Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set

by Hunter, Adriana

  He was doing that flustered thing again, deflecting from the fact that he was standing up, ushering me to my feet, and hurrying me out of that riverside bar buried away in the Houses of Parliament.

  “Sorry. Really I am,” he said again. And I knew I was being fobbed off, that he’d had enough of the games and just wanted me out of there now. Suddenly I was just one of the many people who wanted a piece of him, and that had transformed me from a piece of ass he was pursuing to just another wannabe.

  We strode along one picture-lined corridor and then the Sikh driver was there, waiting.

  “Would you mind, Maninder?” said Will, then he gave me one last apologetic smile and hurried away.

  §

  Back in the office, Ellie was buzzing around, fetching me coffee, re-organizing my towering in tray, and clearly waiting to get the low-down on my chauffeur-driven lunch date. In the end I had to wave her away, like I was fending off a swarm of flies. I shut my office door, leaned against it, and finally took a big, calming breath.

  Steady, girl. So what exactly happened back there, then?

  What had happened was that an arrogant young rich kid had tried to wow me. He’d sent a flash car and driver, he’d had me whisked through high security into the heart of political power, he’d plied me with alcohol and fine food.

  And then...

  Was that all part of the plan, too, the phone message? Was he still gaming me, or did he just lose interest, a child discarding a toy that had at first appeared shiny and novel?

  I concentrated on work for the rest of the day, plowing through my in-box, and then sitting in a two-hour marketing meeting, that ran on until past six.

  Every time my mind wandered back to what had happened at lunchtime, I stamped down on the stray thoughts, hard. The book scheme had been a long shot, and clearly wasn’t going anywhere. And if it really was a ploy on the part of my over-sexed, romantically-starved subconscious then it was not only a sign of desperation but it was clearly not going to work either. If Will’s dismissal had been genuine, then he had clearly lost any interest; and if it was part of his game plan, then I just didn’t play by those rules. I wasn’t going to be played like a fish on a line by someone who thought he could control me like that.

  I rode the Northern Line to Kentish Town, and then walked, 45 minutes at a brisk pace and good for thinking. I liked that time, when I could afford the luxury of taking it: a chance to separate my day at the office from the evening ahead. Not that I had any grand plans beyond pizza and an old DVD.

  Or so I thought, at least.

  14.

  There were flowers on the doorstep of the lovely old Victorian terraced building where I had my apartment. Red roses.

  Just three of them, loosely tied. No wrapping, no note.

  Not even any indication that they were for me and not the leggy Swedish doctor who had the apartment across from me.

  But I knew.

  I remembered the single red rose left for me that night I had driven back from Ethan and Eleanor’s wedding.

  I was that fish on a line.

  I still couldn’t quite work out his game, the repeated shows of interest and then dismissal, the blowing hot and cold.

  Maybe he’d realized what an English arse he had been at lunchtime. Apology seemed a familiar mode for him.

  I stood and turned, the bunch of three roses dangling from my hand. An elderly man walking past smiled, either an old romantic or he liked the sight of my legs in my rather short pencil skirt just a little too much. A bunch of teenagers were hanging out in a doorway opposite. A young woman with a pram, an Asian couple holding hands, a guy in a pin-striped charcoal suit that looked way too expensive for him... The hustle and bustle of a north London street at the end of another long day.

  And then I saw a single splash of red, like a poppy growing from the sidewalk. It was another red rose, its stalk threaded through a row of black, wrought-iron rails.

  I crossed.

  The same rich, velvety petals, and again, no note.

  Bastard.

  He had me snagged, drawn into his game.

  Just turn around, drop the flowers in the trash and have that quiet evening with a film you were planning.

  The inner voice of reason and good sense.

  The inner voice that still tried, even though I was never going to do what it said, not when I’d already looked along the street and spotted another pinprick of red.

  The inner voice could go jump, even though I’d hate myself for being so weak later.

  A single twist of clear tape bound the rose’s stalk to the upright of a street sign.

  I detached it, added it to the growing bunch in my hand.

  Turn. Movie night. Order in from Domino’s. Do it.

  Two more roses guided me along another residential street.

  Another was threaded through the uprights of an iron fence, marking the boundary of one of those tiny parks that dotted London.

  I went through the open gate, and immediately saw more roses, each with its stalk planted in the ground. A staggered line of roses, leading me into the park.

  It was a comical sight, and that touch of humor totally undermined my growing resentment of being gamed.

  I was smiling as I followed that line, no longer picking up the roses as I had so many by now.

  I paused at a line of trees. Just beyond, I could see a picnic spread out, champagne flutes glinting in the low, summer evening sunshine, silver cutlery arranged on a checkered cloth, an open wicker hamper just to one side. And a figure sitting there, knees pulled up, a big grin on his face.

  “Charlie,” I said. “How, erm... What...?”

  “I knew you’d come. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.” He looked smug. He looked a little scared, too, which was good, since I’d been telling him to back off for most of the week and this was hardly backing off.

  He saw the look on my face, and that smug smile vanished.

  “I thought...”

  “No, Charlie,” I said. “You didn’t, did you? Because if you had thought, you’d have realized that putting on something like this, impressive and totally out of character as it is, just isn’t going to get you anywhere when I’ve been telling you, over and God-damned over, that there is no us, that there is going to be no us.”

  He was standing now, hands hovering uncertainly at his side.

  “Well I must say you have a funny way of showing it,” he said.

  “You heard the words, right?”

  “But there was more than just words, wasn’t there, Trude? So much more than just words. We have something special , babe. There may not be an us right now, but if you’d only give it a chance it could be really special.”

  “I gave it a chance. It’s over. It’s been over for more than a year, give or take one or two aberrations.”

  That hurt. That was the punch to the soft belly.

  “If you deny it enough, do you think you’ll actually start to believe all that bullshit one day?”

  That was what I needed: more of that arrogant, smug aggression from him. I could fight that.

  “I’m not the one in denial, Charlie. I’ve never been the one in denial. That’s you.”

  “You want to talk about denial?” he said now. “I know exactly why you’re pissed off with me now. It’s because you thought it was him. I could see it, Trude. I saw your face fall when you saw it was me. Disappointed that it wasn’t Willem fucking Bentinck-Stanley.”

  I didn’t meet his look. I couldn’t. He’d seen right through me.

  “I’ve told you, Trude. Steer clear of him. He’s a bad lot. An unworthy character with a history.”

  Did he really say unworthy. Oh bless, Charlie.

  “I tell you, Trudy, the past always catches up with you. Forget all about him, babe. You’re worth far more than that. Oh, Trude... Let’s try again. Give me a chance to show how good it can really be!”

  I don’t know how we had ended up so close, standing almost to
e to toe. I could see a pulse twitching in one eyelid, the pale blue of his eyes, whites showing all around the pupil, always a sure sign of his excitement – anger, arousal, whatever.

  He’d dressed how I liked, how he knew he looked good. Dark blue chinos, a plain shirt, a chunky tie loosened at the neck.

  He smelled of Issey Miyake.

  Bastard.

  “I was a fool,” he said. “I was in denial. I blinded myself to signs that things weren’t working, things I could have fixed if only I’d had the balls.”

  A hand raised, a finger gently trailing down the line of my jaw. He knew my buttons all right. The flowers, the setting, the clothes, the looks and touches, the sweet talk...

  Bastard.

  “It’s not going to work,” I said. “You couldn’t fix it then. You can’t fix things now. There is no us.”

  That finger, still on my jaw, the thumb on my chin.

  “We’re magic, Trude.”

  This was not going to happen. Not again. This was not going to turn into ex-sex. I was better than this. Charlie, God damn him, was better than this.

  The intensity. I didn’t remember this kind of intensity in him before. It was as if there was a heat about him. I could feel it, standing so close to him like that.

  I tried to break that spell, that moment.

  “We’re not magic, Charlie. We’re over.”

  I raised a hand to push his away, but in a sudden movement he snatched at me, taking my wrist in his hard grip.

  This is not going to turn into ex-sex again.

  My heart was racing, my legs weak.

  This is not going to happen.

  The line of trees provided a natural screen, shutting off the sounds of London. To the other sides, more trees closed in. It was as if he’d managed to conjure up a private, screened garden just for this encounter.

  “No. Charlie. Just... fuck it. No.”

  He jerked my arm down, pulling me closer, still gripping me by the wrist. So close, my face brushed against his, my breasts squashing against his hard chest. His free arm snaked around me, keeping me close against him.

  Those chinos. Those damned chinos... I could feel his hardness against my belly, and I was weak and I knew I was going to succumb.

  I’m a strong woman.

  I’m a successful, professional woman.

  But a strong man... well, a strong man, holding me hard against him, desperate for me, dominating me. A strong man who knows exactly which buttons to press.

  I looked up into those piercing blue eyes.

  That smile. That arrogant, smug, God-damned smile.

  I pushed against him.

  He misinterpreted at first, thought I was writhing, pressing, wanting more. Then he understood. The look in my eye, maybe.

  I twisted, pushed, tried to break free.

  “No, Charlie. Just what part of ‘no’ don’t you get?”

  “Your words and your actions... well, they don’t seem to correspond, do they, Trude? The churchyard? Then my place? You know how good we can be, babe.”

  His mouth, then, bearing down on mine. His lips hard against my softness, his tongue probing, the taste of wine and cigarettes.

  Had he always been this strong?

  Every time I pushed him away, he took it as a response, an invitation. Every time I softened, he took it as me yielding.

  What did I want?

  At that precise moment, I no longer knew.

  Was this some kind of pivotal moment? Yield, try again, welcome this new Charlie.

  Or was it madness, like the madness that had led to that desperate, needy tryst at the church after Ethan and Eleanor’s wedding? The madness that had led to the repeat encounter at Charlie’s Aldgate apartment?

  “No, Charlie. Just no.”

  His mouth was tracing the line of my jaw. Hard lips, firm tongue.

  His grip was steel, his body hard against me, his need absolutely clear.

  “No...”

  His mouth on my neck, working down.

  I was confused. I was aroused, wet, suddenly urgent.

  But not urgent for Charlie.

  This may well be a pivotal moment, but not the kind he had anticipated. This was confirmation. This was strong me, not weak, vulnerable, immediate gratification me.

  “I said, ‘no’!”

  A harder push, and he stopped, or hesitated at least.

  There was surprise in his look. Maybe he was seeing a new me, just as I’d seen a new him. He hadn’t thought I had the fight.

  “Enough.”

  He tried to pull me closer again. I was still trapped in his embrace, his steel grip on my wrist.

  “The lady said ‘no’.”

  The voice came from behind, somewhere in the trees.

  Charlie paused, looking beyond me, his grip momentarily easing.

  I took that opportunity and squirmed free, twisting, peering into the shadows.

  A figure stepped forward. Dark suit, dark face, white turban. Maninder. Will’s driver.

  “And just what–”

  “Can it, Charlie,” I said. I knew then that Maninder was far more than just a driver. Charlie was tall, but Maninder had a good few inches on him, and he was half as much again broad at the shoulders.

  Will’s driver stood there impassively, his hands at his sides.

  My head was rushing, confused. First Charlie and now this. I looked from Maninder to Charlie and then back again.

  “Just leave me alone,” I yelled. “All of you. Do you hear?”

  I turned away from them both, and marched off through the trees.

  I half-expected Charlie to follow, for it all to end in a fight.

  I didn’t look back.

  I strode out of the park and was halfway home before I paused, gathered myself, realized that I was holding back the tears, tears of anger.

  I looked down.

  I was still clutching the bunch of roses, ragged now, shedding petals. Had I swung them against the trees as I passed? Against the park railings, the walls and streetlamps?

  I dropped them, backed away from them, then headed for my apartment.

  14.

  The rest of the week at work, then a quiet weekend. Gym, shopping for essentials, cleaning. Vigorous, over-enthusiastic cleaning.

  Diversionary tactics? Me?

  I tried not to think about any of it. Tried to lose myself in work, in shopping, in exercise and God-damned cleaning.

  So I didn’t dwell on Charlie’s crass, over-bearing behavior. On his assumption that he could just snap his fingers and I’d drop everything, including my panties. On that mad, power-fuelled look in his eyes as he had held me. On my response. Oh no, I didn’t dwell on my response. Weak woman, powerful man. No, that wasn’t me. That really wasn’t me.

  And I didn’t dwell on Will God-damned double-barreled Bentinck-Stanley. What kind of name was that? He had that same arrogance that Charlie had, that assumption that I would drop everything for him. That he could have me whenever he wanted. He’d had his driver following me, for heavens’ sake! The man who’d accused me of stalking him had paid someone to stalk me!

  Did I feel protected? Well maybe, a little. I don’t know what would have happened if Maninder hadn’t stepped in that evening. Would Charlie have carried on? Would he have raped me and all the time thought I was just playing at saying ‘no’? Or would I have succumbed, like I had before? And if I had succumbed, was Maninder under instructions to intervene, or to let me make my own choices?

  I don’t know. I really don’t know where that evening might have gone.

  But I’d learned my lesson. I’d learned from both of them, Charlie and Will.

  I wasn’t at anyone’s beck and call.

  I was strong.

  I wasn’t going to take any more of this.

  §

  So the flight to Innsbruck came as something of a surprise. The flight on a private jet, with a car to take me from my apartment to the City Airport, right in London’s Dockland
district.

  A voicemail is all it took. A simple message, recorded while I was in an acquisitions meeting and my cell phone was tucked away in my desk. That slightly flustered manner – was that genuine or just an affectation? – and the apology, yet another apology.

  That’s all it took.

  “Erm... Hi, Trudy Parsons-Editorial. It’s Will. You know, the spoilt upper-class knob who keeps messing you around and making excuses for being just a little bit crap. Well... a lot crap. That Will. Anyway. I’d really like to talk to you. Make a clean breast of it. Let you find out a bit more about me, so you can see why I’m sometimes inconsistent and sometimes rude and most of the time more than a little bit crap. Sorry, that sounds very egocentric, all me, and all that. But I’d like to talk. I’d like to do that selfish thing of just finding an excuse to spend some time with you and maybe convince you that I’m not the posh twit you far too frequently see before you. So... dinner, perhaps? I could have a man pick you up from work at four, if that would suit?”

  Four for dinner? I should have guessed then. I should have realized that he didn’t just mean dinner, he meant hop on a private jet, fly for two hours and emerge in a landscape where every direction you look there are white-capped mountains.

  So that was how I found myself walking down the steps after the plane had landed, to find him standing there, waiting by a black Mercedes Benz.

  “Fucking Austria?” I asked, standing before him.

  He shrugged. “I was tied up,” he said. “And not in a good way.”

  “And my time was more expendable?”

  This wasn’t getting off to the best of starts.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. There: yet another apology. “I just wanted–”

  “You just wanted to show off, didn’t you? Like all the paintings. A van Gogh in the bedroom, a Rembrandt on the stairs. A driver you can spare to do your stalking for you. I get it. I know you’re rich, okay?”

  He had his hands up. Defensive. Apologetic again. “Can we start afresh?” he said. That glint in those dark eyes, that smile. That hint of the predator about him. How could he switch from awkward to predator so smoothly?

  He laughed. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Why did certain men have this effect on me? Why was I so weak before them?

  We started over again.