Elizabeth
S tanding under the huge shower, I let the water rinse away the day’s dirt and smoke. The kitchen very nearly went up in flames this afternoon because of my own stupidity and now that it’s done and sorted out, I can’t help but laugh at my own ineptitude. Jesus, two-dozen trays of brioche and pastries were ruined as the old catering cooker finally gave itself the boot and died a savage death. Flames had erupted from the back of the ancient eight-ring burner mid-way through the afternoon and even though I knew exactly what I should have done, I just stood there, frozen. The extinguisher and fire blanket had vanished from my fire response trained mind and instead I simply stared at the flames licking up the wall and bizarrely thought of Alex, his face etching itself into my darkest fears. Belle rushing in at the smell of smoke and dousing the flames with expert precision was the only thing that brought me back to reality. I’m entirely sure the whole building would have gone up like a bloody bonfire if she hadn’t saved the day.
Now I am here, standing in his bedroom, and this is where I will stay for two weeks, under his control and also under no illusions that that could mean anything he wants, he gets. His dominant nature and over-powering character shone through on Tuesday evening and I’m pretty confident about what I’ll be receiving for the next week or so. What that means for the emotional side of the relationship is anybody’s guess but I doubt I’ll be receiving declarations of love any time soon.
Mind you, I suppose I have agreed to it. The anticipation of just the dominant Alex was just too bloody enticing to say no to and regardless of his words, I know he’s still in there somewhere, hiding yes, but definitely still there. I just have to find him again. I haven’t got a bloody clue how I’m going to achieve this goal, but I’ll be damned if I’m giving up when he’s shown me so much.
Dressing myself in blue skinny jeans and a black shirt, I apply a little make-up and make my way down the stairs in anticipation of his arrival. Noticing the time is only a quarter past six, I decide that maybe I should start some dinner. Has he eaten? Is that even my responsibility? He had said he had a housekeeper but I’ve seen little evidence of her existence apart from a permanently immaculate house. Staring along the hallway, I notice a door along the corridor off to the right so I tiptoe toward it and decided to have a peek inside. I’m supposed to make myself at home according to Andrews, so what better way to start than to have a nosy around? I push the heavy oak door open and smile at what greets me. The room is beautiful, truly. Full of all sorts of musical instruments, the cello and violin sit neatly in their stands at the fireplace, the racks of guitars hang on the wall and the white grand piano stands elegantly under the window. Is Alex musical? There’s no denying he can move and obviously likes his music, but I’ve never seen him play anything or even talk about it. The room does feel cold somehow, as if it’s unloved or unappreciated. Maybe he doesn’t come in here much. I stare at the grand for a few more moments and then feel my stomach grumble at me. Chuckling to myself, I retreat and softly close the door before the pull gets too strong to be able to refuse.
Walking through to the kitchen, I notice that the hole in the wall where his fist connected with it has gone and is now freshly repainted. The lamp that was smashed to bits has also been replaced and there is no evidence to suggest that an incident ever occurred. Jesus, things happen fast in the world of the wealthy. Is that how quickly one can cover things up, pretend they didn’t happen, manipulate others around you into believing everything’s okay? Probably, knowing Mr. White and his ability to diffuse all situations, but it’s not, is it? Okay, I mean. It’s different now and it’s all because of that temper of his. I seriously need to get a handle on how to deal with that because shrivelling to the floor in a pathetic mess of snot and tears is not going to achieve anything, certainly not with him. Belle’s words spring into my mind: “A man like him will need a firm hand.”
Firm hand, my arse. The man needs more than a firm hand to stabilise that sort of fury. I’m not sure what that is, but showing him I’m scared of him isn’t going to do me any favours at all, and I’m not anyway, well not really. Actually, I was the other night but not in a ‘he’ll hit me’ sort of way. More in a ‘what the hell is he going to do next?’ sort of way. I need to do some serious thinking about how I handle this next two weeks. He can try it his way if he likes but we both know it’s not going to be enough for any real type of relationship. Maybe he doesn’t want one of those anymore? Shit, that’s not good. What on earth am I doing? No idea.
Perhaps Andrews knows what I should do about dinner? Pressing the intercom on the wall, I tentatively speak, hoping I’ve hit the right button and am not about to set the house alarm off or something equally as stupid.
“Andrews, are you there?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be right down,” he responds quickly in his typically efficient manner.
“No, no please don’t. I just wondered if you know if Alex has eaten or if I should cook?” I ask, biting my nails.
“Oh, I umm... I don’t think so, ma’am. Would you like me to call him?” he replies hesitantly.
“No, don’t. I’ll just throw something together. Thank you, though.”
“Okay ma’am, call up if you need me at all.” My nose scrunches up at the ma’am title. I really don’t like it, and he certainly doesn’t have to use it in every sentence. Perhaps I should just say something at some point. In fact I will. It’s ridiculous, all this sir and ma’am stuff. Maybe not now, though.
Releasing the button, I make my way to the wonderful cooker and hob. Oh god, how I long for such an extravagant kitchen of my own. Running my fingers along the countertop and finding my way to the fridge, it suddenly hits me that I know so little about the man I’m staying with. I’m falling hopelessly in love and I don’t even know what he likes to eat. Checking through the fridge, I find some steak and peppers, mushrooms and yes, some cream. Stroganoff. Brilliant idea. What man doesn’t like that? Music, I need some music. I always need music to cook to. Now how the hell do I use this bloody speaker thing? Checking out the remote, I do some random stabbing at buttons until music starts spilling out into the room. Classical? That surprises me. I’ve never seen him as a classical sort of man. Liszt. Waves of beautiful and slightly melancholy notes linger one after another as the piano twinkles its way around the song. Laughing to myself as I remember the years of sitting with my grandma at the piano keys, I turn it up and let the music play on around me. Does he play the piano? I seriously need to find out more about him. I mean, he’s just shown me how screwed up his childhood was and yet I didn’t know that he likes classical music. That’s all kinds of wrong.
Just as I’m putting the lid on the pot and opening the oven, I hear Andrews in the hall talking to someone. Peeking my head around the corner to see who it is, I glance at the back of a very well cut suit, and equally nice backside and instantly recognise him simply by his stance. The cane rather gives it away, too. My pathetic groin reminds me of other unsettling thoughts regarding the man so I quickly dip back around the corner to hide, then realise how ridiculous that is so look back again.
“No, sir, I’m sorry he’s not here. If you’d called ahead earlier perhaps I could have told you before you came over,” Andrews says calmly with a very rigid stance, blocking the doorway. Slowly that face turns towards him, irritation written all over it, quite beautifully at that. Stop it, Beth.
“Ah, you English people and your intolerable formalities. Why must I ask permission to visit my friends? I cannot be bothered with you enough to even wait for a response to that. You bore me. In fact this whole bloody country bores me,” Pascal shouts as he throws his arms around dramatically.
I can’t stop my face lighting up at the thought of a conversation with the man as I giggle to myself at his exasperation, so smoothing my shirt down and tucking my hair behind my ear, I wander into the hall and hope I can handle whatever comes next.
“Pascal, how lovely to see you again. Please, come in,” I
say as calmly as I can, given the utter sex bomb in front of me. It’s actually a lot harder than I thought it would be. Both men swing their heads toward me.
“Do not tell me that you cook as well? That the divine fragrance coming from the kitchen is something to do with your delectable self? Beautiful Elizabeth, my rose. Why did he find you first? It is wholly unreasonable of him.” Knocking his cane on the floor a few times, he gestures it toward the kitchen, barges Andrews out of the way and smiles with such dynamism that it almost takes my breath away. Andrews scowls and moves toward us, apparently unhappy about Pascal entering the house.
“Andrews, I’ll call if I need you but I’m sure we’ll be fine until Alex gets back,” I say with a grin as Pascal takes my arm and pulls me along with him.
“Yes ma’am, if you’re sure ma’am,” he replies with narrowed eyes and a nod. I’m not convinced he likes Pascal in the slightest.
On reaching the kitchen, Pascal launches himself at the pot and lifts the lid. Fanning his face with the smell of the stroganoff, I feel a smile of pride creep up my lips as I take a seat at the table. Cooking is the one thing I can do well. I’ll be damned if it makes me feel anything but pride. Opening the wine and pouring two glasses, I can’t hide my blush at his blatant sexual energy. The expensive cream suit that clings to his undeniably striking body is tailored to perfection and the matching pink tie and handkerchief are artfully positioned with the precision of a man who only accepts perfection. Not many men wear pink effectively, but he absolutely does and still manages to radiate masculinity from every fibre of his being. This is a more modern Pascal but the elements of old school charm are most definitely still flowing from his soul. If he has one, that is. He somehow reminds me of those roguish vampires that seem to be the rage all over the place at the moment and I giggle at the thought because it suddenly strikes me that he’d make an awfully good vampire, dangerous and clearly completely over the top. Perhaps he is one? You never know given these pesky fairies that seem to linger around.
“How are you, Pascal? Come, sit down and have a glass of wine. Alex shouldn’t be long. He said he’d be here by seven thirty,” I say quietly while fingering my glass and watching his lean frame gliding across the room towards a cupboard. He moves with accuracy around the space as if he knows exactly where he’s going. He’s obviously spent a lot of time here. Either that or the man just oozes precision and poise regardless of his location. That’s probably true anyway, to be honest.
He retrieves a heavy glass ashtray and continues on towards me with a smirk. My sodding groin clenches at the vision. Shit.
“I am surprised, my dear. That is what I am. I am also rather amused that you are in his home. I have never seen another woman here and because of this, you intrigue me more and more by the minute. What do you have that consumes him so?” he replies, taking a seat and lifting the glass to his fiendish lips, those bright green eyes devouring me with his lingering stare.
“I think you’d have to ask him that, Pascal. I’m sure he’ll give you as much information as he deems acceptable to divulge,” I state, glancing down at the table and tapping my fingernails. I seriously have no idea myself at the moment. If I’m honest, I don’t even know if we’ve got anything at all anymore.
“Ah, he is being a little obstructive, my love, yes? He is known for it, although not normally with a woman. He usually has no issue whatsoever showing his disinterest for their intrinsic flaws and inadequacies. Although I doubt there is anything remotely usual about you,” he replies as he unbuttons his jacket, crosses his legs and lounges gracefully in that European way. Taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it, he inhales deeply and resumes his gaze through the smoke that he blows out. “Tell me, what did you think of my club? Did you have a good time in his suite?”
I feel the blush return instantly at the thought at what we got up to in that room and can’t stop the smirk that crosses my lips. Pascal’s fishing for details, though, and unless Alex wants to give them to him, I’m pretty sure it isn’t my position to give away such information freely. These games of his, while strange, have rules. I’m not sure what they are yet but I’m not dropping myself in it anytime soon. Certainly not given what I’ve just agreed to with Alex.
“I think your club is wonderful, Pascal, a real revolution for the spirit. Do you have many or just the one?” I ask with genuine interest. Well deflected, Beth. He smirks and stabs out his cigarette as if he knows exactly what I’m trying to do. His look of amusement carries on regardless.
“Four so far, my dear. Rome, Berlin, New York and here. You will no doubt see them all in the months to come. I trust you enjoy the lifestyle or Alexander would not be so preoccupied with this little tryst of yours. I must say I am enjoying the view as much as he would be. Would you care to show me a little of your appeal? I’m sure if you just wrapped those exquisite limbs around me, I could use you fairly thoroughly for the evening,” he says, reaching across the table and aiming for my hand with that imposing stare of his. If I’m honest, the gesture weakens my resolve a little, but I absolutely must not let him touch me.
I pull it back abruptly and raise an eyebrow, flattening my smile and trying for offended. I have no idea if it’s worked or not but he does narrow those damned eyes at me.
Keep it together, Beth. Try and stay in control, for God’s sake.
“Pascal, please don’t degrade yourself to requests. It’s beneath you, I’m sure, and I doubt you’ve ever asked pleasantly for something in your life. I’m his alone and you know that already. I think he made his feelings perfectly clear in Rome.”
Good God, I sound like a seasoned professional at this BDSM thing, whatever the hell it is. Where the hell did that come from? Alex is clearly rubbing off on me to somewhat astounding proportions.
Pascal gazes at me for a while and then leans back into his chair again. That very wicked smirk hasn’t even moved on his face as he considers my response. Eventually his face breaks into a wide soft grin as he refills our glasses, and holy hell, it’s a beautiful smile. I can completely understand why women fall to their knees for him. My insides clench rather uncomfortably as I flick my eyes to his hands. They’re probably very bad hands, possibly worse than Alex’s. What the fuck am I thinking about? I immediately chastise myself for my own treachery as I think of the man who’s coming home soon and raise my head back up to meet his amused eyes.
“Do you like my hands, my rose?” Shit.
“I... I...” I haven’t got a bloody answer. Balls. He chuckles at me and licks his unfairly glorious lips, which continue to mesmerise me somehow. Jesus, I need to control this shit.
“I like you, Elizabeth, very much. You are loyal to him and so desperately sin worthy I forget myself sometimes. You are more than likely going to be the ruination of the finest dominant I have ever known. And please DO NOT tell him I told you that. He is conceited enough as it is and I doubt I could survive any more lust to pour out of my body for him. It would surely be the death of me,” he says, another genuine smile and a wink following. That’s unfairly beautiful too.
“Thank you, Pascal. I think,” is my stupidly giggling reply. “Now have I passed your tests, or will there be more assessment to come? I’m trying to keep your friendship with Alex intact. I know he thinks highly of you and I’d hate to have him fly into another uncontrollable rage,” I ask, trying desperately to stop my eyes from lowering to the table. The man simply makes me feel like a fraud in the room, as if he has more right to be here than me. He possibly does. Who knows what the pair of them have been up to over the years? Couple that with the fact that I can’t take my eyes off his bloody mouth and I’m seriously considering running home where it’s safer.
“We have been a lot of things over the years, my dear. I would like to think friends is where we have found ourselves now. As for you passing my examination, I am not sure I will be allowed any further investigations this evening unfortunately. I dare say I will try again, though, at some point,” he repli
es with a very naughty smile as he nods toward the hall and raises his glass to his mouth again.
Footsteps echo and I lift my head to see Alex walking into the kitchen. I literally gasp in a breath at the radiance of the man. His wide shoulders are encased in a blood red shirt, rolled up at the sleeves showing off his muscular forearms, and his black jeans hug every lean muscle on his legs. I had almost lost myself in the sheer naughtiness of Pascal and it isn’t until the raw masculinity that is Alex strides towards me that I realise just how deeply I love him. All of him, every different facet of him. He’s engrained himself on my soul and there’s no running away from it now.
His black hair is messy on top and his cool blue eyes twinkle at me as he approaches with devilish intent. He doesn’t acknowledge Pascal at all. He simply grabs the back of my neck with a strong hand and hauls me up into a passionate and deadly kiss that has me weakening at the knees for him instantly. My core ignites, electricity seeming to swirl through my body and disable any form of defence I have. If he bends me over the table and asks Pascal to watch, I’ll probably let him. Thankfully, he doesn’t.
Easing his hand from my neck and releasing his lips from mine, he eventually pulls back and gazes at me for a moment. Those eyes tear through me as normal, right into the heart of me where he knows I can’t hide from him. He moves in again, placing a small kiss on my forehead then releases me to wander across the kitchen to get himself a glass and another bottle of wine.
Pulling up a chair and pouring his wine, he leans back and stares at Pascal with his unfathomable smile. Minutes pass with nothing being said, just the two of them looking at each other over their glasses as if considering their next move in some sort of game. Alex’s gaze seems impassive, but somehow vicious currents of something unknown surround his whole being. Pascal’s demeanour is cool and completely unreadable. I almost say something and then decide it’s probably best not to, given the current rather bizarre pissing contest that seems to be happening in front of me, which my core is still clenching about. Also that inner slut of mine seems to be flicking her eyes between the two and throwing far too many intriguingly explicit visions of torment my way. It’s very disturbing.
Seeing White Page 45
