Then the endgame. Still lying on her back, and keeping her knees close to her chest, she rolled the tights down past her calves to her ankles and along her feet until they covered only her toes, which pointed seductively at Bruce above the eye magnet of her knickercovered bottom. One final push on the tights and they fell down past her backside and lay crumpled on the carpet beneath the black triangle. In the same movement her long white legs shot upwards until they pointed straight and true towards the ceiling. Still lying on her back Brook gently parted her legs to make a glorious upright V through which, by raising her head, she could see Bruce.

She smiled, lowered her legs and, picking up the tights, got to her feet. Her toes clenched at the luxury of the carpet. She took a step towards Bruce and dropped the stillwarm hose into his lap.

‘So?’

Bruce did his best to say something cool and classy. ‘So I hope you don’t expect me to be that good with my socks.’

It was certainly better than might have been expected on the basis of his previous form.

Bruce drew Brooke towards him on to the couch and they drifted into an embrace. Within moments all the pentup sexual tension of the evening seemed to explode. Their mouths writhed against each other. Cool seduction was replaced by hot, lustful passion.

Then Brooke broke away. ‘Let me get some protection.’

She reached down to her handbag and for a moment Bruce imagined himself in love. What a woman! He had just been wondering, himself, how to bring up the subject of protection, and here she was, all ready and prepared, doing it for him.

However, when her hand emerged from the chic little bag it was holding not a packet of condoms but a small hand gun.

Chapter Fifteen

‘Touch me again you bastard, I swear I’ll kill you.’

Bruce leapt away from Brooke as if she had pulled the trigger and it was a bullet rather than sheer shock that thrust him backwards against the arm of the couch.

She glared at him, he glared at the barrel of her gun. What the hell was going on? Had he transgressed some new presex rule? Was he guilty of attempted date rape? He had heard of such things of course, horror stories of college boys who had attempted to follow a goodnight kiss with a hand up the jumper and the next morning had found themselves the subject of a poster hate campaign all over campus. But come on. The woman had just removed her pantyhose in front of him. That had to be an invitation, hadn’t it? Maybe not. Oh Christ, maybe not. If a woman hoicks up her dress and flashes her knickers at you, does it mean ‘yes’ or ‘perhaps’ or even ‘no’? Should he have waited for a formal invitation? Should he have asked her to state her sexual requirements, if any, clearly and concisely? Should he have got it in writing?

‘Listen, Brooke… please, I’m sorry, but… but… what’s going on?’

‘You think just because I’m a model I’m some kind of whore?’

‘No! My God no! Of course I don’t. I… I… Look, if I’ve misunderstood the situation I’m very sorry. But really… I mean… I thought-’

‘I know what you thought, prickforbrains!’ Brooke’s trigger knuckle whitened. ‘You looked at me and you saw sex, right? From the first fucking second we met I’ve been just a piece of meat as far as you’re concerned. Well, you’re going to pay, you bastard.’

She was mad, Bruce knew that. Not just angry or hysterical, not just perversely politicized in an aggressive and unpredictable manner, but stark raving tonto. Unbalanced like the global economy was unbalanced, or a seesaw competition between a mouse and an overweight elephant. She must be mad. It was the only explanation. Their whole evening had been one of mutual compliance, Bruce knew there was no way he could be accused of forcing the issue. He hadn’t got her drunk or used his superior body weight to coerce her or done any of the other things that were apparently unacceptable to do to a woman unless you were a lesbian. No, this woman was crackers. A mad bitch of the ‘seduction is just rape with champagne and chocolates’ variety. But what do you do when a lunatic is pointing a gun at you? What do you say?

‘Please, Brooke, please, this is not necessary.’

He was trying to turn his eyes into limpid pools of calm and compassion. It didn’t seem to be working.

‘Kiss my fucking feet, muthfukka!’ she shouted. Screamed, in fact. Her voice cracked with forced volume so that the ‘fucker’ ended up a rasping squeak – which in no way diminished its furious power.

Kiss her feet? Bruce had to concentrate. Of course he must kiss her feet immediately, but how did she want them kissed? Hard? Soft? Should he take one gently in his hand and turn his lips into tiny butterflies fluttering all over them from toe to ankle? Should he prostrate himself before her and suck her toes like a hungry animal at its mother’s teat? If he let his tongue explore between the digits, would that make her melt and lower the gun or would it add flames to her fury and cause her to lose what was left of her fragile selfcontrol?

‘I said kiss my fucking feet!’ Brooke demanded again.

Bruce dropped to his knees without any particular plan of approach in mind and nuzzled vaguely at her toes.

‘I said kiss ‘em, not wipe your nose on them,’ she barked.

He attempted to raise his game. He kissed her big toe, then her little toe, then he kissed them all in a row, one by one. What next? Back again? He kissed back down the row. Then maybe repeat the whole process on the other foot? He did that. Then he did the whole thing again.

That was it. He had kissed her toes. He was at a loss how to proceed. ‘Would you like me to lick them?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Don’t make me puke.’

Bruce’s neck was beginning to ache. He went through his kissing routine again but after that he did nothing. What could he do? He listened to Brooke’s breathing, trying to get a clue to her mood. Was it getting calmer? Could she be reasoned with? Could he somehow win her confidence, her trust, ingratiate himself? He had to be very calm and kind. Flattering even.

‘What do you want, you mad fucking bitch?’

It wasn’t meant to come out that way. Fear had blocked up his brain. He cringed on the floor, waiting for the punishment which must be his.

‘Are you scared?’ he heard her say.

What a question. ‘Yes, I’m scared.’

‘How scared?’

‘Very’ – pause – ‘fucking’ – pause – ‘scared.’

‘Good’ was all she replied.

Bruce’s neck was really aching now. ‘Look, Brooke, please tell me what you want.’

Brooke removed her foot from under Bruce’s lips. He could sense her kneeling down in front of him. Her hand appeared under his chin and gently brought his head up until he could look her in the eye again. What now?

‘I… want’ – her eye was steady but he could feel her hand shaking under his chin – ‘a… a part in your next movie.’

It took a moment to sink in. It wasn’t until he took an extreme closeup on the nervous look in her eyes that he started to believe it.

‘Put away your gun,’ he said, by way of a tester.

Brooke put her gun back into her handbag. It was obvious that she really was nervous now: her hand was shaking.

Bruce was nearly speechless. Not quite, however. ‘You mad, crazy fucking bitch!’ he shouted.

It was Brooke’s turn to be scared. Bruce’s fury was only just beginning, but clearly when it erupted fully it would be mighty indeed. She had to talk fast.

‘Your pictures make people horny and scared. What did I just do to you? Come on, be honest. I did it all in half an hour, first horny, then scared.’

‘Pamela Anderson makes me horny, Pat Buchanan makes me scared. I’m not going to put either of them in my movie.’ Bruce couldn’t believe he was even bothering to debate with this outrageous woman. ‘You made me kiss your feet! At gunpoint! I ought to call the cops!’