skin. She smelt of the sea and flowers. He took a deep breath and hoped she had already started the clock.
"Hmm," she purred, nuzzling into his neck. "You smell as good as you look. You will taste good too, I think."
She sighed, kissed beneath his ear and chuckled softly. He thought of the Mafioso, and clenched hard. Maria nodded as if he had passed some kind of test by not erupting immediately and took his great hard paw in her small, smooth hand; pulling him inside.
