Hilton’s novel about a woman with exotic sexual appetites and a penchant for murdering those who cross her mixes blood and sex the way a bartender slaps together martinis.
Judith Rashleigh works as an assistant in a large London art house known as British Pictures. While toiling under the repugnant Rupert, she finds occasional employment working in a club where gentlemen of wealth spend the evening in the company of a beautiful woman. No sex is involved, but it wouldn’t bother Judith if it was: she has the sexual appetite of a 16-year-old boy and is open to any and all partners. While having detailed coitus with almost everyone she meets, Judith stumbles on a nefarious scheme to defraud a hapless art buyer with Rupert behind the wheel. At first she’s not aware that it’s Rupert’s swindle and tries to expose it, which earns her a pink slip. She and another woman at the club accompany one of her regulars, an enormously fat married man named James, to France, where they slip some drugs into his drink so they can party, and, before they know it, James is dead. For Judith, that’s when the fun begins. Hilton’s character spends the bulk of the book killing people—sometimes viciously; having minutely described sex, often with total strangers and with an emphasis on overweight men; and dropping the names of rich people's playgrounds, unusual and luxurious foods, and all the designer clothes she buys and wears. Judith, it seems, likes the best of everything. Readers are promised that Judith's depraved tour of Europe will continue.
Billed as erotic suspense, this is not a book for suspense fans; it's more a portrait of a sociopathic woman with a voracious appetite for sexual adventure.