Dirty Aristocrat

by Georgia Le Carre

  Green swirls in his eyes. ‘I asked him to come.’

  I nod slowly. So easily I had fallen into his trap. ‘That was a very cruel thing you did.’

  His voice is strangely soft, almost regretful. ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘To your brother.’

  ‘He’ll survive. He knows I have his best interest at heart,’ he dismisses callously, but I see the glimmer of a fierce loyalty to his brother, his family. His pack.

  ‘Why do you think I’d be so bad for your brother?’

  ‘I think I just proved my point a few minutes ago.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘I beg to differ. I know exactly what you are.’

  ‘I’d like to go home now.’

  ‘You’re staying the night. I’ll get my driver to run you home tomorrow.’

  My mouth drops open. ‘You think I’m going to sleep with you after what you just did? I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth,’ I declare with great unoriginality.

  A slow masculine smile splits his face. If he was good looking before he is devastating now. I stare at him. Jesus! I am crazy about him.

  He reaches out a hand and touches my face with the backs of his fingers. I flinch away. He drops his hand to the side of his body. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I have a date for tonight.’

  Of course, Andrea Mornington of the velvet gown. Fucking bastard. At that moment I think I hate him.

  ‘My housekeeper Maria will set you up in one of the guest bedrooms.’ He turns away from me and strides to the door. At the door he hesitates. ‘Enjoy the party, won’t you?’ Then he is gone.

  I touch my mouth with wonder. Fuck! I was a nightmare looking for a dream.

  FIVE

  I toss and turn on the silk sheets of the king-size bed, constantly moving my body to find a cool spot. The air is balmy and still, but it is the thought of him with her that makes me sick with jealousy. I keep thinking of him pushing into her, filling her up with long, smooth strokes.

  Suddenly I hear the sound of feet in the corridor outside my room. The noise stops outside my door. I lay dead still. Only my heart crashing into my ribs. My eyes riveted on the door handle. He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t fucking dare come to me after he has been with her. There is another heart-wrenching moment of silence and then the sound of his footsteps passes on. I sit up, feeling hot and flushed.

  He didn’t come in!

  I had been maddened by the thought of his audacity but now I am devastated by acute disappointment. It rushes into my system like a physical ache. Fuck you, I think. Fuck you, Jake Eden. I stand up and run to the big oak door. I have my hand on the handle when I stop myself. What the fuck are you doing? I clench my hands into fists and press them against my mouth.

  What the hell is happening to me? I feel as frustrated and unsated as if I have been left unfinished by a lover. What is it about this man that makes me desperate to feel him inside me? I press my ear to the door and hear him going down the stairs.

  I remove my fist from my teeth and turn the lock on the door. The metal click is loud and final. I feel glad that I have done it. I have taken back control. I step away from the door. My hands are shaking with emotion. I am suddenly startled by a light coming on outside the window. It is him. He has tripped the security lights. I move fast. I run to the window and stand in the shadows, behind the curtains.

  I watch him walk across the terrace toward the lip of the swimming pool, full of the restless energy and the deadly grace of a puma on the prowl. Bathed in white light, he kicks off his shoes, tugs his T-shirt over his head, peels off his jeans, and with his thumbs pulls his underwear to the floor. I should stop watching him. I should go back to bed, but I can’t. I am transfixed by the muscular buttocks lit by the neon blue of the underwater lighting.

  Backlit, he steps out of his underwear, and stands for a moment at the pool’s edge. I see the rough dusting of hair on his calves, then, gloriously and fabulously naked, he turns slightly toward my window so that his long thick dick is exposed to me. He looks up then and I feel his gaze seeking me out.

  Meeting his eyes like that is like being kicked in the guts. Wrenching. There is nothing I can do except stand in my hiding place. Guilty. Shameless. We stare at each other. Then he turns away and glides cleanly into the water. For a few moments more I watch him cut powerfully through the blue water.

  Then I stumble away from the window.

  At that moment I realize two things. One: the utter primitiveness of the man, and two: the fact that I am not in charge. I never was. Fantasies spill through my head. His hands, his tongue, his cock. Riding me until I scream. I squeeze my thighs hard.

  I sleep badly and wake up at five thirty. It is already light outside, but blessedly cool. I get out of bed and after a quick shower pad over to the clothes and shoes that Maria brought for me last night. Matching peach underwear, a blue tracksuit and white sneakers, all still with their tags on. Shockingly they all fit me perfectly. He must have random women staying over unexpectedly all the time, I reflect sourly.

  Outside my door the house is totally silent.

  I walk down the grand staircase and let myself out. Mist clings to the ground. It all looks very Sherlock Holmes and I smile to myself as I cross the lawn and head off toward the woods.

  A thundering sound breaks the peaceful stillness of the morning. I reel around, startled. Out of the mist a man on a shining black stallion appears. He is riding without a saddle. His horse is like him—a terrifying presence, raven-eyed. A big brute. Hard and unyielding. I am struck by how animal and man are so blended, so in tune.

  He stops beside me. The stallion snorts restlessly. Its eyes are wild. I drag my gaze back to the man, in awe at the sight of him on that big black stallion. In the soft morning light his face is hard and watchful.

  ‘Come for a ride with me,’ he commands, from a long way up. He sits dead still, his expression intense, his eyes picking up every detail of my person. Despite the stillness there is no mistaking the intent in that big body. At that moment it seems as if nothing can stand in his way.

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I shake my head. I have never been on a horse, let alone a gleaming black monster like this one.

  ‘You don’t talk much,’ he notes and offers his hand. He knows inside I am clamoring for him.

  Dazed by his appearance and the way he makes me feel I put my hand in the cradle of his. His hand is huge. It feels like hot damp earth. It closes over mine tightly. He hauls me up so suddenly, I yelp. I find myself dangerously unbalanced at the back of him. The horse neighs at my panic. He places his calm, steadying hand on its strong neck and holds it there until it stills. He squares my weight on the horse.

  ‘Put your arms around me,’ he says.

  I do it gladly. The heat and scent of him envelop me. I hear the staccato of my heart, loud, strong, fast. I have to resist the desire to lay my head on his taut back.

  ‘OK?’ he asks, turning his head to look at me.

  ‘OK,’ I croak.

  He clicks his tongue and eases the horse into a canter through the fields. There are no sounds but those we make. The horse’s snorting breath, the twigs crackling underneath. He does not speak and neither do I. There is something magical about our ride.

  He slows the horse to a walk as we enter the woods. Here the air is colder and darker and full of the scent of summer, wildflowers and clover. Squirrels and small animals scamper in the underbush and trees. When we get out of the woods we are suddenly on a beach.

  ‘Wow,’ I whisper.

  ‘Hold on tight,’ he says, and puts the horse to a gallop along the shoreline. For a few seconds I am shocked and a little bit afraid and then I laugh. The wind tears at my hair, tossing it about wildly. Beneath me I can feel the stallion flexing gracefully as he flies over the ground with amazing speed.

  The hard man against my front, the horse underneath me, and the fantastic sensation of total freedom: it is old magic. Magic
that can only be conjured up when all the trappings of civilization have been stripped away. The horse stops. Jake throws a leg over and deftly jumps to the ground. With his hands around my waist, he lifts me down. He pats the horse’s sleek neck and it runs away from us.

  I look up at him. ‘The horse…’

  ‘He’ll be all right.’

  I notice then that he is barefoot. And unlike all the other times I have seen him, he is wearing an old, ripped T-shirt and faded brown corduroy trousers. I take my borrowed shoes off and hold them in my hand.

  ‘Come on,’ he says and we walk together, our hands almost touching but not quite. We never speak. There is not a soul in sight. Salt water laps at our bare feet. Above our heads a lone seagull circles the sky. I cannot explain the sense of peace or the inevitability of the moment. It feels as if there is no other life for me but this. I am not a dancer in a gentlemen’s club and he is not a gangster.

  I want to ask him why—why is he sharing his paradise with me?—but I find the words choke in my throat. Maybe because I know that this is temporary and words will only taint it. Once, I turn sideways to look at him and find him watching me. His hair is windswept, the hard cheekbones flushed, and his eyes bright in the morning sun.

  ‘What?’ I mouth.

  He shakes his head and whistles. The horse flies toward us, mane flying. A beautiful sight. It stops in front of him and he carefully cups its face and in hush tones speaks to it in a language I cannot understand. Maybe Gaelic.

  ‘What are you saying to him?’ I ask.

  ‘I am introducing you to him. We gypsies have always talked to our animals.’

  ‘What are you telling him about me?’

  ‘That’s our secret.’

  He takes my hand and brings it to the horse. I feel its hot damp breath on my palm. I touch its cheek and see a flare of panic in its eyes. It paws the ground. He cups its face and soothes it.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Thor.’

  ‘He loves you,’ I whisper.

  ‘I love him,’ he says simply and kisses the horse between the eyes.

  With a clean hop he mounts the horse and, sitting squarely on it, reaches for my hand. With me securely seated behind him we return to the house. The journey back seems much faster and too soon we are outside the front entrance of the house. He dismounts and helps me down.

  I look into his face and already he has changed, become distant. He regards me carefully. ‘I have other matters to attend to and will not join you for breakfast. After breakfast Ian will take you back to London.’

  Other matters to attend to. And suddenly I remember the woman he spent the night with. A flash of jealousy rips through me. Fuck her. Fuck them both.

  ‘Thanks,’ I call out casually as I walk away from him.

  I am dying to, but I don’t watch him gallop away.

  Inside the house, I find Maria hovering in the living room. She seems to be fluffing some cushions, but she must have been at the window watching us arrive.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says brightly.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Well then, young lass, what would you like for breakfast? Waffles, cereal, full English, continental, or something different?’

  ‘Continental sounds good.’

  ‘Excellent. Breakfast will be served in the dining room in ten minutes.’

  After she leaves I wander over to the window. How strange it all is. Me in this house. Me on a horse with Jake Eden. Ten minutes later I go into the dining room. It is exactly like the rest of the house. Rich and splendid and unlived in.

  I eat my warm, perfectly flaky croissant with lashings of butter and jam and drink my cup of freshly brewed coffee alone. But as I am finishing my food Jake appears at the door.

  His hair is still wet from his shower and he is dressed in a charcoal shirt, black trousers, a white silk tie and maroon shoes. I remember again the way he looked coming in from the mist, at one with his beast. Uncivilized and utterly beautiful. He is holding a box in his hand.

  I stare at him, surprised. I did not expect to see him again this morning. I brush croissant crumbs from my fingers and wipe them on the napkin on my lap.

  ‘I got you something.’ He seems awkward, totally at odds with his usual macho bravado.

  I stand, the chair scraping on the carpet. ‘You got me a present,’ I say stupidly.

  He comes toward me and holds it out. I take it cautiously. It is a square box, five inches by five. It is wrapped in dark gray paper with a broad red ribbon. It screams expensive.

  I undo the ribbon and tear the paper open. Inside a transparent plastic box is a spray of white orchids. The stem is immersed in a small plastic tube of water and attached to a comb-clip.

  ‘For your hair,’ he says softly. ‘Wear it tomorrow night… For me.’

  White flowers. I remember the poem: Somewhere there’s beauty. Somewhere there’s freedom. I nod slowly, my eyes locked on his. Hypnotized by what I see in them. ‘So you’re coming to the club tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Wait for me?’

  I register a surge of uncontrollable joy inside my body. It makes my ears burn. I smile—happy, wistful.

  ‘And one more thing—Miss Mornington didn’t stay the night.’

  SIX

  It is a slow night at the club and I worry about how awkward it will be to see Shane there, but as it turns out he does not come in. At two Melanie and I take a cab back to the apartment.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I say walking to the fridge. ‘Do you want something?’

  ‘Get the ice cream out,’ she says flinging herself on the sofa.

  ‘Chocolate or vanilla?’

  ‘Both.’

  I bring two bowls of ice cream out into the living room and Melanie is taking crumpled, damp notes out of her bra.

  ‘Whoa,’ I say, kicking off my shoes and curling up on the couch opposite her. ‘I thought we all have to use ECs.’

  ‘Yeah, we do,’ she admits. ‘But some guys want me to have cash. They know I’d lose twenty percent during cash out and they’d rather I had the whole thing.’

  ‘Does Brianna know?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So how much money do you make in a night then?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘About a thousand on a bad night and three to five on a good night.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Three to five?’

  ‘Why? How much do you make?’ She looks at me with narrowed assessing eyes.

  ‘After paying the house fee and other costs about three hundred quid. Once I made seven hundred.’

  ‘No fucking way,’ she erupts, clearly as shocked as I was that she was taking in up to five thousand in one night.

  ‘Why is that so shocking?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Damn, girl, if I looked like you I’d be making five thousand a shift. That’s what those blonde bimbos take home every fucking night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really, and you know what else? If you don’t start earning at least four figures soon Brianna is going to ask you in for a little chat, and if your income doesn’t improve real quick after that you’ll be politely asked to leave.’

  ‘Shit,’ I curse softly. I can’t afford that to happen.

  ‘What did you think? You’re taking up the place of a girl that could be earning thousands for the club. We are the sweets in the sweetshop.’

  I stare at her stupidly.

  ‘Look, it’s not hard. You just have to apply yourself. Do you know what Jolene takes home?’

  ‘Jolene?’ I frown and shake my head. Jolene is the least good-looking girl at the club. She even has buck teeth. When I met her in the changing rooms it surprised me that Brianna had taken her on.

  ‘That girl takes six to seven thousand. Sometimes I’ve heard she even makes ten when her regulars come.’

  My jaw drops open. ‘Ten thousand pounds?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘A night?’

  ‘Yeah. You should see when sh
e cashes out at the end of her shift. It’s like someone hitting jackpot at the fruit machine in a Vegas casino.’

  ‘What does she do to get them to give her all that money then?’

  ‘To start with she doesn’t act all high and mighty like you do.’

  I open my mouth to deny it, but Melanie holds out a warning hand. ‘I’ve seen you. You will be sitting down with a guy and your body language will be screaming, I don’t want to be here. I mean which man is going to pay a girl who clearly tells him she finds him unattractive.’

  ‘But they are unattractive..’

  ‘True, but,’ she licks her spoon, ‘why did you become a dancer?’

  ‘To make money.’

  ‘You’re not going to make any with your attitude. You know what Jolene does? She goes and sits next to them and whispers in their ears, “I’m here to be anything you want me to be. I can be the dirtiest, most forbidden whore of your fantasies. Tell me what you want me to be? Talk dirty with me.” And guess what? They never get to touch her, she talks dirty, they empty their wallets, and they come back for more. Now that is a clever dancer. She’ll even invite other girls into the VIP room to dance for her customer and pay them for it.’

  The whole idea puts me off. I feel decidedly glum. ‘I don’t get why they just don’t all go to a knocking shop and buy a prostitute.’

  ‘Aha!’ she cries triumphantly. ‘That is why plain Jolene is taking home ten thousand and super gorgeous you is bringing in three hundred. Because you don’t understand the job. The “no touching” rule means there is no longer any pressure for the man to sexually perform. It’s all about his fantasies. For a few hundred quid he can be that guy of his dreams with beautiful girls hanging on his every word, laughing at his most inane jokes.’

  She leans back and takes off her boots. There are more sweaty notes stuck to her calves. As she peels them off and straightens them out on the table I see that some of them have phone numbers scribbled on them.

  ‘And here is something else you should understand. Dancing can be incredibly empowering and a great turn-on. Why do you think all the girls wear tampons even when it’s not their period?’