by Roxanne Carr
'Don't worry about a thing. You bring Emily here next Monday evening when it's quiet – I know just the man for the job!'
Emily hovered on the threshold of the Black Orchid Club and tried to screw up enough courage to go in. Though her mother had assured her repeatedly that she would be in full control of the situation, it didn't seem to help to know that she could call a halt at any time. She didn't have to do anything she didn't want to.
Yet did she want to lose her virginity to a nameless gigolo who was being paid to have the honour? Emily shuddered as she thought how close she had come to losing it five years before, in a brutal, careless encounter. Perhaps her mother was right, it would be far better to place herself in the hands of an experienced, older man.
Besides, Hilary had assured her that all the men here were hand picked and were utterly gorgeous. And it wasn't as if she couldn't reject the one this Maggie had picked for her if she didn't fancy him.
A platinum blonde passed her on her way in and glanced at Emily strangely. She blushed, embarrassed at being caught hovering uncertainly on the doorstep. Taking a deep breath, she followed the woman inside.
She gave her name to the frighteningly well-groomed receptionist and waited while she spoke to someone on the intercom. A door opened to her right a few minutes later and a smart, dark-haired woman, dressed in a sharp business suit, walked towards her, smiling.
'Emily? I'm Maggie. Would you like to come this way?'
Emily nodded mutely, and followed the woman, stiff with nerves, through heavy oak double doors. Confronted by a long, marbled floored corridor bordered by floor to ceiling mirrors, Emily almost turned tail and ran. She could not avoid her reflection as she trotted behind the elegantly turned out woman in front of her.
In her bedroom mirror at home she had been satisfied with the blue, indian cotton two-piece with its romantic tucks and flounces and the ties which laced at the front of the gypsy style, off the shoulder blouse. Now, though, seeing herself reflected from every angle, she realised her figure looked decidedly lumpy, her white, smooth-skinned face round, like a full moon under her upswept brown hair.
She tried to keep her eyes focussed on her low-heeled leather pumps as she walked, concentrating on controlling her growing dismay. After all, what did it matter if the man her mother had booked for her found her physically attractive? So long as she liked him, he was being paid to make love to her.
'Are you feeling all right?'
She started as Maggie spoke to her and swallowed hard.
'Perfectly. Thank you.'
The woman smiled sympathetically at her and ushered her through a door marked 'Private'.
'This flat belongs to Alexander, one of the chief trainers. He doesn't use it very often as he has made other arrangements, but it's kept clean and tidy and we felt you might be more comfortable in here.'
Emily nodded and looked around her. They had stepped into a living room, quite small, but cosy. The twin sofas, arranged around the fireplace, were covered in a dark-red damask and looked brand new. There was a small coffee table between them on which a selection of magazines was displayed. Glancing at them, Emily saw that they were all current.
By the window there was a compact, circular table, covered in a dark-pink cloth flanked by two dining chairs. It was set for dinner; two place settings and a silver bud vase with a single pink rose in the centre. Straight ahead, she could see a small kitchen. A delicious smell wafted through the open door and tantalised her tastebuds, reminding her that she had been so nervous about tonight, she hadn't eaten since breakfast.
To her right, beyond the fireplace, was another open door through which she could just see a large double bed. Emily felt the heat rush into her cheeks as she quickly looked away. Until that moment, she had almost begun to relax, the small flat gave the appearance of being so homely. But the sight of the bed had reminded her sharply of her true reason for coming and all her misgivings rushed back.
'Dinner's almost ready,' Maggie said gently. 'I'll stay until I've introduced you to Brett, by that time your meal should be served.'
Brett. Emily was conscious that she was holding her breath as there was a light tap on the door and Maggie went to open it. She didn't know what to do with her hands, they suddenly felt too large and she folded them carefully behind her back. Vaguely, she was aware of Maggie speaking, of a man walking into the room.
'Emily? Emily, this is Brett.'
A pair of polished black lace-up Oxfords came into Emily's line of vision as she stared at the floor. Slowly raising her eyes, they travelled up a pair of long legs clad in loose-fitting black chinos. She saw the soft, dark hairs on the backs of his hands as he clasped them loosely in front of himself. Noted the long, sensitive fingers and the masculine, knotted veins standing out on the insides of his wrists.
Moving up, there was a conservative, moss green cashmere sweater, worn over a white shirt with a plain grey tie. Emily's eyes stopped at the tie. So far the man had looked singularly unthreatening and she was almost afraid to look at his face. Then he spoke.
'Good evening, Emily,' was all he said, but there was such gentleness in those three words that it gave her enough courage to raise her head and look him full in the face.
It was a strong face, well tanned under thick black hair which looked newly barbered. It was shaped around his small, perfectly formed ears and only slightly ventured onto his broad forehead. Emily guessed that, when it grew, it would flop forward and probably irritate him. His eyebrows were thick, but not bushy, and the eyes which gazed back at her were as dark as any she had ever seen.
His nose suited him, not conventionally handsome, but just right. He smiled at her, a slightly crooked, ironic little smile and she forced her own cold, stiff lips to respond.
'How-how do you do?' she managed to respond at last.
He took a step towards her and she was unable to stop herself from flinching. He immediately stopped, turning instead towards the kitchen as if that had been his intention all along. As he removed a tray from the oven, Maggie touched her arm.
'All right?'
Emily glanced back at Brett and tried to imagine how it would feel to be enclosed by those strong, finely muscled arms. She shivered.
'Yes,' she whispered.
Maggie looked quizzically at her, but said nothing. As Brett came back into the room bearing a covered dish, both women watched him. He laid it carefully down on the table, on top of a place-mat and turned his smile on them both.
'Voila!' he announced, as if he'd cooked it himself.
'I'll leave you two to eat,' Maggie said.
Emily glanced at her. She could have sworn she heard a note of regret in the older woman's voice. But no, Maggie was smiling indulgently at her.
'Have fun,' she said lightly as she walked away.
For an instant, Emily thought she would call her back, but Maggie was already in the corridor. The door clicked softly shut behind her, and then she was alone with Brett.
13
'Are you hungry?'
Emily dragged her eyes away from the closed door with difficulty as Brett spoke. It was a perfectly normal, unthreatening question and she fought her rising panic to answer him with a nod. He pulled out her chair for her and, seeing her hesitate before moving towards it, moved back to his side of the table.
Heavens above, here she was expecting to make love with this man, and she couldn't even bring herself to risk brushing against him when she took her seat! It was never going to work.
'Um . . . I don't know that this was such a good idea . . . I—'
She raised her hands, palms upwards in a small gesture of helplessness as she struggled, and failed to find the right words. Glancing nervously at Brett, she saw that he was regarding her levelly, his dark head held slightly on one side, as if waiting for her to answer an unspoken question.
'What I mean is . . .' she continued, her voice rising on a note of desperation, 'I've changed my mind. This has all been a ghastly mistake
!'
There – it was said. Emily held her breath, her eyes fixed on her own hands, folding and unfolding over each other, as she waited for his inevitably angry response. When it did not come, she chanced a glance at him and saw that he was still watching her, his face relaxed.
'No problem,' he said softly. 'You're calling the shots, Emily – remember?'
He smiled at her startled expression and she felt some of the awful tension ebb away.
'You . . . you mean you don't mind?'
Most men she knew would have hidden their hurt pride under loud bluster, but Brett merely stared calmly back at her, his dark eyes untroubled.
'Of course not. It would be a shame to let good food go to waste, though. Won't you at least stay and eat with me?'
Emily glanced at the covered dishes and felt her mouth water. It did smell delicious.
'Why don't you put on some music while I pour the wine and light the candles?'
He picked up a bottle from the dumb waiter beside the table and Emily watched as he deftly dispensed of the cork and poured the ruby red liquid into two large, crystal glasses. He seemed so unconcerned by her rejection of him that for one contrary moment, she felt piqued. Smiling to herself, she went over to the CD player.
What kind of music would he like? she wondered. There was a large, eclectic selection ranging from Country music through to Soul, Classical and Heavy Rock. She wavered for a moment between Grieg and Sinatra, plumping in the end for Harry Connick, Jr. As the first track began, she took her place at the table and picked up her wine glass.
Brett was looking at her strangely.
'What?' she asked, alarmed, 'What is it?'
He smiled in the face of her agitation and raised his glass to her.
'You chose one of my favourite albums,' he told her.
For a moment she thought, cynically, that he was taking the mickey, but then she saw the respect in his eyes and she smiled.
'I saw him play live when he came over to England last,' she told him. 'My mother loves that kind of thing, but it wasn't until after I heard Harry sing that I understood why!'
'Yeah, he's a one off. It takes courage to fly in the face of the modern scene at his age.'
'They say he's Sinatra's successor, don't they?'
'About time they found one!'
They laughed and some of the tension between them disappeared. Brett uncovered the shiny silver dishes and they helped themselves to rich, fragrant Boeuf Bourgignon and fluffy vegetable rice. Emily ate hungrily, washing it down with large gulps of the full-bodied red wine with which Brett kept topping up their glasses.
The music ebbed and flowed around them, its bluesy, upbeat style making her feel happy, combining with the wine to make her feel mellow. Brett was a stimulating companion, eager to argue good naturedly with her when they discovered they had both read the same book, but disagreed about its merit.
'But you couldn't possibly be qualified to comment – you don't know how a woman would think in that situation.'
'Don't be so chauvinistic! Men feel too, you know and I don't think there are such fundamental differences as feminists would have us believe.'
'Oh really? So how would you say you're like a woman?' she scoffed.
'For a start, men look for relationships in the same way that women do.'
'This is a funny setting for you to put forward that view! After all, aren't the women here trying to conduct their sex lives as they would if they were a man?'
'Maybe. But I think that's great. Why shouldn't women learn to take as much as they give? It doesn't make them any less feminine.'
Emily pushed away her empty plate and sat back in her chair, replete. She regarded Brett a little hazily over the rim of her wine glass. He too had finished his meal and was busy uncorking their third bottle of wine.
'So what made you come to work here?' she asked curiously.
Brett shrugged.
'I get free bed and board, unlimited access to the gym and the 'work' isn't so hard.'
'Don't you like hard work?'
A shadow passed across his eyes and Emily wished the sarcastic words unsaid.
'I'm sorry – that was unbelievably rude of me.'
She reached across and touched the back of his hand as it rested on the table. The crisp dark hair tickled the pads of her fingers and she pulled her hand away, as if she had inadvertently touched something hot. Dragging her gaze back to her wine glass, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
'It's OK. I know how it sounds. The fact is, I had an accident a few months ago. Nothing too serious, I just need to take things easy for a while. Build myself back up.'
Emily looked up in surprise.
'You look adequately built up to me,' she said, without thinking, blushing even more furiously as she realised that now he would think she had been ogling his body.
He laughed, softly.
'I'm getting there. Would you like a sweet? I believe I saw chocolate mousse with pears at the back of the fridge.'
'Chocolate is my passion!' she announced, swallowing uncomfortably as Brett merely raised an eloquent eyebrow at her.
She watched him as he walked into the kitchen. The loosefitting black trousers hid the outline of his legs, skimming his buttocks and giving the merest hint of their shape. Emily liked the way he walked, loosely, as if he was comfortable within his own skin. Confident. Yes, that was it. There was an air of confidence about him that she found appealing, erotic.
Emily brought herself up short. They had agreed to keep things light and she was determined to stick to that agreement. She would not let herself be fooled by the mellowing effect of the wine and the music, lulled into a false sense of security by Brett's hitherto undemanding company.
She had let herself be fooled before, thinking that this time it would be different, that she would be able to go through with it. Once or twice she had even got as far as kissing, touching, feeling . . . Then the clear, horrific image of that other man's leering face would intrude, his cruel, hurting hands would replace those of the man she was with and it would be over.
'Emily?'
She jumped as Brett's warm, concerned voice enveloped her and she looked up at him, unable to hide the sudden panic which had gripped her. He frowned slightly as she stared up at him, wide eyed. He withdrew the hand he had automatically reached out to her, using it instead to pick up the glass dish he had placed on the table in front of him.
'Chocolate mousse?' he asked in a voice which made the innocuous phrase sound like 'multiple orgasms?'
Emily smiled and took the dish from him, forgetting to flinch as her fingers brushed his.
The CD had run its course and Brett got up to change it. Emily smiled in delight as she realised he had selected a compilation of classical tracks which she loved. Brett returned the smile as he regained his seat.
The rich, dark chocolate mousse slid seductively down Emily's throat, chased by the cool slipperiness of the pear. Her eyes were caught by the movement of Brett's throat as he ate, imagining him feeling the same sensations. As she raised her eyes to his, she caught her breath.
He was watching her mouth, his expression intent. As he felt her gaze on him, he met her eye and all the easy friendliness between them disappeared in an instant. Emily watched, mesmerised, as he slowly reached out his hand and touched the corner of her mouth with his forefinger.
Her lips parted slightly at the slight pressure. As he withdrew his hand, she saw that he had wiped away a smear of mousse from her lips. As she watched, he slowly brought his finger up to his own mouth and inserted the tip between his lips. Her breath hurt in her chest as she watched the movement of his lips as he sucked on his own finger.
They rose from the table with one accord and moved into the small space between it and the red damask sofas flanking the fire. Emily fought to make her mind remain blank, concentrating only on Brett as he reached out and took her hand.
Suddenly the room seemed full of him. He towered over her, a g
ood six inches taller than her even in her ridiculously high heels. Emily's mouth felt suddenly dry, her heart beating unevenly in her chest. She moved her lips once, twice, but no sound would come out as he slipped his other arm around her waist.
She held herself rigid as he began to waltz slowly with her on the spot. He was only holding her loosely, a casual, impersonal embrace as he moved her, like an automaton, backwards and forwards. Her fingers touched his shoulder and felt the hard steel of muscle under the soft cashmere. She could feel his hand splayed across the small of her back. Their other hands were loosely clasped, no other part of them was touching. Yet she could feel the animal heat of his skin, smell the clean, slightly musky maleness of him. She shivered.
Brett must have sensed her sudden, atavistic fear, for he made no attempt to draw her closer, even when the melody slowed and coiled around them. Neither did he respond when she tentatively tried to move away, he simply kept shuffling his feet, coaxing hers along with him and did not loosen his grip on her.
Emily tried to concentrate on the slow, steady rhythm. Forward, side, together, back, side, together . . . The wine had numbed her usual heavy nervousness, relaxing her tense muscles and creating a pleasant, rose tinged fog in her mind. She was no longer hungry and she felt warm, slightly drowsy from the heat of the fire. It, combined with two matching lamps burning on either side and the flickering candles on the table, provided the only light in the room.
Slowly, infinitely slowly, Emily found herself drawn into the warm circle of Brett's arms. She flinched as the tips of her breasts brushed against the broad, unyielding wall of his chest, but she did not pull away. More than anything, she found she wanted to lay her head in the tempting curve of his shoulder.
As if reading her thoughts, Brett leaned slightly towards her, so that her cheek was inches away from his chest. Breathing slowly and deeply to calm her racing heart, Emily rested her head lightly against him. He placed the hand he was holding on his other shoulder and held her tenderly round the back of her head, his other hand motionless at the small of her back.
Emily closed her eyes and sighed. She felt so safe, so secure in this curiously sexless embrace, she didn't want to move. Brett's heart was beating against her cheek, its strong, steady beat reassuring. The arms which enclosed her, though strong, were not compelling and she did not feel the usual panic of entrapment.
