Sin Tropez Read Online Free PDF Page A

ponds of school and even university, but this was a different league altogether. These girls were supermodel standard. Moreover, observed Abena, one or two of them actually were bona-fide supermodels. She watched a six-foot Slavic blonde she recognized from the pages of Vogue wait in a shimmering black Ferrari with alligator-skin seats until its driver
had raced around to her side and opened the door for her. Nervous excitement and exhilaration swelled in the pit of her stomach. She looked at Tara again, wanting her to share in her thrill but her
face was set in a rigid expression Abena knew all too well.
    Nobody liked being outshone or made to feel insignificant, but Abena knew that unless she could shake Tara out of this mood, she’d be haughty, rude and unsociable to cover her insecurity.
Or worse, she’d make a beeline for the nearest narcotic and get absolutely off her head, leaving her vulnerable to the wolfish men who were surveying the women appreciatively.
    These men were themselves outdone by some even more predatory females, who matched their looks fiercely, eating them greedily with hungry eyes framed by painstakingly threaded arched eyebrows,
some concealed under big dark glasses. Their figures were gym honed and Atkins dieted to an alien-like perfection. Clothes were smart-casual but perilously body conscious and very, very expensive.
Abena noticed lots of cashmere that didn’t really know what to do with itself. There was a sweater vying for attention but it couldn’t possibly be worn because, well, why cover up such
a generous bosom? So instead it was draped over a pair of lean shoulders clad in a skimpy, low-cut, crocheted white vest top. The cashmere sweater offender was a smiley brunette and was also in
tight white jeans, a Fendi belt and high-heeled Jimmy Choo sandals. She was apparently called Tatiana and had a gorgeous face. Her eyes were wonderful and shockingly bright, and her blow-dry was so
voluminous that her hair was big and silky, almost reaching the small of her back. It was ever so seductive, the perfect digestif to wash down an immense visual feast.
    ‘She’s just got too much of everything hasn’t she?’ Abena quipped. ‘It’s like God got a bit sleepy creating her and forgot that he’d already done her
boobs and eyes and hair and ended up giving her a double portion of it all. Do you think the breasts are natural?’
    Tara snorted. ‘She looks like she’s just stepped out of a budget issue of Nuts magazine. And tight white on tight white? That combination should be made illegal outside of
Essex. Sweater on shoulders? Should be banned full stop.’
    ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you pulling a white on white before – I certainly have, not to mention double denim, a sequin catsuit and loads of leopardskin.’
    ‘Yeah, but hon, when we do it, we do it with integrity, you know, fashion integrity … aware of the context and the surrounds in which we’re inflicting a certain look on the
world.’ Tara broke off with a grin when she realized how ridiculous she sounded. ‘But OK, OK, the girl she’s talking to, even I can’t deny that she is truly
breathtaking – but then you can tell she’s a complete bitch.’
    ‘Takes one to know one it seems.’ Abena tickled Tara’s bare underarm and was pleased to see her crack another smile then give a throaty laugh before scrabbling in her bag and
adding a shiny slick of lip gloss. Good. Tara was back in the game.
    As Abena and Tara gossiped, Natalya made half-hearted small talk with Tatiana but she wasn’t really listening. She ran her eyes across the selection of men. Who would be her oligarch? Sure
as hell not the one in the pale blue silk shirt, currently undressing her with his eyes. Despite his mahogany tan – a useful factor in calculating a man’s net worth – he had only
undone two of the top buttons on his shirt, not the three that would indicate he was a true member of the exclusive club known as the