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   Chapter 47 No.47

Sheryl's Last Stand By Kerrie Noor Characters: 5265

Updated: 2018-02-07 12:01


'Well, it's not in my blood now, wrestling's gone mad and I want out!

'I've a few years yet, ' muttered Beatrice, 'before I get kicked off to some old folks home.'

Sheryl was about to say something; about to find out which old folks home Beatrice was talking about when Johnston walked into the room, and the crowds parted. He had a presence and he was big, with the sort of smile that paid for his dentist's yearly holiday in the Bahamas. He wore black leather trousers and a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned to the waist, showing of the sort of sculptured chest Sheryl would never tire of licking. She watched his beautiful brown body walk towards her, and she forgot all about the Crickey brothers.

Mad Brady and Frank, however, looked surprised.

'Where's the other half?' whispered Frank.

'She's miffed bout the panda, says it stole Johnston's thunder. She's been giving anyone who will listen an earful.' Mad Brady nodded towards Harry. 'Especially him.'

'Water off a duck's back, huh!'

Sheryl watched Johnston cut through the crowd. He looked better than she remembered, leaner, darker and, God, so smooth. She sucked her stomach in harder and cursed the fact that there was no vodka in her coke. For six months, she had privately drooled over Johnston, while all he knew about her was her crap choice of knickers. What the hell was she going to say to him?

'Over here, ' waved Mad Brady.

Sheryl's heart pounded as Johnston got closer. She tried to look cool and relaxed.

'Thanks, ' said Johnston, holding out a hand the size of a dinner plate, 'for

ll Karin, ' Finley finally said, with an 'I've seen everything look'. 'Serve yourself over there.'

****

Just as Conway was making his debut as Karin in the lounge bar, Martin was walking into the Columbia Hotel with Chubby, his little Haystack, and most of the women from the gallery, fuelled by expensive champagne, and rich chocolates. Women who, up till now, thought that certain things in life were gone forever, certain things that thanks to Rodger's paintings were now stirring in their loins.

Martin had plans for a quiet entrance; he had pictured an evening of quiet praise and reassurance to Nefertiti from him, and maybe a few of the women. But the women felt differently.

They wanted to meet the artist. They wanted to get his autograph and touch the hand of the man who painted what was, up to now, a mystery. They wanted to meet Nefertiti, the inspiration, the muse, the woman who dared, and they wanted to chant the Flower of Scotland as loud as possible. But as Martin had explained, they would probably be asked to leave.

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