My duties included procuring BDSM clothing and apparatus. I judged what we did together as largely my job, because none of it really worked for me. Leather and latex weren’t really my thing, they were his. I knew I wasn’t kinky, but he was. If anyone at the late-night kink stores made chitchat with me, I always said I was shopping for my boss because I wanted people to know I didn’t share Dante’s tastes. I always purchased online if it was an item I didn’t need to get in the right size.
Most evenings, Dante came over to the Knightsbridge house he’d put me up in, but it was never for more than an hour or two. I was his dirty secret and he kept me at arm’s length and for only short periods because he couldn’t be seen to be staying the night, which would upset his real-life girlfriend.
THE day after my trip to the salon, the resounding news online was, ‘Cornish Signs Billion-Dollar Deal’. How things could change overnight!
I had a few days free before having to be in Paris so I spent what free time I had thinking about how I could get an introduction. Having seen pictures of him looking easy bait, I began scouring the internet for details.
I realised the scope of hotels he frequented was enormous and unless I got some insider information, I could be trailing around for months trying to catch him in passing. I needed real information otherwise I could get arrested for stalking. For all I knew, he could use one hotel as a dummy, and another as his real place – booking under a pseudonym, even. If the guy was anything like Sinclair, he’d take his privacy very seriously. Those with money always did.
I had to find out which hotel Roman favoured before I even set out my plan of action. Sinclair would be onto me if I started making friends with Mr Pundit or someone else like him – just to gain insider information. Sexton no doubt spied on me and whenever I walked out of the house, he was always there with the car, so I was never allowed to walk anywhere without their say-so.
Could I even do this? I screamed inside my head. I was seriously mentally deranged, wasn’t I? My head spinning with the possibility of me going from one hotel to another, with little chance of ever coming across the elusive footballer, I knew all this was a long shot and a stupid idea in theory. How would I swing it with Sexton? Claim I was trying out different hotel facilities, or meeting fake friends for lunch inside them?
How could a footballer save me? For Christ’s sakes, I wasn’t a stupid girl and even I couldn’t save me.
But… and this was a big BUT, I had too much free time to think.
So… using my free time, I began studying pap shots of Roman and noticed something similar about all of them. There was always some wonderful topiary in the background as he was papped leaving his hotel before or after a game.
The grounds of said hotel reminded me of the Four Seasons on Park Lane. He could have been there for afternoon tea for all I knew, or lunch. Maybe it was his favourite place to take his mother? However, there were more shots of him leaving that hotel than any other – and the variety of women following three steps behind him made me realise he definitely used hotels as knock-in shops.
It had only been hours since the idea had begun kindling in my mind and already, I was possessed with figuring out how to get an introduction with my possible way out.
When the phone rang, I answered it quickly. “Yes?”
“Did you make some purchases?” His voice breathy over the phone, I knew just hearing about latex would probably make him hard.
“I picked up a new set of chaps for you because you ruined your others crawling around the floor beside me, not picking your knees up, you naughty boy. I also spotted a nice new collar which has green studs to match your eyes. I couldn’t resist.”
He purred down the phone, totally blind to my utter disgust. “Wonderful.”
“I have some new things for me but they’re a surprise, darling.”
“You continually exceed my expectations, sweetheart.”
“I know.”
“I’ll meet you at the Paris apartment, as usual?”
“Of course,” I assured him, “as always.”
“Until then… I think I’ll give you a couple of nights off. You’ve seemed tired lately. Get some rest so that you can really enjoy the weekend.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Au revoir.”
“Ciao.”
He hung up and it was like a sign for me to scope out Roman while I had two, whole nights free!
***
THERE was just a small snag – the tracker in my arm. I could see it under my skin and knew that to get it out, I’d have to cut it out myself. Even if I successfully ensnared Roman Cornish and got inside the circle of his many millions and all the protection that offered, Sinclair could still track me and Roman would have to leave the bed at some point, wouldn’t he? To train and play the games he was paid millions for.
These football clubs would do anything to ensure the safety of their players and families though, surely? All I needed to do was make it out of the house without Sinclair knowing where I was going.
I was due to take the Eurostar on Saturday morning which meant I had to try and find the football player before then… and Friday night was a big possibility for bumping into him if Cornish was in the city the night before a home game.
So on Thursday evening I sat at the kitchen table with a scalpel, some bandages and a large bottle of vodka which I’d already largely depleted. I looked at the skin and decided I could do it. All I had to do was cut into myself and take my tracker out… yeah, that was all…
I was about to do it when there was a bang on the front door.
Sinclair never knocked because he had a key…
So, who was this?
Leaving the paraphernalia lying around, I jumped down the stairs to the front door and peered through the hole to see Sexton.
Opening up, I gasped, “This is a surprise! What’s up?”
“He needs you.”
“What?” I sounded shocked, because this sort of disruption wasn’t protocol. They always rang before collecting me… and neither of them ever turned up without prior warning. What was going on?
“I don’t have time to explain. He told me he needs you.”
“What do I… what do I need to bring?” I frowned, because I didn’t want to disappoint Sinclair.
“He said to wear a dress and shoes. Cocktail casual, he called it.”
Sexton looked pissed off and awkward. In all the six years I’d been employed by Sinclair, my boss had never struck me or anything of the sort, but I could tell Sexton didn’t approve of our dynamic. Maybe he thought it was perverted.
“I’ll be a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait in the car,” he said.
Upstairs I picked out a simple black cocktail dress which skimmed my breasts and flattered rather than enhanced. I dug my toes into some low heels and wore some of the jewels he’d given me over the years, including an emerald necklace and matching bracelet. I rarely wore earrings because of my hair getting caught in them; besides you couldn’t see earrings beyond the masses of my ebony locks. I kept my make-up minimal aside from a generous amount of red lipstick, and I applied a few squirts of my Jimmy Choo perfume.
Before setting the house alarm, I also remembered to stuff the scalpel and other equipment into a drawer, just in case Dante came back with me later on.
Sexton held the car door open when I emerged from the house fifteen minutes later. “Very nice, Cleo.”
“Thanks.”
Living on Eaton Square, it wasn’t ten minutes before we reached our destination.
To my shock, we arrived at the Four Seasons.
“What is this, Sexton?” I growled, chewing my lip.
“He has a friend he wants you to meet. I don’t know… but you can step out here,” Sexton said, pulling into the loading and unloading area.
I made a mental note never to trust Sexton; it felt like I was being stitched up.<
br />
I climbed out feeling wary, moreover worried. Trying not to chew a nail, my legs felt like jelly as I walked from the car to the hotel entrance.
“Evening madam. Anything I can help you with?” A hotel worker greeted me, obviously reading my look of fear and trepidation.
“I’m here to see Mr Sinclair. Have you seen him?”
A nerve twitched in the man’s eye and he fake-smiled. “You won’t miss them. Follow the signs to the Amaranto bar.”
I clicked along polished granite floors in my humble heels and wished I’d worn the spikes to make him sweat. He loved the spiked heels, the spikier the better.
I walked into the Amaranto bar, dominated by red walls and floor-to-ceiling glass cases housing bottles upon bottles of expensive wine. The atmosphere in the room was sedate except for raucous laughter peeling from Dante and one other man.
As I walked towards their table, Dante stood and kissed my cheeks. I could barely contain my rage when I glanced at his eyes and saw amusement. The other man had his back to me but I already knew who it was.
“Darling, this is Roman Cornish, man of the moment and a friend of mine.”
I must have looked shocked but like a pro, I held out my hand and plastered on a grin. “Wow, I’m a big fan.”
“Drink, darling?” Dante asked, patting the red velvet chair beside his.
“I’ll have a drop of their finest red, if they’ve got some spare.”
Dante clicked his fingers and I seethed with anger as the barman came running.
“What can I get you?”
“Miss Patrick will have your finest bottle of Barolo.”
“A bottle, sir?”
“Yes, yes, she can drink. It’s the Irish in her.”
I must have blazed a fierce rouge myself because Cornish moved awkwardly in his chair, suggesting, “I should leave you both to it.”
“Perhaps you should,” I agreed.
My plan was already blown out of the water.
“Oh, are you sure?” Sinclair stood and extended his hand at the same time as the footballer did.
“I’ll only risk the contract if I don’t keep curfew,” Cornish smiled, glancing at me but with no lust whatsoever.
Well, at least I know it would have been a waste of time. My gaydar was never wrong. Men always looked at my lips, being so big and juicy, but Cornish couldn’t see past Dante.
Unless… Cornish didn’t dare show interest in one of Sinclair’s women.
I told myself nah, Cornish had definitely spread rumours about him being a ladies’ man to hide the fact he was actually a man’s man.
Dante clicked his fingers and the barman brought over my wine, pouring a generous amount into my glass. With Cornish gone, the barman also left us so that we were all alone in the otherwise empty room. I watched as the barman stood outside, barring the door. What influence did Dante have? And why had he risked being seen with me tonight, when he never risked it?
I felt physically angry, every hair on my arms on end, my muscles tense and almost in spasm. I couldn’t even speak because I was so angry.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I glugged several mouthfuls of wine before taking some deep breaths, finally calm enough to speak. “Did you tap my phone and what I search on it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why? Didn’t you want to meet him? I thought… it’d be a nice surprise, to meet someone you so obviously admire. He’s a friend of the family and… I thought… was I wrong?”
He smirked and I lashed out, “You were wrong, you–you! Tell me why you keep taps on my phone, you arsehole.”
“Not in here, sweet thing,” he warned.
“I’m not your sweet thing, you berserk individual. You make me sick!”
He could kill me now for all I cared. I was dying a slow death being cooped up, being… coddled.
“It’s quite funny… you do know he’s a hundred per cent homosexual?”
“Fuck you, Dante. Fuck you,” I snarled, hating that he knew he had me caged, and was proud of it.
He snickered. “When I found you, you were nothing but a skinny tramp playing dominatrix by night to pay the rent because your data processor job didn’t pay enough. You think because you’ve softened the Irish brogue and toned down the make-up that you’re any better than you were back then?”
“Yes, I fucking do actually!”
I folded my arms, unsure where all this behaviour was coming from. I shook my head at myself for losing my cool, then I watched him hide a satisfied smile behind his hand.
“You wanted a reaction from me tonight, bringing me here, like this?” I growled.
“You have been flat-lining for months; maybe this is what you needed.”
“What do you mean, flat-lining?”
“Playing too careful.”
“I thought that was what you wanted?” I crossed my legs in an angry gesture of how pissed off I was and almost kicked my shoe off with the motion. “When I tried to run away, you found me within forty-five minutes. Now… you seem to have my phone cloned, too. How am I to know you won’t kill me if I tried to leave again? I don’t know who you are or what you’re capable of but I’m sick and tired of living this lie. You can just… kill me. Do it. It’s got to be better than this feckin’ sham.”
“Yes, I could find you again… and again… and again. Nothing is beyond me.”
“Let me go. It’s time. Please just let me go.” I hung my head, staring down into my lap. My thoughts ran back to Ireland, the country I’d left behind. I missed the green hills, the rugged coast, like I missed the loving mother I never had – with all my heart and soul. It was a pity I could never go back to a place where I’d been stung, so brutally. “I’m no longer a satisfactory companion… so maybe it’s time to shred the contract and let me go.”
“You were nothing but a broken little girl, angel. You’re still a broken little girl.”
He leaned down and fixed my shoe back into the correct position, stroking his hand across my ankle as he did.
“Don’t touch me, Dante.”
“I told you not to use that name.”
I looked up at him. “Dante. Dante. Dante. Dante. Dante.”
“You’re the worst kind of temptation, Ciara,” he said, using my real name.
“Don’t use that name. You don’t get to use that name, you bastard.” I leaned closer to him, matching the ferociousness of his eyes with mine.
My hackles raised, my body felt ten inches taller and heavier, my limbs full of adrenalin. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever met and I’d always known he could never be mine. I was gutter trash, always had been, always would be. I wasn’t fit to hang on his arm, wasn’t fit to be accepted into his world, nor seen with him in public.
Of all the ways my body could have reacted, I had to cry in that moment, didn’t I? I had to cry! One hot tear slid down my cheek and he frowned deeply, watching it travel. His face contorted and he bit his lip, reaching out to catch the tear on his thumb.
“Don’t cry, Ciara.”
“I’m not. My eye’s watering.”
“Do you want to go home?”
I nodded, yes.
He grabbed my wine and I stood up, walking alongside him as he texted Sexton to let him know we were coming. I barely registered myself walking as I tried to pull my emotions in check.
We stood outside the entrance of the hotel no longer than thirty seconds before Sexton pulled up in Dante’s black, bespoke Rolls-Royce Phantom. I was planning to make use of the privacy wall, which made it possible for the back compartment to be sectioned off from Sexton. The white leather seats in the back bore personalised motifs embroidered into the headrests, accompanied by the letters DS, his initials. Sexton had the easy life, sitting at the helm of a superb V12 engine all day, everyday. I’d have given my right arm to swap places with him at that point in time.
“Roll up the screen,” I growled at Dante, nodding at the controls at his
side of the vehicle.
He merely shook his finger, whispering, “Save it.”
The drive back to the house was quiet and angry and when we got there, I vaguely heard Dante tell Sexton, “I’m going to see she gets to bed okay. Drive around for a bit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Let me drive around instead of this… this… I didn’t know what this was, but I knew a confrontation beckoned.
In the kitchen, Dante poured some of the wine from the hotel and had some for himself too. Sharing a drink with me in the kitchen was something he rarely did. He didn’t stay much past orgasm and mundane chitchat.
“I can’t release you so if you need something, just tell me and I’ll get it for you.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” I spat, scowling.
Fury boiled inside me. I’d known bagging Cornish was a whimsical, stupid idea, but didn’t Dante see that the only reason I clung to pipedreams was because I was bored out of my skull. I wanted to live!
“Ciara, I don’t like you talking and acting like this. This isn’t you.”
“Don’t talk as if you know me. You don’t know me.”
“Oh yes I bloody do.”
“Oh yes, you think I’m still that skinny strip of a girl… the little sack of bones you picked up out of pity? Well, I’m not her anymore. I’m a grown woman and I have needs. I’m lonely. I don’t feel safe… I can’t leave without you or Sexton having to know where I am. I want my own life where I don’t have to answer to you. I want freedom.”
“We do all that for your own safety.”
“Bullshit,” I called, glugging more wine like it was going out of fashion. Thanks to the vodka earlier and now this, I was telling him all the things I’d been bottling for so long. “Sometimes, I don’t want my hair pretty, I want to sit in my PJs for a few days and camp out. How about some holiday time, eh?”
“Ciara–” He growled, like I would heel just because he was using my real name.
The Contract (Nightlong #1) Page 3
