6 comments/  13824 views/  0 favorites

Charmingly Ruthless

By: Egmont Grigor



* Set in New Zealand. Spelling and grammar are indigenous.

*

CHAPTER 1

Baxter and Chase Hudson's marriage began disintegrating the day best friend Aimee told Chase at the juice bar at Betty's Gym that Baxter had made an aggressive pass at her.

Chase bristled and demanded, "Aggressive?"

She'd imagined that that her husband had attempted to steal a kiss or fondle one of the well-developed boobs of the 34-year-old who'd been her bridesmaid five years ago, and who could blame him? No -- that's not what she meant. Good God!

Aimee had aquamarine eyes, brilliant shiny eyes that caught the light and smiled jewel-like when Aimee purred or reacted to clever repartee or a saccharine greeting of a friend or someone handing her a fat cheque for her home décor consultancy work. Chase and Aimee had known each other since the age of thirteen, at time when bodily changes including on the chest had them both worried and fascinated.

The course that nature took was to endow the chest of Aimee more substantially, a biological advantage -- or so it seemed -- that really taught Chase the meaning of envy. But in their late teens and to this day she now longer envied her friend for that reason because Aimee had a heavy load to carry and the way men looked at her disgusted Chase.

Now, it seemed, Baxter had succumbed to the temptation of Aimee.

"You don't want the details -- I recommend that you don't press me on this one," urged Aimee, sweeping her chestnut hair back with a combination of head flick and hand guidance that even some women would watch through narrowing eyes and a slight catch of breath.

The look on Chase's face clearly said she wanted to know, in complete detail.

Aimee sighed. "The Olivers' party at the Yacht Club last Saturday -- you and Jackson were just ahead of Rachel Guest and me going up the stairs to the dinning room and Baxter was right behind me. Well, he came up really close; his hand went up under my dress and struck you know where."

Chase had tensed and asked if Aimee was absolutely certain it was Baxter.

"Yes sweetie, I regret to say," Aimee said sadly, touching her friend on the arm lightly. "I turned and saw him. There was no one else within a couple of paces of us."

"The bastard," breathed Chase, face struggling to remain impassive.

Almost two months had passed since that revelation that branded Baxter as promiscuous. Then just ten minutes ago Jackson had phoned Chase to advise he'd just caught Aimee in bed with someone and had fought the seducer.

"I'm sorry, Chase, but the bastard I caught with my wife was Baxter. 

After the call terminated Chase wept. She'd suffered a double blow. Her best friend as well as her husband had betrayed her. She knew that Baxter would be hurt, probably suffering facial injuries because Jackson was a bigger and stronger man.

Wiping her eyes, the blonde and very feminine journalist with a tough streak acted decisively. She went to the study where she emailed her letter of resignation to the editor of the Morning Star, one of the top daily newspapers in the country where she worked as an associate editor, in charge of the Star Weekender magazine section. 

She'd also been required to write a couple of 'editorials' -- the think piece representing the newspaper's viewpoint -- at least twice a week as part of being groomed for greater responsibility. The editor-in-chief used Chase to write with a feminine viewpoint on domestic issues, feminine issues and ethereal thoughts while the editor-in chief and his deputy wrote with weighted thoughts in a mix of fact, interpretation and opinion on topics ranging from international threats to peace to teenagers wallowing senselessly in drugs, sex and Hip Hop.

Chase sighed and left the building without saying goodbye to anyone. 

Seventeen minutes later the black medium-size Mercedes was packed with her choice possessions. Placing the house key under the mat after setting the security alarm, Chase drove off, heading south before Baxter arrived from the other direction. 

She smiled, thinking of bad guy Baxter's arrival home. When the electronically controlled garage door opened Baxter would assume Chase was out because her car was not there. Later he'd realise he'd been abandoned, finding Chase and her dearest possessions had gone. The bank where Baxter worked as operations manager owned the home. He was an executive director on the board. Baxter would later find before Chase left the city she withdrawn exactly half the funds in their joint-bank account.

Cruising along the highway out of the city within the maximum speed limit, Chase chose a CD and the first track; 'Blue Moon' suited her mood perfectly. Until now she'd never planned to leave Baxter, so had nothing planned. Even so, her destination was in her mind: a northern seaside city of around 50,000 people. A few days ago she'd noticed the city's afternoon newspaper was seeking a senior executive, so now that vacancy interested her greatly.

Two hours after arriving in Walton City, Chase was handed the keys to a foreshore apartment she'd leased for three months with the contract containing a right-of- purchase clause and signed by the developer.

The young real estate salesperson had noticed the car and Chase's clothing and expensive jewellery, so had not bothered to ask for references, which was fortunate, because Chase had none with her and was completely unknown in the community. In turn she'd signed the lease agreement and initialled the purchase clause without referral to an attorney and that rather worried the salesperson. The very attractive brunette client had not revealed she possessed a law degree.

The apartment was the penthouse, the last unit in the luxury block to be occupied. A new opportunity had jumped into the developer's grasp so he'd decided to remain with his family in an old house and begin his new project, informing Chase that his banker would be pleased that the Blue Horizon apartment block was now fully occupied.

"Er -- where will you sleep until you get this place furnished?" asked the astute salesperson who was in her mid-twenties.

"Oh, I really hadn't thought about that," Chase confessed.

"My mother lives just along the street," said Pru. "She usually has a friend staying in her guesthouse but no one is in occupancy at the moment. Should I phone and see if she'll accommodate you?"

Chase was surprised that Pru should make this sound so pompous -- a pokey little room in the garden could scarcely qualify as a guesthouse and she was slightly miffed that the mother would rule whether Chase was an appropriate person to have at the bottom of her garden.

"I think perhaps I should stay at a hotel."

"No don't -- your accommodation will be superior and I've a feeling mother will bond immediately with you."

Well, that made it sound as if hotel accommodation in the city was a bit tacky and the upside was 'mother' might be a personality.

"Thanks Pru. I'll accept your advice."

Well, 'mother' turned out to be Pru's stepmother, Lady Judith Clinton-Jones, widow of Sir Iain. 

Lady Clinton-Jones lived with a cook and chauffeur-gardener in a tired-looking mansion with a beautiful new luxurious cottage built beside the rose garden. The cottage provided modern facilities for visiting relatives and for her old friends who came from afar to enjoy what Pru called "decadence and the sea air."

Chase had expected Lady Clinton-Jones to be outrageously eccentric, but in fact she was a pretty woman, small in bone and statue, third wife of the late Sir Iain and aged about fifty. Chase was thirty-four. Despite the legacy of her deceased husband's title, inherited from his father who'd arrived in New Zealand from Britain sixty years ago Judith, as Lady Clinton-Jones insisted Chase call her, was not at all superior in manner or overly inquisitive.

Pru had left after having coffee with Judith and her houseguest.

"Pru is young to be working in real estate agency."

"Yes," said Judith with a smile. "It helps that one of my occasional lovers own the business."

"Oh goodness, I didn't mean to pry."

"You're not -- I chose to share than information. Pru will not mind you knowing that. She's a sweet and uncomplicated young woman; I'm the one in the family accused of not acting my age and being irresponsible."

"Your roses are very pretty," hastened Chase, wishing to get back to neutral ground.

"Yes," smiled Judith. "Look, you settle in and come and dine with me at 7:00 if you wish. I'd very much welcome the company."

"Why thank you."

During dinner Judith took a phone call from her daughter and simply said "Yes, yes, that's lovely of you" and that was the end of it.

"That was Pru -- her next business appointment is as noon tomorrow. She will be here at 9:00 to take you around the upmarket furniture shops and home décor specialists."

Chase was over-whelmed by such kindness.

"Oh, it's nothing," smiled Judith. "The developer who took a risk engaging Pru as sole salesperson is pleased that the penthouse is to be occupied as it finishes off that development."

As 'cook' (Mrs Ryan) served dessert and with two cocktails before dinner plus a shared bottle of chardonnay after soup and during the main course, Chase revealed her purpose to coming to Walton City.

Judith said wryly, "That might be a bit radical for the Walton Evening News -- it's less than a decade ago they engaged their first female reporter.

"Well, I've decided to relocate here whatever the outcome. My widowed father died three years ago and left me financially very well off; there is no reason why I should work, expect I am compelled to be industrious."

"And good for you," was all Judith said. She did no attempt to interrogate the handsome younger woman with her sad eyes.

The next afternoon, after a very productive morning with Pru inspecting some furniture shops and being introduced to a very confident husband and wife running a home décor business, Chase phoned the law firm of Wright, Younger and Abbott.

"I cannot put you through to Mr Younger," said the prim-sounding receptionist. "You'll have to state the nature of your business to his personal assistant and arrange an appointment."

"I am not a legal client. I wish to speak to him about the Walton Evening News."

"Oh, just a minute."

Less that a minute later Chase's phone clicked and the voice of an elderly male barked: "Harold Younger speaking."

Chase stated the nature of her business.

"You'll need to apply for the editorship through the correct channels as stated in the recruitment advertisement."

"I wish to short-circuit the process. I'll automatically be regarded a final selection candidate."

"By heavens, woman, you have some gall."

"Doesn't everyone?"

"No they don't."

"Well, I required to be interviewed. I have just arrived in Walton City and secured accommodation so am ready to take the position as editor."

Harold laughed. "By God, you've got some nerve and a high opinion of yourself."

"Don't you have similar attributes?" Chase replied coolly.

There was a pause. "Do you play golf well?"

"Yes."

"Well my wife and I are playing golf with Mansfield Alum at the golf club on Thursday afternoon at 1:30. Would you like to partner me against Mansfield and my wife Helen?"

"Yes, that would be lovely."

"It's just a social occasion."

"I'd expect nothing more than that, although I appreciate that I will be under inspection."

Harold chuckled and gave Chase details about her Thursday appointment.

On Wednesday Chase went to the apartment to instruct furniture movers where to place her bedroom furniture suite and the dinning table and chairs and two chairs and small table for the kitchen.

During their pre-dinner drink together, Judith expressed such an interest in that event that Chase stood up and said, "Let's go and take a look."

"What now?" asked Judith in surprise.

"Yes, why wait?"

As they drove out of the gates, Judith remarked casually it was a lovely car.

Chase pulled over to the side of the road and convinced Judith she should take a test drive just to get the feel of a modern car.

Judith enjoyed the experience as well as inspecting the penthouse.

"I've not been in the building since it was structurally completed, with virtually no finishing work done," Judith said. "What stunning views you get of the entire spread of Rushmore Bay."

"Yes, I'm thrilled with my temporary home. I do have an option to purchase and probably I will unless I find a superb place to live in the wine country."

"Go for a home close to the sea," Judith urged. "The ocean with all its moods is good for the soul."

"Well said," Judith replied, looking thoughtful, aware of just how true Judith's comment was.

* * *

Standing with his wife Helen by their electric golf kart, senior law partner Harold Younger watched the attractive and very well assembled young woman emerge from her black car and then walk over to the pro shop where a few minutes later she merged with a set of hire clubs.

"I think that's our guest," he told Helen.

"Then if she's out guest you must reimburse her for her green fees and hire clubs."

"I'll think about it."

Harold watched the white-faced woman with long black hair peeping under her cap approaching. She was dressed in a masculine-looking tee-shirt that did quite not fully conceal a splendid-looking pair of breasts and was sensibly dressed in shorts that reached just below her knees. What he could see of her legs was impressive.

"She's quite a stunner."

"Shame on you, you dirty old man," Helen laughed easily.

"Good afternoon -- are you Mr and Mrs Younger?"

"Yes we are," said Helen, holding out her hand. "I'm Helen, wife of this grumpy man. Welcome to Walton City -- is it your first visit?"

"Yes, my first real visit -- I've come twice to wine festivals."

"Doesn't everyone," smiled Harold. "Pleased to meet you Chase. My, what an unusual name."

"My mother wanted me to be an unusual person Harold," replied Chase, not waiting to be invited to use his first name. Harold did not look displeased -- it was customary to play golf with people on first-name basis.

"And are you unusual Chase?"

"I guess it's for other people to decide Helen but I know that I am not run-of-the-mill."

"Here's Mansfield," Harold said cheerfully.

"What's his occupation?"

"He's the fulltime Mayor of Walton City," Helen replied, watching Chase closely and seemed surprised that Chase showed no reaction beyond saying that was interesting.

Despite having hire clubs Chase played under her handicap of ten, the lowest of the foursome. She rode in the buggy with her partner Harold and they won the match two-up.

In the clubhouse over a bottle of wine and beef-sandwiches the four of them chatted easily and then Mansfield asked, "What brings you to our fair city Chase?"

"She's chasing a job," giggled Helen, admiring her own wit.

They all laughed.

"I guess you get ribbing linked to your name all the time."

"Not all the time Harold."

"What job are you seeking?" Mansfield persisted.

"Editorship of the newspaper," said Helen, no longer laughing.

"Good God!" exclaimed Mansfield, looking at Harold who remained poker-faced.

Mansfield turned to Chase. "Your chances of getting that post are very remote."

"I'll then have to take my chances, won't I?"

"The Evening News is a very old and conservative newspaper -- it was founded 128 years ago..."

"One hundred and eighty-nine," Harold corrected.

"Yes and it virtually never had a woman on its staff for 100 years and no woman in the editorial department until about 10 years ago.

"Nine years ago," Harold said gently.

"These differences over years tell me who'd the politician and who's the lawyer," Chase grinned.

Mansfield's laugh was genuine, Helen's shrill laugh proved she was no more than a two-glass drinker and Harold wore a light grin, looking at Chase thoughtfully.

"I guess being mayor is a tough job?" Chase asked to change the focus.

"Yes, especially when Cole Brighouse is moving to knock him off his perch."

Chase turned to Mansfield, raising an eyebrow.

"Cole is deputy mayor and is running against me in the October elections. He's already spending big money and fighting dirty," Mansfield sighed.

"Well, I guess your campaign manager will be on to that?"

"Campaign manager? I don't have one."

"Well you should and you should have a small advisory team working in the background as well -- Harold may agree to assist if the advisory team works away from the public eye."

Helen snorted, and reaching for the bottle asked, "Are you qualified to suggest such a thing Chase?"

Feeling the effects of drinking -- the second bottle of wine was being emptied by Helen -- Chase decided to reply firmly. "Apart from completing law and business studies at university I took extended political studies as an optional subject and in my post-graduate studies in journalism political studies was my in-depth study."

"You have a law degree?" asked Harold, unable to risk the double check.

"Yes."

"Have you practised?"

"No."

"What about business studies?"

"I worked in administration for a law firm when at university and for a full year afterwards before I decided to go to the School of Journalism."

Harold rubbed his chin.

Chase thanked everyone for a beautiful afternoon's golf and interesting conversation.

"I'll walk you out to your car," said Harold. As they neared the vehicle he said pleasantly, "You took a risk parking in the prime parks for club committee members."

"Golf club committee meetings are usually at evenings and officials are cautious about having expensive cars towed away," Chase smiled.

"Look, would you lunch with me tomorrow at 1:00 at the Walton Club."

"Why thank you, but are you sure women are admitted?" she teased.

"Tomorrow at 1:00 -- I'll be waiting in the foyer. And thank you for that win today -- Mansfield and Helen usually take Crystal and me to the cleaners."

"My pleasure, Harold, and thank you for inviting me; I really did have a lovely time."

Harold watched her drive away, wondering if he'd be foolish enough to make one of the riskiest decisions of his life.

The lawyer walking back to the clubhouse was a descendant of pioneers from Britain who came south of the equator 190 years ago and founded the East Coast settlement of Walton. 

Harold was a large open-faced man who perhaps looked more like an ageing golf professional rather than a lawyer specialising in defending clients in Court facing criminal charges and lesser offences. He was sixty-four and majority shareholder in the law partnership. He'd been chairman of the board of the Evening News for fourteen years and was concerned that the newspaper was inextricably sinking towards oblivion under mounting debt. 

The newspaper still had 67,000 city and rural subscribers and a very profitable commercial printing operation but advertising was being eroded by relentless competition from radio and television.

Back in the clubhouse Mansfield challenged him. "Helen tells me there's something about this woman that's attracted you, that you are going to short-list her for final interviews without requiring her to go through the employment agency handling the recruitment process?"

"I don't know where Helen got that from, but yes, that's what I have in mind."

"What's the attraction? Helen told me you'd taken your interest before even sighting the woman?"

"Another lucky guess by Helen. I merely told her this woman had phoned me and had the cheek to be asked to be short-listed."

"And?" asked Mansfield, determined to get it all from his long-time friend.

"Well," said Harold defensively. "She sounded full of vigour with a lively brain and wasn't at all timid or fawning in speaking to me. I know this is very unlike me but she sounded as if she regarded the editorship as hers."


Charmingly Ruthless



"Good God," said Mansfield, shaking his head. "And now that you've met her face to face?"

"I'm totally convinced she deserves to be short-listed."

"Oh my," Helen giggled. "I'm glad that there are seven other board members. There would be a riot in town if a woman is appointed."

"Come on, let's head off -- I'll need to put you to bed once you get a lungful of fresh air, Helen. You've over-imbibed for your restricted capacity."

"Get fucked Harold."

The two men grinned at each other, determined not to laugh loudly, knowing that would only send Helen off into unrestrained hilarity at their encouraging reaction.

Harold went back to the office to work until 7:30. He phoned Marcia Evans, head of Mayfair Employment Consultancy and told her that in all probability he was going to add a candidate to the short-list without going through the pre-screening process.

"Good God," was Marcia's reaction when told it was a woman. That's all she said but Harold suspected that Marcia would be thinking Harold was screwing the woman. Women thought like that, didn't they?

Giving Marcia Chase's name, Harold said Chase had previously worked on the Morning Star.

"Could you email your findings about her by noon tomorrow as I am lunching with her at the club an hour later. I'd like to do my assessment knowing her background in detail."

"Right, Harold. Will do. Do I add her as a sixth finalist, or knock one off of the short-list of five."

"I'd like her added as the sixth candidate," Harold said. "Helen and Mansfield know about her so I do not wish to be accused of pushing my barrow."

"Oh, I don't think anyone would ever accuse you of that," lied the hard-nosed consultant. But she didn't mind; the woman wouldn't have a chance against her two top picks and the board would probably ignore those anyway and give the job to the deputy editor because that was the tradition. Whatever, she'd be paid her fees

Harold read the email carefully:

'Chase Julia (nee Lewis) Hudson, married to Baxter, a regional manager for the Network Bank of New Zealand. No children.

Chase, an associate editor on the Morning Star where she was highly regarded, recently resigned abruptly and disappeared without even collecting her personal items or payments due including superannuation.

Recipients of many awards in newspaper journalism including Journalist of the Year five years ago and Best Magazine Editor last year for the newspaper's 'Weekender' that she edited for inclusion in the newspaper's Saturday edition.

An excellent administrator, writes and manages with a leading edge. Being groomed for a more senior appointment. Was formerly the Morning Star's political editor. Spent a year working with the Guardian newspaper group in England and six months on the Vancouver Sun before returning to the Morning Star on request to take up the position of news editor. 

Interests include golf, theatre, ballet, reading, travel, kayaking and good dining.'

Harold scratched his head, wondering about the definition of 'manages with a leading edge'. Presumably that meant innovatively. It seemed pretty straightforward with only the one real question to be answered: Why did she run away from her husband?

The dining room was well filled and it did not escape Harold's notice many admiring glances were cast in their direction. The club's female membership totalled three and women guests at lunch rarely exceeded three at any one time. During lunch seven members dropped by to say hullo to Harold, eclipsing the two or three who usually performed such genteel contact. Business discussion took place in the smoking room (where smoking was now banned) over expensive whisky or brandy.

Passing the wine list to Chase and inviting her to choose, Harold was impressed rather and irritated that she chose the third priciest red -- McRae's Pinot Noir from Otago; it was his favourite red currently listed.

Later, pushing away the remains of his salmon entrée, Harold said with a smile, "Exactly why did you chose to come to Walton?"

"My best friend's husband caught my husband and his wife in the middle -- at least I think it was the middle -- of an act of adultery, so I upped and left within thirty minutes, ending that chapter of my life."

Harold had to catch himself from making an embarrassed apology for being so heartless in extracting such a personal confession.

"You look to be a survivor," was all he said.

As they both slipped down a sip of McRae's, Harold looked at Chase intently, asking himself, 'Does she look like the type of woman I would trust administering my money?'

The answer came without hesitation: 'Yes, probably after careful checks.'

That readiness to trust surprised Harold, aware that he didn't really know the woman. So quickly he asked himself another question: 'Would I trust her to preserve the noble traditions of the Evening News for the duration of her tenure?'

This time the answer was equally emphatic: 'No!'

"Are you all right, you look as if you've just had a shock?" asked Chase with concern. "Has the fish disagreed with you?"

"No, I'm fine."

Then with uncharacteristic expansiveness, Harold told Chase about the second question he'd put to himself, although not suggesting there had been another question, and what his gut answer had been.

To his astonishment Chase just smiled and almost looked as if about to pat his arm to apply reassurance. "Of course I couldn't be expected to concentrate on preserving tradition at all cost -- that's a quick way in these competitive times for a newspaper to despatch itself into oblivion. You read me well, Harold. I guess that's why you're a warhorse lawyer."

"How on earth could you know that? You've only been in town five minutes."

"I've been talking to Judith Clinton-Jones."

"You know Judith?"

"Yes, I am staying in her guesthouse temporarily."

"Oh, you are family?"

"Oh no, I'd never met her before."

Harold looked nonplussed. "I suppose you know she's deputy chairman of the board of the Evening News?"

He could see that information surprised Chase, who said weakly she'd had no idea of Lady Clinton-Jones' relationship with the newspaper.

"Her family founded it," he said dryly.

Chase's bewilderment told him all he needed to know: she had not a clue about the association.

They ordered mains -- he a steak and Chase vegetarian pasta.

"Obviously Lady Clinton-Jones has taken an immediately liking to you if you are calling her Judith."

"Not that I'm aware -- she simply invited me to call her Judith."

"Which is what I just said."

"Oh."

Again Harold was faced with a moment of not knowing what to think. How could a runaway from her banker husband waltz into town and within five minutes be on first-name basis with the town's only link with aristocracy? Frig -- he really needed Helen to sort this one out; she was fantastic on personal relationships and how people think and fit -- when she was sober!"

"You're smiling, and your good colour has returned."

Harold chose not to mention his thoughts about the split personality of his wife.

Thereafter they chatted generally without any great revelations being exchanged, but Harold was left with the solid impression that this woman was all class and yet had an innate sense of fun about her. Little wonder his buddy Mayor Alum had whispered to him factiously, "You'll be into her pants within the next two week." Both men knew that Harold was as straight at they come, that with him infidelity was an anathema. 

"You're looking at me rather deeply, as if you wished I were your daughter," commented Chase, less than restrained after two cocktails and a third of the bottle of pinot noir.

Harold, father of three adult sons, had been thinking that very thing. He excused himself and went off to the men's room thinking how on earth she could be thinking that when the same thought was in his mind. This woman was awesome.

Outside the club they shook hands and went their separate ways, with Harold promising his PA would be in touch with Chase.

Harold sat at his desk, but with his chair spun around so that he could look out the window and reflect -- his favourite thinking position. His elderly and super efficient PA entered the room to ask if he wanted coffee. When Marie returned with coffee Harold asked her: "What do you really think of the Evening News?"

"You want me to reply honestly?"

Harold continued staring out of the window without replying, indicating the answer was yes.

"Well I think it's lost its old drive and becoming boring and I really think its survival must now really be in doubt."

"Thank you, Marie. I appreciate your input. That's all."

Five days later the board of the Evenings News met at noon to lunch with the final six before beginning the interviews at 1:30. There were five males, all in conservative business suits and one woman, who looked totally relaxed and dressed flamboyantly, and her expression could have been read as "Where's the wine?"

It was a dry lunch, Harold's insistence when important work lay ahead of them. The booze cabinet could be unlocked at the end of the session.

Two of the males interviewed emerged very quickly as front-runners.

Chase was escorted in last -- Harold had instructed the recruitment consultant Marcia to do that.

Marcia read out a precise of Chase's CV and Chase explained her marital break-up honestly and without inviting sympathy.

As with all candidates, Lady Clinton-Jones asked the final fixed question from the interviewing panel: "What is your attitude towards continuing and perhaps enhancing the tradition of our illustrious newspaper?"

The other five candidates all answered roughly the same: They would honour the newspaper's tradition, deeply respecting its past and the inspiration of former editors and they would expand the business viability of the newspaper on that basis.

Chase's answer to that question was, "Oh, it is unlikely I would do that."

Board member Archie Reeves, an accountant and descendant of an original settler was shocked.

"But tradition, the Evening News is built on tradition."

"Oh yes, I have no problem with the ethical and emotional parts of traditions but very much doubt I could live with its business traditions and the current presentations of editorial content. Furthermore..."

"Why?" was the blunt interjection from Al Margate who operated three sports stores.

"Because the whole appearance of the newspaper is outdated and its articles are generally too long and ponderous."

"So you think you're a better writer than our retiring editor and our editorial team?"

"I know this is an unwise thing to say but you need to form a correct impression of me, so I must reply that I very much think so."

Al looked at her with the suggestion of a smile.

"The religious content of our newspaper which is perhaps the most extensive of any daily newspaper in the entire country -- that stays untouched, I presume?"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?" snapped the Rev Charles Worthington.

"No."

"Your explanation please."

"Very well -- I was attempting to avoid the possibility of giving offence. That type of parsimonious and to a large extent irrelevant editorial belongs in weekly newsletters from churches."

"Really!" said the thunderstruck clergyman while most of his board members looked at Chase a little nervously.

"Anything else for the chop?"

"That is impossible to say at this stage Mr....?"

"Goldstein, Isaac Goldstein. I'm a jeweller."

"As regard to changes in content and display, I would listed carefully to opinion from my editorial working party that I would set up."

"In consultation with our chairman," Rev Worthington queried.

"No, under my administration the editorial department would be kept entirely separate from administration. In my management role I would liase with the board and also follow general policy concepts and realise I would have take major spending proposals -- and there are bound to be a few of those -- to the board to be thrashed out."

"So if the board wants a story pulled, it is published unless you think it should be pulled?" asked Al Margate.

"Yes."

"You appear to want to be a real world editor?"

"Yes."

Al beamed.

Public accountant Cedric Withers pressed that point.

"Lady Clinton Jones, Harold and Eric -- you three along with the Lighthouse Insurance Company own 64% of shares in this company. What are your views on this?"

Judith: "I'm nervous about what I'm hearing but am confident I am hearing the right things."

Harold: "Likewise."

Eric Butler, deputy chairman of Lighthouse Insurance: "This newspaper company is bleeding, and something drastic needs to be done. This is almost the first time I've heard innovative thinking towards change being voiced in this boardroom."

There were no more questions, so Chase was shown to the door and told to check that the administrative assistant had Chase's current contact details. Chase had to change her address details, as her apartment was ready for her. She had her personal items from Judith's guesthouse in her car in the company car park.

Chase was driving to the apartment and took a call from Harold who asked her to pull over to the side of the road if she were driving.

"We're trying to reach a consensus and I've been asked to get an unequivocal answer from you to this question: Will you fight tooth and nail for the survival of our city's newspaper."

"Absolutely."

"Is that all you wish to say?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Good-bye."

"Good-bye Mr Chairman."

Harold laughed and terminated the call.

At that precise moment Chase knew she would be appointed editor. It was likely that Harold hadn't been asked to put that question to her at all. He was attempting to appease opposition to her and fears that Chase's heart might not be first and foremost in protecting the newspaper was the sticking point, apart from Rev Worthington's probably table-thumping that Chase was a Satanic unbeliever out to undermine the moral values and religious believes of the entire city of Walton.

Chase phoned Pru who said she'd love to come for dinner and help celebrate Chase's occupancy of her penthouse.

"I was going on a date, but I'll cancel -- his tongue is hanging out so he'll cope with a twenty-four hour wait."

"Bring him along and what about your mother, should I try inviting her?"

"No, she only goes out at evening to the theatre and functions."

"I'll see you at 6:30."

"That early?"

"Well, if we want to play up we've got to get an early start if we wish to be in reasonable nick to start the new day."

"You're my kind of girl," laughed Pru.

"Girl, I'm old enough to be your mother."

"My older sister, but certainly not mother," Pru giggled.

Just before 6:00 Chase had dinner well underway for at least six people when the phone went.

"Good evening, Harold speaking."

Chase didn't give him a chance to speak. 

"Get a bottle of champagne and collect Helen and Judith and be here at 6:30 for drinks and then dinner. I will not accept apologies for non-attendance -- Judith knows where to come."

She then disconnected the call before Harold could speak and turned her phone off.

Pru, her David and Chase were on to their first glass of champagne when the buzzer went. Pru jumped up and grabbled the hand-piece that allowed the lift to pass the security block at the fifth floor.

Harold emerged carrying two bottles of champagne and two bottles of McRae's Pinot "Noir while Judith handed her bottle of champagne to David and asked, "Are you Chase's man?"

Pru turned crimson.

Helen pulled Chase into her ample chest and said, "Congratulations darling -- that board does some stupid things at times but I knew we would chose you."

Harold and Judith, weary from a three-and-a-half hour battle, exchanged grins.

"Hang on, Helen -- you women are too much for me," complained Harold. "Chase, it is my pleasant decision to announce that you have been appointed editor on the unanimous vote of the board. Congratulations."

Chase rushed him and kissed him on both cheeks and then hugged him.

She then turned and held out her hand to Judith, thanking her for her support.

"Come here sweetie," said Judith. The two women kissed and hugged, leaving Pru with her mouth open aware her mother NEVER entered into public displays like that.

"I'm roasting thick steaks, your favourite," smiled Chase, "and no garlic pushed into your piece."

"Oh, thank you Chase and real thick gravy I hope."

"Real thick gravy Judith."

"Pru, would you be a dear and show our new arrivals around -- I have duties in the kitchen."

At the end of a bubbling evening, Harold and Helen drove Judith home and for a while sat outside the front door of the mansion talking.

As Judith was leaving the car Harold said: "Judith, I've been your legal adviser ever since you arrived in this country from Scotland and it was me of course who introduced you to Iain. Several times I have attempted to give you advice about this property but you seem reluctant to listen to me. May I suggest that you talk to Chase about it sometime when you two are alone? She seems to have an impressive business brain but also thinks like a woman."

"An excellent idea, Harold. Now good night you two and drink plenty of water before you retire after drinking liquor. Wasn't it a lovely evening?"

"Yes, beautiful," said Helen, hiccupping.

"I feel our newspaper now has a chance of going forward, Harold."

"So do I, Judith. So do I."

With Helen falling asleep as they drove home Harold though as much as he liked Chase he didn't trust her fully. It was impossible to trust a woman to the hilt when they were so damn unpredictable.

CHAPTER 2

Drinking coffee in his office at the bank, Baxter Hudson was reading the business section of that morning's newspaper when a small paragraph caught his eye.

It stated that award-winning journalist Chase Lewis had been appointed editor of the Walton Evening News, the newspaper company's first woman to be appointed to a senior position in its 189-year history.

Baxter smiled, noting that Chase had gone back to her maiden name. He smiled again because he now knew where his missing wife was located.

* * *

Deputy editor Morrie Wrightson's disappointment at not getting the editorship increased five-fold when he saw Chase Lewis enter the editorial floor with chairman Harold Younger. 

The short-listed candidates had been kept apart so had not seen one another, and as soon as their interview was over they'd been asked to leave the building, including Morrie who worked on the newspaper. He seethed when he got a closer view of Chase: she was a damn bimbo. Nice face, nice, tits, nice ass and not a fucking piece of brain in that ridiculously black, black hair of hers.

Well, he'd begin looking for another job. This newspaper under Editor Bimbo would fold within the year, and he was prepared to bet money on that.

Harold astutely introduced Bimbo to everyone in pecking order. Morrie's first surprise was she knew who he was and floored him when she mentioned she'd purchased a dress at his wife's fashion shop only two days ago. Chase then invited him to accompany them as the introductions were made.

The chairman had earlier told the retiring editor Stephen Shadbolt to go to the pub for the afternoon, and that he'd arrive there with Chase about 3:00 to socialise. They had to be back at the boardroom at 4:00 for drinks with all heads of staff and deputies throughout the entire company who'd been called together to meet Chase.

Morrie watched the expressions of people as they generally pretended to be busy until Harold -- conveniently being able to ask Morrie for names -- invited them individually to meet their new editor.

Most of the guys, even the near seventy-year-old racing editor, smiled straight at Chase and then looked at her tits. After a while Morrie wondered if he'd been that blatant. The woman just seemed to ignore it. The females seemed to be checking out her make-up and clothes. Not a single one of them asked the interloper if she could write or even had a clue how a real newspaper was run.




Charmingly Ruthless



When the introductions were over Morrie thought, OK, now it's time for the great "Follow Me to Success" speech. But no, she simply walked to the main exit where she told Harold she'd meet him over at the pub shortly.

"Morrie is there somewhere we can have a quick private chat?"

"My office?"

"Great."

Oh shit, she was going to terminate her closest rival before he'd had a chance to look for a replacement position on another newspaper! Morrie's palms began to moisten.

"Please sit in my chair."

"That's kind of you, but unnecessary, Morrie," she said, as he closed the door. "Just sitting here on the visitor's chairs face-to-face will be fine."

Morrie saw her make a quick inspection of his office. Thank Christ it was tidy, although he didn't know why he was bothering to think that.

"I'm sorry that the board did not appoint you Morrie. I guess if you were on the board you'd gone for the strongest candidate with the greatest perceived potential?"

"Er, yes."

"I would too. We work in a competitive business world and at times it gives you a stick-up-the-ass when you're not looking, doesn't it?"

Morrie looked directly into the soft grey eyes that held his gaze unflinching, quite shocked at what he'd just heard, as it had been entirely unexpected and crude beyond belief -- especially from a bimbo.

Then she floored him again.

"Do you know Anthony Evans?"

Morrie nodded, saying Anthony was head-hunted two years ago by a newspaper up north. 

"He was, but a month later came to us at the Morning Star by invitation and then three months later won the vacated position of chief reporter. He's just been appointed chief-of-staff. 

"Phone him Morrie and ask him to tell you truthfully what he thinks of me and what else he can tell you about me. I don't wish to lose you right now -- this grand old newspaper needs you and I need you to throw out the anchor if I start losing my marbles and making a complete balls up of things. Just do it, Morrie -- here's Anthony's mobile phone number. I must get across the road. I'll see you upstairs at 4:00."

"I haven't been invited?"

"Why the fuck not; you're a department deputy?"

"Bill who writes editorials got handed the invitation instead -- he's related to the general manager's wife."

"Well, I'll sort that pecking order out on Monday when I take over. But just go up at 4:00 and tell anyone who challenges you that you're my personal guest. Bye for now."

Morrie rushed to open the door for her and almost bowed. He was flabbergasted at his reaction, Morrie Wrightson, the most cynical staffer on the paper. He knew of course that he hadn't wanted to shift on, as Trish with their youngest now at school was establishing her fashion shop and just loving it, so much that he was getting sex almost every night. Who the fuck gave Chase the label of bimbo? He grinned, slightly shame-faced.

Ten minutes later Morrie received a three-person deputation. Editorial staff wanted a quick meeting with him to discuss concern over the new appointee. Either he could agree to a quick unofficial meeting now or an official stop work meeting would be called tomorrow.

"Make it now, but lasting no longer than twenty minutes."

"Oh, about five minutes will be all we need," columnist Muriel Smithers said grimly.

The grizzles began and after four speakers Morrie put his hand up and said enough.

"Clearly you guys are fearful of having a woman as a boss and seem to have the impression that she's a bimbo."

"Hear, hear," came the calls.

"Look, believe me. I think she's talented and focuses and gutsy. And I think she'll kick the nuts of anyone who's not with her."

"What about us?" Muriel laughed.

"I didn't want to use that four-letter 'C' word in front of impressionable juniors," he grinned.

"Good God, Morrie," Muriel exclaimed. "You're the biggest cynic around here and she'd already got you in her pocket."

"Almost, but I've just got some checking to do. Let's have another quick meeting same time tomorrow afternoon and I'll report back. My feeling is she'd going to rock us and rev the whole show up."

"You've been looking too closely at her breasts Morrie," Muriel said jealously.

""Huh, what are those? I'm one of those dopey bastards who got married."

The meeting broke up and most walked away happily.

Muriel came up and spoke to him quietly.

"Is that what you really think Morrie? The meeting was to get you to lead a deputation to management to ask for her appointment to be annulled. What do you REALLY think?"

"Confidentially?"

"Yes, on my word."

"It's early days, but you know me and first impressions. My feeling is a genius has walked into our midst."

"Christ."

"My thought also."

Shelia the general manager's PA stopped Morrie at the doorway of the boardroom at 4:10.

"I'm sorry Morrie, only Mr Keys' invitees."

"But I ...."

"I'm sorry, Morrie. I am under instructions to be firm."

Morrie was walking away looking for a big rock to kick when his phone went.

"Where are you?" he was asked.

"Who is it?"

"Chase."

"How do you get my phone number?"

"Does it matter, you're wasting drinking time. Where are you?"

"Going down the stairs -- I've been barred."

"Come back now, I'll be at the door."

Shelia looked angry: "Morrie, this is not one of your journo's piss-ups -- this is a cocktail hour for VIPs."

"Shelia, Morrie is a VIP."

"Yes Miss Lewis. Would you please enter with me Mr Wrightson."

As they walked in, Morrie asked how did Chase know Shelia.

"I was introduced to her when I arrived."

"But you've met a large number of people since then, haven't you?"

"Yes, but you also remember names, do you not?"

"Er, of course."

Chase asked him who was responsible for the invitations and was told Frank Keys -- 'who thinks he's God's gift to office women' Morrie said as an aside, but Chase heard him, though didn't let on.

"Frank," Chase called, going up to him with Morrie in tow.

Frank beamed at her over his glass.

"Morrie is my deputy and was humiliated outside this room this evening; I never want that to happen again. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my beauty, it's all filed ready for action."

Frank's attitude suddenly changed and he said demurely -- of course, Chase. I'll attend to that personally. A mix-up I'm sure.

Morrie was puzzled why Frank had changed horses midstream and turning caught the disappearing look on Chase's face -- she'd obviously been on the verge of kicking Frank in the nuts, or at least thinking about it, for addressing her like that.

"May I get you a drink, Chase," Morrie said enthusiastically, "and welcome to your new working home."

Next day Morrie reported back to a short meeting of people in editorial that he'd contacted Anthony Evans who now worked on the newspaper where Chase has recently left.

"Folk, I have to tell you the newspaper is in shock. In Anthony's words, "Everyone here is practically in mourning, unable to accept that they've lost a great journalist all because of her cunt-happy husband."

At the editorial department's farewell to the outgoing editor on Friday there was no sign of Chase. During his speech at the presentation the chairman said that Chase had chosen not to be present because this was Stewart's finale and he should be centrepiece of proceedings. She wished him a long and happy retirement.

Two days earlier a notice was posted: 

A full staff meeting will be held in the editorial newsroom at 3:30 on Monday. A full attendance is required -- NO EXCEPTIONS. It was signed just 'Chase'.

This was rare; it meant some staff having to cancel work appointments and early starters especially the racing departments staying on after their usual much earlier finish to their working day.

Chase had been seen around the office during the day. First she had a meeting with the news editor and chief sub, who when they returned announced that nothing would be changed -- "just yet."

Then the personal assistant Chase had inherited had been seen crying at her desk. 

Shelia from Mr Keys' department came and took her away, comforting her. Then during the next hour Shelia bought in three other office women who went into Chase's office separately, all returning to their desks looking disappointed.

Morrie saw Mr Keys go into Chase's office and then coming out waving his hands as if in surrender. Chase followed him into administration. An hour later Chase returned in triumph helping a young Indian woman carry her personal effects to Chase's personal assistant's desk outside the editor's office.

The woman, named Ashima, was a new immigrant and although she spoke beautifully, seemed to be ignored because she did not seem to care for herself well and wore very cheap dresses.

Ashima and Chase went out at lunchtime together and when they returned Ashima seemed transformed. 

Enquiring what was up, Chase told Morrie that the PA she'd inherited was nothing more than a clerical assistant. She needed a capable livewire.

"But Ashima, she's been virtually an outcast and yet you picked her."

"Why not?"

"Er, it's not her colour."

"I should hope not. I'll tell you why. I demanded that Frank Keys let me talk to every person in administration. I was almost tempted to snare Peter Black a young computer trainee when I came to Ashima and was blown away. She was allowed by enter the country to work for her uncle because of her computer skills, but her uncle's business folded."

"She has computer skills?"

"Yes, but nobody thought to read her CV properly, only to put her on to a desk and get her processing accounts. She has a degree in computer science and a masters degree in English."

"This Indian woman does?"

"Her name is Ashima."

"Of course, Ashima. Holy cow. And so at lunchtime you took her out and got her hair done and bought her shoes and a dress?"

"Yes. She'd not been paid for three months by her previous employer and her flat was burgled and most of her possessions stolen."

"Cripes, what a story."

"Yes, I'd thought about that too, but I think we should take a wider approach and do a whole series about new immigrants in this city overcoming their unlucky starts. It's probably never been done before."

"The dress and shoes look expensive."

"They are but I got them and the underwear at a twenty percent discount after Ashima told the woman in the store what I was doing for her. The store owner was your wife Trish."

"Oh shit."

"What's the matter, Morrie?" asked Case concealing a grin.

"Trish missed seeing the photograph when your appointment was announced in the paper because I'd already cut it out and sent it to Anthony on the Morning Star. Then the other day Trish asked me what you looked like and ... and...."

Morrie swept both hands over his hair in embarrassment.

"You said I look like the back of the bus and that's because you didn't want Trish to feel jealous."

"Er, yes, but how did you know that?"

"Because Trish told me."

"But I didn't mention that jealousy bit to her, that was only in my head."

"Men are so transparent to women Morrie. You're almost thirty-five, you should know that."

At the big staff meeting Chase showed her teeth like a boss, but a smile never left her face. She announced some big changes were coming -- that because major spending was involved she'd have to get her proposals approved by the board.

Morrie couldn't help but be impressed.

"Basically I want a brighter, racier newspaper for the current generation of mainstay readers -- not a newspaper modified on what has been presented to generations of readers. But we'll do this progressively and people who want no bar of it can leave as soon as they wish, while others who wish to be brought up to speed to cope through adjusting their writing style or getting the grips with modern editing and layout techniques will be given tutoring. In six months from now you will realise you are at the cutting edge of journalism and newspaper production. That's all -- I simply wish you to hear this from me because tomorrow I begin talking to Morrie about what we have to do and as I move to speak with other department heads outside of editorial the rumours will begin to fly. Are there any questions?"

"Does your concept include going fully computerised?

"Bugger, David. No one was supposed to ask that question. Answer yes, but I'll need to convince the board."

"No one among us fully understands newspaper production by computer and sorting out the problems."

"Our yes -- we do have one. Take a bow Ashima, she is also fully qualified as a computer programmer."

Ashima's face turned darker and she look proud.

"Yes, but that would have been in India."

"Ricky, please talk to Ashima. I'm computer literate and know that computers are unaware of international boundaries apart from software language and minor other things such as time zones."

"Are you planning to reduce staff?"

"Not immediately and probably only through attrition Julie."

"Well, that seems to be all. Look -- this is a oncer to engender goodwill. I'll be across the road in the bar within ten minutes ready to buy the drinks; even tea or coffee if you prefer."

When Morrie went home that evening Trish met him at the door.

"You've been drinking?"

"Yes."

"With that new boss of yours."

"Yes."

"With anyone else?"

"Yes, the entire staff."

"So, Miss Back-of-a-Bus is willing to socialise with her staff, and you will be staying at her side?"

"Huh?"

"When she was appointed, you had your nose so far out of joint that you were thinking about leaving."

"Since you mentioned it, yes. But how did you know?"

"She phoned me within hours of her appointment pleading with me to ensure that you would stay to help her through."

"Help her through?"

"Those were her words."

"So she phoned you a full day before she met me."

"Yes."

"I can't believe this Trish."

"Women have brains, Morrie."

"But how did she know of your existence and where to contact you?"

"Oh dear, Morrie. She was an investigative journalist, wasn't she? And wouldn't she have staff records with next of kin listed?"

CHAPTER 3

With injuries to his face from the pounding he'd received from irate husband Jackson McCullough almost healed, Chase's estranged Baxter Hudson heard the car go down his driveway and continue on to the back lawn where it would be out of sight from the street.

Baxter opened the back door and in came Aimee McCullough, pressing her breasts forward to get his motor running.

Baxter was a sucker for big tits and would do almost anything to get his big meaty hands around them. That's why, despite the beating received from Jackson, and he was still having it off with Jackson's wife.

He didn't bother making a dash for the bedroom. Instead he grabbed Aimee and sat her on the kitchen bench where she licked her lips and cooed, "Thrust it in, Baxter -- I'm not wearing panties.

Baxter feverishly undid his belt and pulled down his pants and underpants and grasped his sizeable penis in one hand, lifting Aimee's skirt up with the other while she finished removing her shirt and bra, knowing where Baxter would want to fondle her while slamming into her from this position.

They went at it like two animals, covering each other in mess.

"How was that my little peach?" he asked.

"Just great -- you seem to be getting thicker and longer each time we do this."

"It's all for you sweet."

Aimee leant against his arms smiling happily until the gentle announcement came.

"I know where Chase had gone to ground -- Walton City where she's been appointed editor of the city's evening newspaper."

"So she's not coming back to you?" asked Aimee, with a surge of relief and squeezing her left breast pushed it at Baxter's mouth to get him off this subject. But he was having nothing of it.

"I've got to go to where she's living and have it out with her. Got to end this uncertainty. She's reverted to her maiden name, which doesn't look good for me."

Aimee thought that made sense; she'd love them to reunite, have a fearful row and end it for good, thereby giving her unrestricted access to Baxter. Yet, on the other hand, she'd like to get back with Chase -- she'd never had a friend to equal her.

"I know a guy in Walton who administers a fleet of self-owned taxis. I'll try him to see if he has on his records a fare called either Chase Hudson or Chase Lewis. If he does chances are he'll have her home address."

At lunchtime two days later Baxter was sprawled over Aimee over the front bucket seats of her car under a big tree on a very quiet street. Aimee had his rod in her mouth, making throaty noises while she sucked. Meanwhile Baxter was massaging her tits, thinking he was doing this for his own pleasure, unaware that he was driving Aimee into a series of orgasms. Passion was causing them to take greater risks of exposure.

The next day was Saturday, and Baxter phoned Aimee's home hoping to catch her alone which meant he could hurry over and nail her. But Jackson answered the phone.

Rather that slam down the phone and risking bringing suspicion on Aimee, Baxter spoke nasally and asked to speak to Doctor Mains.

"There's no Doctor Mains at this number Dickhead. Get glasses so you can read phone numbers correctly," snarled Jackson, slamming the phone down. Irritating Jackson like that was almost as good as titty-fucking Jackson's wife, chuckled Baxter.

He tried the phone number again four hours later and got Aimee.

"You came through for me my darling with the big tits. Malvin Rich of White Star Taxis has found the address for me. I need to buy you an expensive present to reward you."

"Diamonds?" queried Aimee, unsure whether Baxter heard that before the call disconnected.

CHAPTER 4

Mayor Alum's PA phoned to invite Chase to a meeting in his office at 5:00.

Mansfield greeted Chase like an old friend, kissing her on the lips, though not intrusively and she felt a hand out of sight from his PA slide down her flank -- so softly it could almost be regarded as affectionately. 

Chase was not surprised she had no objection -- it was nearing a month since she'd had sex, possibly the longest break since her late teens. She might not resist if Mansfield, who she knew was married, decided to go further.

"That's all Mary," Mansfield said to his PA, moving round to the chair behind his desk.

"Chase -- I've got two other people coming in to be with us, but want to ask you a couple of things. Will you become a member of my small background team to advise on my re-election campaign?"

"Yes."

"You decided that in a hurry."

"I had lunch the other day with Harold and he painted your opponent as a black-heart."

"Good on Harold. Is he...?"

Chase said curtly, "Harold fucking me, of course not! So is your opponent a blackguard?"

"Yes and I'll be attacking his motives during the campaign."

"Good, good." 

Mansfield thanked Chase for her willingness to contribute. "The second question is would you use your newspaper to push my re-election barrow?"

"I'm sorry, Mansfield. I cannot do that because it is unethical unless the city were in peril from election misconduct or a candidate turns out to be not what he or she claims to be."

"That's what Harold said you would say."

"Harold -- he knows about this? 

"Yes, I took him to lunch to discuss it and he'll back you if you say yes."

"Harold and you. Are you...?"

Mansfield flushed and looked as if he'd been stabbed. "For Christ sake Chase. We are both as straight sexually as beanpoles."

"I was only asking, Mansfield," soothed Chase, her eyes grinning hugely.

"I can say this, I will come to my conclusion when I write or co-write the letter to voters on the eve of the election to be published on the front page."




Charmingly Ruthless



"Well, I'm very pleased about that Chase. Thank you."

Mary led Harold into the room and went to a wall cupboard and opened a bar, asking everyone what they wanted.

There was a rap on the door and Mary went quickly and admitted the third man.

"That's all Mary, hit the road now and thanks. I'll do the drinks."

As Mary left the room Mansfield made the introductions.

"Chase, this is Pearson."

"Pearson Richards, ma'am," he said with old world courtesy. "I know who you are as I read the Evening News throughout. I don't have television."

"What, have you retired from the world?" joked Chase and a flash of very white teeth acknowledged her liveliness. He seemed very unaware of her, which suited Chase fine, although it was unusual for a man of his age -- thirty-eight to forty perhaps.

While Pearson and the other two men were chatting about the result of a rugby game, Chase took the opportunity to study this man who seemed to be in the wrong room -- almost the wrong century.

Harold and Mansfield were in business suits where as Person was in ... um ... buckskin? Never having seen buckskin, Chase couldn't be certain, but it was light brown animal skin of some sort. Was this man a Rip Van Wrinkle trapper?

Chase giggled and three pairs of eyes turned on her.

"A loss of this magnitude is not funny, Chase," Mansfield growled, "or are you a bloody Aussie supporter?"

"Oh no, it was a terrible loss, wasn't it?"

Chase really had not idea if there were talking league, rugby or even soccer, but it was better playing along rather than trying to explain her trapper joke.

"Men taking their sport so seriously tends to make me laugh," she offered. And that was true but now it was Chase who seemed to be in the wrong room, judging by the three scowls.

Pearson looked as if he needed a good scrub. His unruly brown and blond streaked hair was unruly and he had a three-day growth that would make any woman howl with pain if he...

Good heavens, thought Chase, I don't really like this scruffy man and here I go thinking about sex in his presence. She picked his age -- she'd go halfway between her earlier estimate and say thirty-nine, he was six feet six and no more than 200lbs because he's had a lean looking butt judging by the narrowness she could see at the front of his trousers under his opened jacket.

So, who was this Mr Person Richards? She giggled -- only dull-named Harold had a conventional moniker. Pearson and Mansfield and her moms must have been on something when it came to naming their babies or perhaps the names were linked to the place where they thought they became pregnant. She giggled loudly this time.

Pearson peeled off and walked the two paces to her side. 

"You seem to be racked in laughter -- are you on something?"

Chase was appalled; how could he think that of her? This man was a menace.

"Certainly not."

"Sorry, sorry -- I've sort of fallen out of touch how to stroke the sensitivities of beautiful city women."

Well, fancy that, gritted Chase. If he hadn't dropped in beautiful he would have been in danger of having those stupidly white and large teeth separated by her backhander -- rings an all. Christ, she was still wearing her wedding and engagement rings and he was staring at them. Never mind, it didn't matter but she must get rid of them -- probably dropping them in a sewer would be appropriate. No, she didn't fancy big-tooth trapper at all. Well, perhaps a little bit but only because he was male.

"Right," said, Mansfield. "I've topped your glasses up so now am guaranteed of your attention. I've called this meeting to get my campaign on the road. Just before you gentlemen entered Chase accepted my invitation to join our little task force. Her head swells with ideas," Mansfield said generously. As one all three men glanced at Chase's breasts.

"This is my suggestion for loose-knit organisation: Harold - convener, legalities; Chase - deputy-convener, business strategy; Pearson -- media and campaign strategy; me -- I just do what I'm told."

Everyone agreed that sounded fine although Chase, considering herself the media expert, wondered why she hadn't got that as one of her responsibilities. She noticed Pearson looking at her, and he was probably wondering the same thing while also being puzzled why she would have responsibility for business strategy.

"Right, next item on our non-existent agenda: Where do we meet for our first full meeting early next week."

"Motel meeting room."

"Quiet corner in a bar."

"Up at Pearson's place."

"At the home of Mansfield's mother."

"Here" were the suggestions.

"Here, Chase?" asked Mansfield aghast.

"Yes, seeking re-election is not an unlawful act. The Mayor's Office is just that -- the Mayor's Office. What he does in it is his business providing it's within the law. Everyone knows that."

"No," said Mansfield and Pearson looked at Chase, apparently rather impressed." "What is your view Harold?"

"Chase is quite right. Seeking re-election is a legitimate activity for a Mayor to engage in."

"Well, we'll meet here then."

"I suggest we time our arrivals and departures a minute apart, just to ensure we try to preserve our pre-election anonymity from sticky beaks."

The three men looked at Chase.

"That's prudent," nodded Harold.

Mansfield smirked: "When I realised you could play golf that well I realised you were more than just a pretty face."

Pearson was the last to avert his eyes off Chase. His expression was neutral.

They had another drink and then it was announced it was time to slip out at three-minute intervals.

"I'm sure there's no need to do this but for the first time in the run-up to three elections I'm having some fun," grinned Mansfield.

Harold went first because he had to take Helen to a Law Society dinner. Pearson followed Chase.

Chase went out smiling, wondering what the big tooth trapper drove -- a Jeep? She was thinking of a shiny big, black monster. She entered the car park and stopped, holding a mouth over her hand to deaden the near hysterical shriek. Parked alongside her vehicle was jeep looking very much like the Americans used in World War 2.

"Like it?" asked Pearson proudly.

"It's kind of cute," was all Chase could manage.

"Follow me, I'm taking you out to dinner. I understand you're not attached."

"How do you know that?"

"I just asked Mansfield and he told me."

"Oh."

"That's a truncated sentence for a journalist."

"Truncated?"

"Yes, don't you know what it means?"

"Of course I do, but somehow was surprised of your usage."

"Oh."

They laughed and Mansfield told Chase to follow him.

"I hadn't accepted the invitation."

"Oh, I think you have. Initially you looked at me as if I were someone from Outer Space but right now you are beginning to find me ever so slightly interesting and are curious to find out if there's more."

Pearson strode off, leaving Chase relieved that the car lot was quite dimly lit because of her face; was scarlet.

Chase wondered if the restaurant they were heading to would serve chilli beans topped by a foot-thick steak. They stopped just before restaurant row where a couple of parking spaces were vacant. In the distance she saw the neon sign, The Chuck House, and smiled thinking she'd better tone down her assumption.

Ye gods, big teeth in buckskin now wore a Stetson! She was appalled though had to admit he looked rather...er...interesting. She braced herself to walk down restaurant road at the sniggered stares that would come their way -- Mr Texas and his moll. Chase wondered why she'd chosen to wear her yellow dress that day -- the most conspicuous dress in her presently limited wardrobe, with its high font with shelf bra and cut-away back with cross over straps. It had slivers of bright red thought it so her shoes were bright red.

They certainly got curious looks, at least she did. The first couple that approached them, walking as if they were conjoined, smiled and called simultaneously, "Hi Pearson" and gave Chase a curious look.

Too roughies leaning against a bank building drinking beer watched them silently though nodding at Chase and then obviously mentally undressing Chase.

"Against local bylaws to drink liquor on the street, guys," smiled Chase's escort.

"Get fucked Pearson," one of them responded cheerfully.

Pearson made no effort to take her hand or to put his arm around her protectively. Passing cars tooted and Pearson waved.

Just before they reached The Chuck House Pearson paused and said, "Do you fancy French?"

Before Chase could answer a carload of hoons drove passed slowing, a rumble coming from the huge exhaust pipe. Pearson looked up, spotted who it was, and urged Chase to block her ears.

"Like the look of your fuck for tonight Pearson."

Chase grinned at Pearson and he looked relieved, a tad red in the face she thought.

"Sorry, I don't run this town," he said, in a real drawl.

Chase was hit by a fit of giggles, his arm went round her and he soothed, "There, there. Calm down."

"Could we go to The Chuck House instead?"

Pearson frowned, then sighed: "I've heard their steaks are the best in town."

It appeared that he was not a regular, as nobody seemed to know him.

As the waitress approach Pearson whispered, "I think it's customary to drink beer in places like this but perhaps they do have some wine under the bar top."

"A light beer, please," Chase ordered confidently.

"A pony or a mare?"

"The biggest glass you've got."

The waitress looked doubtfully at Chase and then at Pearson, who simply shrugged. "I'll have the same, but regular."

The beers came, and Chase gasped, to the amusement of her escort.

"These are huge," Chase said, wiping away her froth moustache with the back of her hand like guys do in Westerns. The back of her hand was now wet and she did not know the next move.

"Wipe it on the bum of your Levis."

"I'm not wearing jeans," Chase whispered back.

Pearson winked and handed her his paper napkin.

"These glasses hold approximately one and a half pints -- just as well you ordered light alcohol beer."

"Oh damn, I meant low calorie beer."

"Sorry, but they don't cater for wimps in these places," Pearson said with a huge smile.

Chase decided she was beginning to like this man.

Almost ninety minutes later they left the saloon...er...restaurant.

"Are you sure you are fit to drive," he asked when they arrived back at the car, still not touching but brushing each other because they walked so closely, chatting and laughing.

"Yes, are you?"

"Yes, I think so. It's a twenty-two mile drive."

"Would you like to sleep it off at my place."

"Yes." But he made no move.

"Well?"

"But I won't, not until I'm sure you like me."

"But I dooo!" wailed Chase to the clouded sky.

"That's the alcohol talking. I'd want you to wake up in the morning still liking me."

"But...but..."

Chase said, "Let's see, at lunch you probably scoffed half a bottle of red wine, at the Mayor's Office you had three whiskies and at The Chuck House you drank two huge glasses of beer."

"But that was only light alcohol beer."

"Conceded, but the whiskies are man-sized large and powerful."

"Oh stuff."

Chase sighed: "I haven't had the company of a male for almost a month."

"Really? You ought to try a bit harder, then."

Pearson kissed her cheek, pushed her into her car and then disappeared into his vehicle He tooted and waved as he did u-turn and drove off.

Chase sat beating the steering wheel and dry sobbing.

Homebound all Pearson could think about was Chase. He'd caught his breath like a kid at the window of a confectionary shop the moment he saw her photo in the newspaper. He'd searched four continents to find a woman who looked like that -- honest!

Well, perhaps he'd been looking for a local woman configured the way he'd have her drawn, and Chase was unbelievably close to that specification.

Pearson sighed; here he was thinking about a women being like a drawing rather that with the strongly beating heart, moist lips and...oh, the frustration he felt. It had been almost a month since he'd exercised the dog as they say. Who 'they' were he wasn't sure, but 'they' hit the nail on the head with that expression.

Christ, she'd be great in bed; he was sure of that.

"Come on Pearson -- this sexy thinking is getting you nowhere -- either turn around and go back and fuck or think of tomorrow's work."

Two men were due at his cattle yards at 6:00 in the morning to help weigh and grade the in-calf or hopefully all in-calf heifers that would be loaded and carted off to auction at the Merton Sale yards the next day. There were 397 of them.

Pearson suddenly was glad he'd not turned back to rumble Chase for nookie -- he'd no idea where she lived and it was too late to call anyone, being just after midnight. He thought of her in a light blue nightdress spread out on the white sheet illuminated with moonglow and...

There was an awful crack and crunching sounds and the Jeep was bucking like a horse.

In an instant Pearson realised what had happened -- he'd run off the road while just about to imagine lifting Chase's nightgown.

Pearson inspected the Jeep -- they were tough little buggers. He could see in dent in the steel where he'd sheared off the fence post and the fresh scratches made in the dull paintwork. No damage at all, really. The Old Girl was covered in wounds like this -- her body was original late 1950s.

Driving around the paddock, Pearson checked no stock were grazing that paddock or even squashed in a corner terrified at the late-night intrusion. He returned through the hole he'd made in the fence and up a very uneven and weed-infested incline and on to the road to get his bearings.

The bend in the road was instantly recognisable -- Mick Carson's Corner. Pearson had crashed through it a few years back when three of his old work mates had come up for the weekend to sink a few bottles and shoot a few ducks. On that particular night they'd gone into the city to a strip club and was rolling home gently, knowing they were all drunk including Pearson their driver. When hitting a rousing chorus of 'White Horse Inn' they had rolled straight off the road and were cheering like idiots as they slowly crashed into the fence post and continued on, scattering a paddock full of sheep.

On that occasion, not knowing what to do, they had parked the Jeep in the gap and tied the broken fence wires to it and went to sleep in the Jeep, confident that the morning would bring the solution. It did. There had been heavy rain two weeks earlier and the next paddock was virtually a pond, full of ducks. They roared over the Mick's, gave him two dozen of beer, borrowed a wire strainer, two shotguns and two boxes of cartridges. They returned an hour later with the fence repaired, a tally of sixteen ducks and had breakfast with Mick.

Resuming his lonely drive home Pearson decided he'd phone Mick in the morning to tell him about his mishap and go down that evening, fix the fence and take two dozens of beer over to the old bugger who'd probably invite him for a beer and Mick would probably invite him to stay on for a meal because he also lacked company. But instead he turned back and drove in to ask Mick for the wire-strainer and wire cutters.

The next morning Pearson woke a 5:00 feeling groggy; the explanation for that was he was still full of grog. Last night he and Mick had made a large hole in the two dozen!

The trucks would be arriving at 7:00 to take the heifers to the yards twenty-four miles away. That thought cheered him; he loved going to cattle sales and wondered if Chase would like to accompany him one day.

At that moment a light aircraft flew very low over the roof of his ranch house. It truly was a ranch house built from plans from the American mid-west in the 1960s. He rushed out and waved at the circling aircraft. As it passed over something was tossed out and floated down in his general direction.

Pearson rushed over and retrieved a canvas bag. Inside was a big piece of white canvas and written on it with a small paintbrush was a message:

"I REALLY like you. My place dinner Saturday night? Mary has address."

Pearson grinned. This lady had class: she knew a simple phone call might leave him still unconvinced, but if she did something stylish she knew he'd be suckered. Too damn right.

He jumped into the Jeep and headed for his own stockyards, as the heifers would have to be penned off their night paddock before those scary trucks arrived.

The joy of the moment suddenly dissipated: "Who the fuck's Mary?" Soon he was shouting the question, unsettling the huge mob of heifers a little but fortunately his dogs took no notice, they were used to Pearson sounding off.

Shutting the gate after the last heifer to go through, Pearson jammed his finger and saw red. He also saw an image of Mary. So he knew a Mary after all: Mary of the Mayor's Office!"

Pearson's father Jake, son of Americans who immigrated to New Zealand in 1919, went to war in 1940 along with his 19-year-old sister Irene. Sadly Irene was killing in London during a bombing raid while Jake the airman returned home without a scratch.

His widowed father, who'd grown wealthy running a leather business, wanted Jake to look after him in old age. Jake agreed providing his father purchased a farm, which he did, and the 18,000-acre property remained in the family. The Wild West depicted in movies symbolised America for Jake, who'd never been there, not even when going and returning home from war. That's why after his father's death and he inherited the farm he built the ranch house and married Ethel, a mail-order bride from Wyoming. They had two daughters and Pearson. 

Pearson's sisters both went overseas and married well, so Jake willed his entire estate to his son and died in mid-1999.

As he helped load heifers into the transporters, Pearson remembered his father fondly, a true cowboy who'd never been on the range. Pearson turned out to have some odd skills -- he was a self-taught artist, beginning to draw horses when he was five and at school art teachers developed his skills. His eye for colour was extraordinary and even as a fourteen-year-old would correct his mother's friends when they erred in describing the colour of flowers or coverings of cushions. No one figured out how that skill could be used.

Young Pearson was also musical, though unable to stick at learning to play any instrument. But he could remember tunes and was particular fond of ditties, remembered from his bedside radio when listening to advertisements.

No one really knew what Pearson was going to be when he grew up, not even Pearson though he didn't want to be a farmer -- at least not initially.

So Jake sent him down to an old mate in Wellington to see if he could find something that would interest the boy, now eighteen. Pearson amused the family with his ditties and one afternoon the fourteen-year-old daughter and Pearson where left alone in the house, with the daughter complaining she was bored.

When the parents returned home their excited looking daughter met them at the door crying, "Look what Pearson's done to me." Her father thought the worse while her mother hoped not, and they were gob-smacked. There on the entire height of a white dinning room wall was an almost perfectly executed drawing of their daughter, in a swimsuit.

"I wanted Pearson to do me nude, but he insisted I pose at least in my swimsuit," Wendy said proudly.

The neighbours were invited in to look, one of them took the father aside and next morning Pearson started work in an advertising agency as a junior concept artist. Three years later Pearson bought the agency and each year purchased another until he was one of the largest advertising agencies in the country. But not a happy boss as the pressures of running the business was wearing -- and two divorces were evidence of that.




Charmingly Ruthless



The night Jake died Pearson phoned and business rival in New York, who'd once made him an offer for his business. Forty-eight hours later the New Yorker was in Wellington and a week later everything had been settled, with Pearson agreeing to stay on for two months. When that commitment was completed Pearson knew it was time to take over from his manager and be a farmer.

Cleaning out his father's things, Pearson found his father's buckskin outfit he'd imported to wear to costume parties that were in vogue. The suit wouldn't fit, but he liked the feel so decided when he settled in he'd send off for one which he did, and these days wore it into the city as a bit of a joke, only to find that people there now expect this eccentric from the backcountry to wear buckskin.

In the few years Pearson had been back on the farm he'd never invited a woman on to the property, though local single and married women tended to find themselves welcome which suited him. He'd not gone looking because he didn't think he'd find the woman like he'd envisaged when drawing her. That thought jolted Pearson.

When the last transporter left he hurried indoors and in the storeroom sorted through old cartons until finding one marked: Portraits. He picked up the folder marked 'Non Family'. He hands were shaking slightly for he knew what he might find, and there it was, a pencil sketch dated October 1984. A doodle reworked into a proper practice drawing: it was Chase, unmistakably.

He didn't have to be told, his own mind was screaming at him: You idiot, this is a sketch of an adult drawn when Chase was only about 10 years old. Then again another part of his mind was telling him it was Chase as she looked today.

So which part of your mind do you believe?"

"It's Chase," said the unsmiling Pearson with apparent total conviction.

At the sale two inland farmers purchased Pearson's entire offering between them, but did not have it easy as competition was keen. Pearson Richard's XX-X yearlings were carefully selected by Pearson working with veterinary assistance and his trusted stock agent and reared into calf through artificial insemination and grazed on gently rolling hill-country of great heart, as they say.

Two hours after arriving home he took off in his light aircraft and flew to Wellington, catching a late flight to Sydney. He was back home just before dark next evening, mission completed. He'd fancied buying a present for Saturday night and the present that jumped to mind was something he'd noticed in a shop in Sydney almost two months ago. He hoped Chase would accept it -- perhaps she'd not be aware how valuable it was?

CHAPTER 5

On the day Pearson fly to Sydney, lawyer Harold Younger caught the early flight to Wellington as guest for the day of Lighthouse Insurance Pty Ltd. He was only required to be at the boardroom for a couple of hours -- what he did with the rest of the day was his choice.

Harold sat with a heavy heart thinking of the worst scenario -- Lighthouse wanting to pull out of its investment in the newspaper company. It would be an uphill battle to get a major cornerstone investor as a replacement because evening newspapers were a dying institution.

Ha! thought Harold. Here he was in a two-way stretch -- Lighthouse giving him big problems while the company struggled to make a profit while in the other direction their new hotshot editor was busily figuring out ways how to spend a fortune. Rumour was she wanted to fully computerise editorial. Damn the woman, the company was still paying down the loans of computerising production.

"Where's Eric?" Harold asked Fran, the PR woman escorting him to the guest chair in the boardroom.

"He's no longer with us, Mr Younger," she said softly, a useful piece of information. This was beginning to make sense: either there had been a palace coup or a partial takeover of Lighthouse with the parent company buying an even greater percentage of shares. With insurance companies these days it was difficult knowing who was who and who owned what.

"Mr Chairman -- your distinguished guest Mr Harold Younger."

"Hi, old chap," beamed Freddie Mills -- he and Harold had attended boarding school and then law school together.

"Greetings, Freddo. Your horses are doing well and Bragger looks good for the Cup."

"So you noticed, Squirmy. I thought you only noticed women's...er, sorry ladies. Well, let's resume. We'll get this little piece of house-keeping out of the way and then retire for refreshment and then lunch. Fran, would you kindly host Mr Younger for the remainder of the day and deliver him to the airport. Oh, someone of his status is entitled to use the amenities of our executive suite at the airport hotel."

After introducing Harold, Chairman Mills explained to the outside and executive directors and Harold what changes had been made to Lighthouse's investment policies and what the effects were.

Everything made sense to Harold. Obviously Lighthouse had gone through an exhaustive review process and the new policies appeared more robust and more appropriate to today's conditions.

Gradually Harold became more aware of the lovely woman sitting beside him. She looked straight out of a fashion magazine, though a little too plump to really be considered for that role. His attention was drawn because each time Freddo would forget where he was or struggle with a figure or hesitate on a phrase she would whisper assistance, and on Freddo would charge. The girl did this without any notes or computer in front of her. Amazing, where did corporates get these women?

The demise of Eric was noted and his replacement as deputy-chairman was a hard-eyed woman in her early 40s with the unglamorous name for a high-flyer of Ellen Smith who Harold was informed would be Eric's replacement on the Evening News board. As Lighthouse was entitled to change its representative at will, Harold gave Ellen sitting opposite a half bow and said, "Your presence in Walton on our board will be greeted with approval; your distinguished career has been noted by us."

Harold lied about that, he'd not even been aware that this woman was on the Lighthouse Board. He thought he heard Fran breath, "Good boy." How extraordinary!

Fran eased away from the table, almost gliding, opened and disappeared through the far door and reappeared less than thirty seconds later with a dark pin-stripe suited man at her side. Harold knew this was pure initiative, undoubtedly rehearsed, as he'd not heard Freddo pass an instruction or even offer a signalling cough. Or had he lightly ankle-tapped his cute PR lady?

Cute? Not for you, old boy. She'd no more than mid-twenties. Harold then focused on Mr Pin-Stripe; this had to be something to do with him.

"Harvey, please step forward so Mr Younger can take a good look at you. Thank you."

"Well, Harold. This is a bit bothersome to bring up but we have decided to stay with our investment in the Evening News but we wish to better protect our interests. So this board is asking that you accept a second director from us and documents between us be changed accordingly. That is the only change we seek."

Harold was deeply relieved that the investment of $7,800,000 was staying put. But why? He'd accept it without referral and engender goodwill in this boardroom.

"May I speak, Mr Chairman?"

"Of course, we didn't bring you down all this way just to listen Harold."

"Actually, Mr Chairman, what's I've heard today is very impressive and from my view has armed your directors with a more robust range of investment policies. I am indeed impressed to be invited to be privy to this confidential disclosure. Harvey -- you are welcomed to join our board. I shall sign the amended agreement papers for this entitlement before leaving today, providing the papers are ready."

"They are," he heard the whisper from Fran.

"Thank you, Harold, very nice sentiments and thank you for your readiness to cooperate. Everyone, let's imbibe."

After lunch Harold was in the lift with Fran.

"What should it be -- shopping or perhaps touring around or would you rather drop you off at a lady friend's or even a lady you don't yet know?"

That surprised Harold -- the woman speaking to him like that. Geeze, it was indelicate to say the least. He ought to chastise her, perhaps also make a complaint to management. 

Fran had her back to him, putting on lipstick, so he took the opportunity to scan her butt and backs of her legs. Very nice, and she wore seamed pantyhose or perhaps they were stockings.

He looked up straight into the mirror she was holding and saw she was looking at him, and not doubt watched him make the inspection.

"Er..."

"Yes Mr Younger?"

"Could we go somewhere to sit?"

"Certainly Mr Younger. I trust you will allow me flexibility?"

"By all means."

They left the lift at the first level of the basement and got into a back sedan with darkened windows.

"To the airport hotel where our facilities are please Rex."

"Yes ma'am," said the driver while Fran turned to Harold and said that he'd be more comfortable in the company's suite at he had another four hours before his flight left.

"There are two earlier flights, I could catch one of those."

"Yes you could."

It suddenly occurred to Harold that his old friend Freddo was giving him the top VIP treatment. Freddo would be very disappointed if he did not test the water.

"Perhaps I'll stay."

"Good boy."

There -- he heard that whisper, only just.

They entered the suite and Harold headed to one of the sofas, looking around at the opulence.

"Go take a shower, Harold and freshen up. That must have been a worrisome time for you in that boardroom, not knowing what was coming up to bite you."

"Quite, do you know why Lighthouse has retained its investment?"

"Your region was originally the home territorial of the Rural & Urban insurance company, now absorbed into Lighthouse. But even today there is a greater amount of money in Lighthouse from residents of your district than any other in the whole country, including cities. The investment analysts advised don't rock the boat -- that if we pulled out of the region's long-standing newspaper, causing it to fail, its residents would probably pull out of Lighthouse in great numbers and perhaps ignite of run of sympathisers throughout the country."

"Good God."

"Go have your shower Mr Chairman."

Harold had just got himself soaped up when Fran called, "May I join you?"

"Er..."

"Thank you Mr Chairman, allow me to do your back."

Harold knew without doubt that he was going to be pounded his way towards ecstasy within a little while unless he more to stop it. Did he want to stop it?

"Hell no!"

"Does that mean you wish me to stop, or to proceed Mr Chairman?"

"Just be tender with me, Fran," he leered, making her giggle.

He turned and looked at her sweet tits -- not big, but delightfully formed and sitting firmly against her body, nipples not yet erect.

In turn he saw her look down below his bulging belly and bite her bottom lip.

Soaping her breasts Harold soon had her nipples up and the breasts looked markedly larger. She grasped one on both sides and offered her nipple to him. He sucked, giving her a grateful smile.

"You're sweet Mr Chairman", she said, causing his rod to go from half-mast to stiff and it twanged into her midriff.

"Ooooh. What do we have here? Look, I've got a new toy to play with."

Harold groaned: "The bed."

"Yes, come." She giggled. "I mean come -- oh, you know what I mean. I've already turned the bed linen down."

Harold lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, waiting for her to turn on some soft music. She came on to the bed athletically and before he realised it, with surprising strength she'd flipped him on to his back and had pounced into a sixty-nine position.

Yet again, probably for the hundredth time, Harold wished he were lean like in his younger days, instead of carrying blubber around his midriff. This girl didn't seem to have a scrap of fat on her -- or yes she did, he grinned, looking at her very plump mons. She shaved, completely and looked in very good nick. 

Harold was aware that as she came on to the bed she scattered a handful of condoms over the bed and him. Either she was expecting four hours of solid stuff or was just making sure one would be readily on hand when the moment came.

Right now he could feel she had his dick pushed to the side and was licking his hairy balls. Why didn't Helen let him shave! These modern girls would prefer straight skin, wrinkles and all.

"I love hairy balls," Fran called, and Harold felt one of his testicles sucked into her mouth.

Ah, the enthusiasm of youth, he gloated. Helen was still a good fuck, a very good one actually, but she now found uncomfortable positions almost intolerable and no longer really approved of him trying to be athletic to generate a big more of heated friction. When he shot it over her she now grimaced, and he knew that one day, perhaps soon, would come the instruction, 'Please don't do that; I don't like it any more'.

What the devil; this was awful -- being screwed by a young woman while he was thinking of Helen. Where are you manners old chap?

His tongue pushed further into the slit and he was rewarded with a long moan. He thought's he'd go for this G-spot thing, and obviously Fran thought he should so because she pulled her head off his cock and gave him some instructions -- but without success.

"I'll go on my back and you'll get to it easier," she called. Harold rolled on to his side (a bit ponderously he thought) and felt her hand attempting to pull him back. He worked his finger around but seemed to be getting nowhere so he twisted his hand around and his finger sank in at a slightly different angle.

Fran squirmed and shouted "Yes", and they were in business, she taking his full length down her throat. 

Harold looked down, noticing she had quite a sizeable clit and the nub was proud of the hood, so he bent down and began licking that, ignoring her mid vagina altogether.

Soon she was bucking and calling "Yes, yes" and she began perspiring, far more than Harold, so he knew she was close as his cock only had fingers around it -- being practically abandoned.

He left the so-called G-spot with fingers almost cramped but ignored the possibility of cramping and put three fingers straight into her cunt and wiggled them about.

She screamed and his fingers were now sloshing about.

"Leave off Mr Chairman," she gasped.

Harold rolled off and stroked his tool to ensure it stayed interested.

"Well, Harold," she said. "Take a bow; that was a beauty."

After catching her breath Fran asked, "How do you want it Mr Chairman?"

"Long and slow, you on top."

"Oh Christ, you clever bugger," she laughed. "No wonder they call us women in business working women."

Fran rolled a condom on to him, and sat facing him and jiggled on to his cock until she got it all in.

"You must be proud of it," she said, smiling at him.

"What a sweet thing to say," he smiled, and to his surprise she blushed.

"Such a comment in these circumstances is very rare."

"Technically, are you a prostitute?"

"No, I never accept tips and I give my services voluntarily. I work very long hours so a girl needs some time off and needs to get filled occasionally, so this is how I do it.

"I never offer myself to VIPs of certain nationalities known for their disrespect of women."

"Good for you," advised Harold. "Look after your body as it's the only one you've got."

Harold was a little disappointed with the black of friction, suspecting that Fran was rather wide in the vagina. He chose not to say anything, instead concentrating on rolling her nipples and occasionally bending forward to lick her breasts. This activity seemed to be doing something for him. 

"Changing at Waterloo Station," she called, and Harold wondered what that was about.

Fran simply spun herself around, now with her back to him, re-inserted and began rocking and jiggling again -- this time the friction had improved.

"Like a little bit more friction?"

"Yes," replied Harold. "Give it to me, Fran."

She leaned right forward and for a second Harold though he was going to lose the head of his cock. It was mighty and the juices were now flowing from her.

"Hands on my tits, Harold."

He obliged and they felt as tight as a drum and the nipples really at attention. She appeared to be getting herself away with this one. Frank's body shook and she moaned.

Harold clamped his hands into her tits, feeling the flesh give way to her pressure. That seemed to make Fran bend over further and her could hear the squelching and so probably could the entire hotel.

Really hotting up Harold ran a finger around just below her vulva and Fran screamed and clamped a hand hard on to his nuts. 

Harold yelled something unintelligible and began filling the condom head. 

Fran jumped up and fell back on to him. Ripping off the condom she then began spraying cum over her tits, urging him to pump more and more until he emptied himself.

"Empty," he called, panting heavily.

"Really darling?"

It was the first time she'd used an endearment, as obviously this was a business fuck.

She squeezed his balls and then scraped a fingernail along his penis. He yelled; stream of cum went all over Fran's face, followed by two small ones that went nowhere.

"Now that's what I call empty Harold."

They cuddled and talked until it was time to shower and for Harold to go.

Inside the terminal as he turned to kiss and thank Fran, she reached up, pulled his head down and gave him a long, very long kiss -- almost a lover's kiss.

"I bet you don't give that to everyone," Harold choked.

"Good-bye, Mr Chairman," was all he said.

She looked every so small and lonely standing there, but Harold walked away feeling very happy.

On the homeward flight Harold hit by remorse, as he knew he would. Here he was returning to his wife -- presumably a faithful wife preparing his meal they'd eat late. Helen would be almost excited to have him arrive and would want to be hugged and kissed.

Well, what did he really think about his infidelity?

You're a creep, Harold Younger. You ought to have your dick chopped off and hung out to dry.

Yes, quite.

The frustrating thing about all this is that he enjoyed having the occasional break-out; always they were with younger women.

Darling, how would you like it if I played around like that? The replication of that probable question he anticipated Helen would ask always cut through to the heart.

Harold put himself on the line: "I do it because I'm a heartless, selfish bastard with a deep sense of mortality who wants to just get one more off, preferably with a younger woman, before I die or even earlier, before I lose the interest for ever more."

That last thought scared Harold and although he wanted it to never happen, he grieved because it would come as an inevitably as an executioner's axe.

Executioner's axe? Christ man, don't put the boot in any further than necessary. And tell the truth -- you take the occasional younger women because it not only activates your nuts but it caresses your ego, knowing you've found someone who likes or respects you enough to present her innermost treasure for you to enjoy; the greatest gift she can give you apart from a body part for a transplant.

Harold bowed his head.

"A sweet sir? We are beginning out descent," smiled the cabin attendant. 

Harold caught a whiff of her perfume and noticed the swell under her tunic. She was young, and ripe for the plucking with her consent perhaps. 

His mind switched back to the hotel, with Fran resting in his arms and talking.

She'd warned him to watch out for Ellen Smith, a boardroom tiger shark. She'd be after his position as chairman and already had one vote in her bra -- that of Harvey 'Yes ma'am' Ross, the new director.