The taxi pulled into the kerbside and stopped with a squeal of brakes. The thud of the diesel engine subsided into an untidy rattle as it idled. The driver glanced in his mirror at the young fellow who’d been easing his hand up the pretty girl’s thigh for the last five minutes.
“Hundred and seventy-two Jermyn Street,” he announced in a loud, cheerful voice.
With great reluctance Ben tore his eyes from their close study of Mollie’s features and made to open the door. She straightened her dress as he paid off the driver with an extravagant tip. Ben was contemplating a successful conclusion to the evening.
He helped Mollie from the back seat and shut the door behind her. He shepherded her to the side entrance from which the stairs led directly to his first floor flat. Behind them there was a renewed clatter of the engine as the taxi pulled away from the kerb and prowled off noisily into the night. Mollie stood beside him and shivered in her thin cotton dress with the stole pulled tight around the shoulders while Ben hunted for his key and opened the door.
“We’ll put the fire on when we get into the sitting room. That’ll soon warm you up,” he assured her.
Her smile was full of appeal. He let his hand slide up her back under the stole as he ushered her into the small hallway and pushed the door shut with his foot. At the bottom stair he stopped her and kissed her just where the hair began on the nape of her neck. He massaged the little knobs at the top of her spine and she shivered and snuggled deliciously up to him. He started to slide down the zip of her dress.
This was the first time, after several weeks of assiduous effort that Ben had been able to persuade her to come back to his flat for a nightcap. Mollie was no easy catch and he didn’t want to spoil it now. This evening had been perfect, without the usual crowd of friends to provide Mollie with her escape. He had caught her mood early on and had spared no expense in his choice of food and wine. They had sat side by side in a private alcove while they ate and the conversation had been romantic and personal. Then they had smooched for an hour on the crowded little dance-floor, gazing into each other’s eyes and murmuring intimate endearments. When he had suggested they should go back to his place there had been no sign of hesitation in her acceptance.
His flat was above the wine importing business in which he and Toni Cimbrone were partners. The shop had been leased by his family for generations. In the past it had been an old fashioned and slightly faded enterprise. But, after Toni had bought a half-share in the business, the place had been extensively modernised. They had installed the latest sales and display equipment. There were deep pile carpets and comfortable armchairs in the special sampling area. They sold their wines by the case, a lot of it to the hotel and restaurant trade. Ben was proud of the atmosphere of sophistication and success.
The business occupied a good position. During the day the surrounding district was busy and affluent. They were in the heart of the most expensive area of the West End. But few people actually lived in the street and it was very quiet after six o’clock. Ben liked it that way. There were no prying eyes or complaining neighbours.
As they started up the stairs he let his hand slide down to rest on Mollie’s right buttock and he could feel the line of her briefs below the soft fabric of her dress. She half turned towards him. Her lips were slightly apart and her eyes seemed darker than he recalled them being before. Ben felt a churning in his stomach as he thought of the night ahead.
The next second there was a crash from the direction of the shop and the alarm bell started to ring.