The Tides of Change Read online

  ‘Of course.’

  She watched him press them up above his head. When he’d done his sets, she lifted them out of his hands without giving him any praise. She could tell he was showing off. She’d met men like him in the gym back home all the time: suddenly she was on familiar turf.

  ‘Now I want you to do twenty rows with the dumbbells like this.’ She half knelt on the leather bench, one knee and one hand on it, keeping her other arm straight by her side. Then she bent up her elbow and brought up the dumbbell to waist height.

  She looked up suddenly. Alex was staring straight at her bum, as Prince continued singing about twenty-three positions in a one-night stand.

  Oh my God, she thought. Did Alex find her attractive?

  Forget it, she told herself. Alex could have any woman in the whole world. Why on earth would he be interested in her? Cinderella stories were for kids. She’d bet her life that this Prince Charming had already been bagged by someone else. Someone richer. Prettier. Better connected than she’d ever be.

  Still, she felt gratified when he blushed and looked away. Boy, would she like to be proved wrong.

  ‘On you get,’ she said, making way for him on the bench. ‘I think you need bigger weights. You can take them.’

  He was hurting. She could tell he was. She made him do two sets of twenty.

  ‘Now, I want you to do ten press-ups.’

  ‘No problem,’ Alex replied, dropping to the mat.

  She could see his arms shaking.

  ‘Those were easy,’ she said, knowing they hadn’t been. She joined him on the mat. ‘So now I want you to add in an extension. A press up,’ she said, demonstrating one, ‘the pivot to the side, so that you’re just on one arm and put your other arm up like this, so you’re like a star on the side.’

  It took strength and agility. Alex looked less sure of himself. After four he was flagging. At six he lost his balance.

  He collapsed back on the mat, exhausted. His whole face spasmed. Oh shit, she thought. She’d pushed him too far.

  But then she realized that he wasn’t angry. He was laughing.

  ‘OK, OK, I give up. You’ve broken me,’ he admitted.

  She put out her hand to help him up. ‘That’s just for starters,’ she said. ‘Time for those abs.’

  He was standing now, his body close to hers, and their hands were clasped, as if they were about to dance. She couldn’t help herself breathing in his aroma. She watched a trickle of sweat dripping down the dip in his neck, and, quite suddenly, an image of her licking it away flashed into her head.

  She stepped quickly back from him, tripping over the large Pilates ball.

  ‘So how come you know all this stuff?’ Alex asked. If he was aware of the way she felt, he wasn’t letting it show.

  ‘I’ve always been interested in keeping in shape. I did the training a while ago. It just came in handy for the stewardess’s job.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘There’s always a before,’ Alex said, looking into her eyes. ‘The before that makes you so different to those other stewardesses,’ he continued.

  She swallowed hard, blushing at his compliment. ‘It’s a long story.’

  But her desire to tell him everything was very strong. He seemed so easy to talk to. As if he were a friend, not the big boss. But he was the big boss. He owned this whole yacht, she reminded herself, and God knows what else besides. How absurd to even think that she and Alex could be friends. It was just a fantasy – yet she had to use all her concentration to get through the sets of abdominal exercises she’d planned for him.

  Then his phone rang. And kept ringing.

  ‘Shouldn’t you get that?’ she asked.

  ‘It can wait,’ he said. ‘This is our time.’

  Our time. Frankie liked the sound of that. And the fact that he was willing to ignore a potentially important call for her.

  The remainder of their session flew by, Frankie joining in with his last session of cardio on the bike. They ended up sitting panting side by side on the bench in front of the mirror.

  ‘Well done,’ Frankie said, smiling at him. ‘Let me stretch you out.’

  She stood behind him, still facing him in the mirror. Gently, she took Alex’s arm and put his elbow up by his ear and stretched his arm down his back. He groaned with pleasure.

  ‘I feel really different from how I do after a session with Eugene,’ Alex said, his eyes connecting with hers in the mirror.

  ‘Eugene is pretty beefy, but that doesn’t mean he’s so strong. I’d bet you any money he couldn’t do the workout you’ve just done.’

  ‘Is it attractive, all that muscle?’ Alex asked.

  She was surprised he’d asked her such a personal question.

  ‘I’m sure it is to you. You wouldn’t want a wimp for a bodyguard. But from a girl’s point of view – if that’s what you mean – I think he looks ridiculous.’

  ‘So what’s your type?’

  You. You. You are my type. She stretched out his other arm, looking at the pattern of freckles on his shoulder.

  ‘I haven’t really got one. I suppose I’ll find out when—’ She stopped. She hadn’t meant to say so much.

  ‘When . . . ?’ he probed.

  ‘When I fall in love . . . I guess.’

  ‘You’ve never been in love?’ Alex asked. He sounded surprised.

  ‘Not really. Not properly. I mean I’ve had a few long-term relationships, but I guess I’ve always felt there was something more waiting for me. And so I never really committed. I always let work get in the way.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Alex said. ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘I suppose I’m holding out for the feeling of knowing that spending the rest of my life without that person would be inconceivable. That’s how I hope it feels, anyway.’

  Why was she telling him this? She never discussed her love life with anyone. Why was she discussing it with Alex Rodokov, of all people?

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Have you . . . you know, ever been in love? Properly like that?’ It was out before she’d even thought how intrusive it might sound.

  Alex looked bashful. ‘No, actually, I haven’t.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business,’ she said, moving away from him. Suddenly, talking like this and touching him seemed too intimate. And the session was over.

  But Alex didn’t move.

  ‘What?’ he asked, searching out her eyes in the mirror. ‘You seem surprised?’

  ‘I am. I mean . . . I can’t believe you’ve never . . . I don’t know. I would have thought you’d have . . .’ Her voice trailed off to nothing. What could she say?

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t women fall over themselves when they see all this?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, wiping his face with a fresh towel. ‘That’s just the problem. I don’t want someone who wants all this.’

  She shook her head, confused. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ Alex said, turning to her. ‘In fact, I’m not quite sure why I am.’

  ‘Go on,’ Frankie said, staring into his eyes. Then she flicked her eyes to the surveillance camera. ‘I mean, this is private, right?’ she reminded him.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ He paused and glanced up at her, obviously deciding to trust her. ‘I have this yacht for business. Yuri – he’s my boss – well, he wanted this yacht for himself, until he found out that one of his rivals has a larger one. So he gave it to me and is building himself a new one that’s even bigger.’

  ‘Bigger than this?’

  Alex smiled. ‘A lot bigger. With a submarine.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘But if I didn’t write the money off on this, I’d just be giving the money straight to the taxman. And besides, it’s great for entertaining. Everyone else seems to be impressed by it.’

  ‘But you’re not?’

  ‘It’s just so fus
sy. I feel on show the whole time. It’s all very well, but I’d prefer to do my own cooking. But you mustn’t ever tell anyone,’ he said, with a grin. ‘Especially not Chantelle.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  He shook his head, his brow still glistening with beads of sweat. ‘No. I’ve got this riad near Marrakech. That’s much more my scene. A local woman comes in once a day and leaves me fresh ingredients. Then I can get on with it myself.’

  ‘It sounds heavenly.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll take you there, one time.’

  He seemed suddenly embarrassed, looking away. They both knew such an offer was preposterous. But Frankie’s heart still thumped hard against her chest. She bit down on her lip as the silence between them lengthened.

  She couldn’t look at him. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she did. One look might give her away. One look might acknowledge the insane sexual tension between them. And the fact that they’d just got way too intimate.

  ‘I should . . .’ he said, looking at his watch.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, jumping up and taking her cue. ‘Yes, I should . . . you know . . . get along too.’ She cleared her throat, focusing on sounding professional once more. ‘That was a really good session. You should be proud of yourself. You did great.’

  ‘Can we do the same again sometime?’

  ‘Of course. Whatever you want.’

  Alex nodded. ‘What I actually want right now is for someone to fix my damn email, but I guess you can’t help me with that?’

  Frankie smiled bashfully, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘Well, it’s funny you should mention that, but yes, maybe I can . . .’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Peaches liked the cool, calm atmosphere of Ross Heartwood’s consulting rooms. Well, she should. She’d helped find it for him, with its exclusive location in Beverly Hills, its tinted windows and discreetly covered parking lot filled with Ferraris and Porsches. The amount of times Peaches had put people in touch with the right properties . . . she sometimes wondered whether she’d have been better off with a career in real estate.

  As she pushed through the door into the waiting room, several women looked up at her, then returned to their magazines. No one spoke. No one ever did. There was a tacit agreement that they were all in Ross Heartwood’s secret club.

  ‘Ciao, honey,’ Peaches said, ending the call with Marina, one of her best girls, who was in Miami on a glamour shoot, and had agreed to go to the casino later for a date with an Arab sheikh who was one of Peaches’ most generous customers.

  Peaches slotted the phone in her purse and took a discreet look around the other women waiting for Ross. But, as usual, it was impossible to tell what they were here for. Unlike other plastic surgeons, Ross had made his reputation by ensuring that every piece of cosmetic work he did was invisible. No ballooning, hard-ridged breasts had ever left his operating table, or any of the wide-eyed masks from the facelift brigade.

  The women who came here were mainly actresses of a certain age, who claimed in magazine articles and on chat-show couches never to have had surgery. And they got away with it. Because, of course, they didn’t look remotely ‘done’ and never would. Ross didn’t believe in making people look as if they’d been locked into suspended animation in their teens. No, Ross’s philosophy was to make a woman look the best she possibly could – for the age she was. He was a modern miracle-maker.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he told Peaches now, coming out of his consulting room, the heavy maple door swishing shut behind him over the thick lilac carpet.

  Ross Heartwood was possibly one of the most beautiful men Peaches’d ever seen. And she’d seen plenty. But Ross had an aura of charisma about him too, a magnetism which drew people towards him. And from the way the women in the waiting room almost audibly swooned, it wasn’t just her who thought so.

  Today he was wearing cream pants with tan handmade Italian shoes and a light blue silk shirt opened a button more than anyone else would wear it, revealing a ruffle of curly dark blond hair on his tanned chest.

  He wasn’t good-looking in the traditional model sense, but there was something of the twenties matinée idol about him: his carelessly coiffed forelock and easy rugged smile, boyish and yet mature too. It was the kind of smile that made teenage girls book in tit jobs, even before they had tits, so that they could claim they’d stripped off in front of him. And the kind of smile that caused old women to wear their finest jewellery and have their hair done before they kept their appointments, just as if they were going out on a date.

  The mere sight of him cheered up Peaches instantly.

  ‘Hey, yourself,’ she said, taking his perfect hands in her own and kissing him on both cheeks. He smelt of Hermès cologne, Peaches thought approvingly. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Ross.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he said. ‘Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I shan’t be long,’ he added, his voice loaded with innuendo as he held Peaches’ hand and led her towards his consulting room. Peaches felt the looks of jealousy like darts in her back, but these women would wait a year for a moment of Ross’s attention.

  Once inside the air-conditioned consulting room, Ross winked at her, breaking the familiar flirting routine that happened every time they met. For the first time since Ron Wallace’s call yesterday, Peaches felt normal.

  She threw her purse on the designer couch beneath the Francis Bacon sketch – a real one, so Ross claimed – and breathed in the heady scent from the huge arrangement of pale yellow English roses.

  Ross was a true anglophile, right down to his accent, which was more Yale than LA. He kept a mews house in Chelsea, London, and went there every other month. Peaches noticed that he had the miniature Paul Smith black cab she’d given him as a kitsch Christmas present on his desk.

  ‘Was that who I thought it was going into the parking lot?’ Peaches asked, glancing through the tinted window at the hot LA day outside.

  Ross put his hands in his pockets and sat on the front edge of his desk, bowing his head modestly. ‘If I say so myself, her nose is my finest hour. It’s certainly got her the big lead in Spielberg’s next movie. I told her I should get a cut of her fee.’

  Peaches turned to face Ross. ‘You should.’ She twisted her lips and paused for a moment. ‘Now then, what’s all this I hear about you moving to New York?’

  Ross’s eyebrows shot upwards in amusement. He rubbed the side of his face. She knew that he was surprised that she knew, but Peaches was like a bloodhound when it came to rumours. Whenever she sniffed one out she pounced on it. This particular one had come from Billy Grant, the real-estate mogul, who’d told one of Peaches’ girls that Ross had had his mansion valued last week. But Billy Grant had a reputation for spreading bits of gossip about people moving in order to push prices up and stimulate sales.

  ‘Well?’ Peaches demanded. ‘Is it true?’

  He smiled at her. ‘Maybe I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘Well, you can’t go,’ she said, disappointed and shocked. She hadn’t expected the rumour to be true. ‘I’m not letting you. Absolutely no way.’

  ‘Oh Peaches,’ he said, smiling. ‘You’re so sweet. But it’s not a big deal, really.’

  ‘Of course it’s a big deal, Ross. Why would you ever consider moving? Your life is here.’

  Ross shrugged. ‘I just fancy a change. That’s all. You can visit.’

  She gasped. Not having Ross on hand would be terrible. Awful. Surely he couldn’t honestly be considering leaving her? ‘Are you up to something?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll be the first to know if I am,’ he said. ‘But anyway, it’s only a thought. One of several options I’m thinking about. Or I might do nothing at all. So there’s really no point in you getting upset.’

  ‘But—’

  Ross put up his hand to close the subject. Then he smiled at her and she knew she had to back off. Ross would tell her what was going on in his own good time. ‘Now don’t tell me you came here to discuss me.’ She knew him w
ell enough to know that he was scanning her features. ‘Because I have to tell you, honey-bun, you don’t need anything. Not after all that work we did last time. I think it‘s holding up fantastically well,’ he continued. ‘You’re as lovely as ever.’

  ‘It’s not my face,’ Peaches said, feeling flattered. ‘It’s just . . .’ She decided to come straight to the point. ‘I’ve got this scar on my back. It’s bothering me, Ross. I want you to fix it.’

  ‘OK, let’s take a look.’

  He nodded to the familiar leather couch and Peaches walked over to it, unbuttoning her sheer silk blouse. Ross turned to her as she unfastened her bra and held it against her breasts. His face was totally professional as he approached her.

  ‘Here,’ she said, turning her shoulder towards him. ‘Just beneath my shoulder blade.’

  Ross touched it, his fingers tender. This time Peaches didn’t flinch.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘I mean, can you tell what caused it?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say. It’s certainly not a birth mark.’ She felt Ross leaning in closer.

  ‘You don’t remember having any accidents do you?’

  ‘Accidents?’

  ‘It looks like old scar tissue from a burn. The skin here is very damaged.’

  Peaches felt a shiver run through her. She searched again for the distant memory. If she’d been burnt, that might explain the feeling of fear.

  ‘But it must be from a long time ago,’ Ross continued. He straightened up in front of her. ‘What’s all this about? You’ve never been bothered by this before. Don’t tell me you’ve only just noticed it?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not. It’s always been there.’

  Peaches looked away. Ross was her best friend and she wanted to tell him about the strange snippet of memory the scar provoked, but something held her back.

  She’d sound like a crank if she told him about the weird Russian connection she felt the sickle-shaped scar had. It was a feeling that had only increased after the shocking conversation she’d had with Ron Wallace yesterday. He’d told her that he represented an imprisoned Russian gangster – what was his name? Mikhail Gorsky, that was it. This Gorsky character had made Wallace track Peaches down and instructed Wallace to get her to come to Texas so that he could give her some vital information. Information about her past. Information that would affect her future. According to Wallace, Peaches had to come straight away, as Gorsky was about to be extradited back to Russia.