by Raine Miller
“Why did you do that, Finnegan? I expected to speak with her this morning about the job.” This was certainly an epic cock-up. None of it made any sense. If she came here to find me at home, then why would she leave again so quickly? I didn’t think my suggestion last night was that far out of bounds, considering her line of work. The art student part surprised me, true, but maybe scholarly didn’t pay enough to suit her tastes. She was a woman who wore silk and lace with ease. Just as she did casual covered in muck.
Once I’d gotten over my initial shock, and cooled down a bit, I’d realized I wanted to keep Maria, or Miss Hargreave, or whatever her name was, around for a while. I wanted to have those green eyes sparking up at me and see her breathing heavily as I crowded her body with mine. I wanted to feel the moment when she decided to submit.
We’d been to that point before, you see, and I was determined to get us there again. I’d realized I’d offended her with my comment about making her come, as soon as I’d said it. She’d smacked me a good one and let me know her limits. I respected that and fully intended to repair my error. Some submissives didn’t like things so bluntly put, and I was willing to work out an arrangement that would be completely agreeable to both of us. Or so I had thought. I couldn’t deny the more I entertained the idea of her and me having a little something on the side, the more I liked the prospect of getting my artwork catalogued. It might just become my new favorite pastime.
But now she’d just up and left?
This was very displeasing. And Finnegan had helped her to leave.
“I can’t believe you helped her to go before I could even have a conversation with her, Finnegan,” I said disgustedly. “How in the hell will I get her back here to do the work now?”
He turned slowly and regarded me, his light blue eyes narrowing. “I believe her words to me were, ‘I just have to get away from here and Mr. Everley won’t ever have to see me again.’”
“What?”
“Yes indeed, she was quite desperate to leave the place, and I feared she would have set off on the road by foot if I’d not helped her. I couldn’t have allowed that in her condition,” he said firmly, his chin lifting at me in challenge.
“Her condition, Finnegan?” I felt the flicker of unease at my neck. What the bloody fuck did he mean by her condition?
“She was distraught, in tears, very upset, and I fear, feverish as well, possibly from being trapped in the wet for so long last night.”
Tears? Distraught? Feverish?
“You can’t be serious, man,” I told him, half hoping I’d heard wrong.
He leveled me the same hairy eyeball that had scared me when I was a boy, and let me have it. “I am deadly serious. When a woman comes to me for help as Miss Hargreave did, then I am at her service, my Lord.”
Fuckin’ hell.
Finnegan has just used the “my Lord” label on me. I was on his shit list for certain if he was throwing out the dreaded baronial address. The man barely tolerated me as it was and now he’d basically told me to fuck off.
And I feared I’d made a grievous error in how I’d handled the mysterious Miss Hargreave.
I texted her mobile number.
WHY did you just go off? I’d still like for you to do my archival work. Let’s discuss. –I Everley
Nothing.
I tried again. Can we talk about it, please? –I Everley
And then: I’ll fly you back to Belfast and collect you myself. No surprises this time. –I Everley
No response.
Then I got Langley on the line.
“I can’t help you, Ivan. I don’t know what in the hell happened up there in Ireland between you two, but she won’t help you now for any amount of payment. I believe her words were something along the lines of ‘I don’t care if he has a basement of lost Vermeers and Van Goghs in crates next to a pile of hidden Nazi gold.’”
“Did she now? I suppose hidden Nazi gold isn’t a total impossibility since my grandmother was Russian. Maybe she managed to nick some and stash it. In fact, I’m fairly sure there’s a Vermeer in there somewhere, but how in the fuck would she know? She didn’t even stay long enough to take a look at anything!” I shook my head in disbelief. “She spoke to you already?”
“She did. She called me from the airport and was not her usual confident self, either. In fact, I’ve never heard Gabrielle so…upset in the four years I’ve known her. She told me you didn’t want her at your place, that you were very angry when she arrived.”
“Yes, well…”
“Were you angry? And if so, why on earth—you practically begged me to send somebody out there.”
Yeah, I’d read Gabrielle Hargreave all sorts of wrong. I don’t think I could have read her any more wrong. I was so certain though…
“Ivan?” Langley wasn’t going to let go of this.
“Um, yeah. We’d met before you see, and it was…awkward. I suppose I could have handled the situation better. There was a storm and she got lost—all a big misunderstanding.”
Langley snorted at me. “Understatement of the year.”
“Right, I’ll go and see her and apologize then. I want her back here to do the work. Give me Miss Hargreave’s address in London and I’ll fix this.”
“I can’t do that. Privacy protection prohibits me from giving out her address. Surely you realize that would be wholly inappropriate.”
“But, I definitely want her to do the cataloguing of my art, Langley.”
“I’m sorry, Ivan, but I can’t help you with her.”
“You mean you won’t.” Langley would find my contribution to his foundation quite lacking in the coming year, but I’d let him worry about it when he missed my cheque.
“Correct,” he said firmly.
“Why not?”
He sighed in the line. “Gabrielle told me something quite disturbing, and I find I need to keep some distance between you and the university, in this situation. It’s best for all parties involved.” He coughed as if preparing himself to say more, and then he continued. “And, Ivan, your recent troubles with…female friends…is no secret. You need to sort your sordid shit out—away and separate from my students.”
There it was again. My private life on display for the world to ogle in disgust. Hadn’t Miss Hargreave told me I was disgusting right before she cracked me across the face? The idea she thought of me that way really bothered me considering what she does.
“What did she tell you?”
He paused uncomfortably and I could imagine him squirming at his antique desk, probably a lot like mine, as he struggled to lay the uncomfortable truth on me.
“She said you were firmly under the impression she worked for an escort service.”
But she does.
“Why on earth would you suggest something so—so coarse, to a student you hoped to make a professional working relationship with?”
Her showing up here took me by surprise and I said the first thoughts that came into my head? And because she is an escort moonlighting at a top-of-the-line private service? Because I want her in both of her professional capacities?
“Ivan?”
“Yeah. I get it, Langley.”
“Good, because you can’t be terrorizing female students and dragging the university’s reputation down into a scandalous goddamn mess—”
I cut the line and simply stared out the window at the sweeping green that went on for miles. So pristinely beautiful. At times I wished there was someone else to share it all with. Besides Finnegan and Marjorie, my groundskeeper.
I mentally kicked myself. What was I thinking? That fantasy idea was dead.
I’d learned long ago that trying to explain myself was utterly pointless most of the time. People usually made up their minds in advance. Didn’t really matter what Langley thought of me, anyway. I knew the truth about Gabrielle Hargreave and I’d find her again. There were ways to make that happen, and I had the resources.
The storm had passed through during
the night leaving scattered clouds and mild temperatures behind. It appeared the day might stay dry, and I was grateful her drive down to Belfast was made safer with no dangerous weather messing up the roads. At least there was that.
I texted my dad just before the flight attendant called for all cellular devices to be switched to airplane mode. The job in Ireland didn’t work out. Arriving Heathrow @ 11:30 on BA 1423. Can you pick me up? Don’t worry. xo - Gaby
The drive to Belfast, turning in the rental car, waiting in line to buy a ticket, and then the ordeal of getting my equipment through as checked baggage had pretty much wiped me out. I touched my forehead with the back of my hand in an attempt to feel if I was hot. I couldn’t really tell for sure, but maybe I had a fever. I knew I felt like shit, and that was plenty, fever or not. If I was indeed getting sick it sure explained a lot about my emotional state of the past sixteen hours. The crying and weeping was so out of character for me.
Poor Mr. Finnegan. No, thank God for Mr. Finnegan.
Had Mr. Everley inquired about me after I’d gone? He’d probably felt relieved to know his private sanctuary was back to being private again. The man really thought I was a prostitute. Total insanity. Well, not really, considering what you allowed him to do to you on the night of the gala. I shivered in shame, pretty sure I made an audible groan, because the guy seated next to me was all eyes and instant attention. I ignored him and turned away toward the window.
Professor Langley sure hadn’t expected the “Mr. Everley thinks I’m working for an escort service” announcement to come out of my mouth. But then, neither had I. Regardless, it got me off the hook of having to stay there and do the job. The whole nightmare was over, and I was free now, but still…I shuddered in mortification at the thought of what Mr. Everley had said about wanting to fuck me…and for how I’d slapped him. I had never behaved like I had with him with other men, both on the night of the gala, and last night at his estate. He affected me strangely for sure, and I said and did things that shocked even me.
It was just so damned awful, the whole thing. And I was certain I was coming down with something evil.
I rested my feverish head against the cool window and continued to ignore my early-balding, over-cologned seat-mate who kept trying desperately to get my attention, and didn’t seem to take the hint I wasn’t interested in being on the receiving end of his, can-I-buy-you-a-drink?, come on. Ugh.
I closed my eyes and slept.
MY dad wasn’t there to pick me up. He sent Desmond to do it.
Just seeing a friendly face nearly propelled me back into tearful territory.
“Jesus Christ, you’re hot, Gaby,” he said after a kiss to my cheek.
I frowned at him and felt my eyes get watery.
“I—I mean you feel hot.” Des looked me over good, his warm brown eyes darting. “Are you all right? You don’t look your usual self,” he said more gently.
Was that a nice way to tell me I looked like shit? I sure felt like a giant pile of it, and I must’ve looked the same. I forced a smile, gulped back my tears, and thought maybe I should give Desmond Thorne a chance.
The man was always nice to me, and despite his serious persona, he was dependable. No crazy irrationality coming out of him. He was also gorgeous, with a lean body trimmed in muscles I knew would be spectacular if I ever saw it sans the designer suit. Des was always wearing a suit, so I’d never had the privilege. Didn’t mean the spectacular body wasn’t rippling under the silk threads. Also didn’t mean I couldn’t have the privilege if I wanted. I could. In a heartbeat. All I had to do was let him know I wanted to.
But did I? This was the burning question.
Along with my burning body temp.
“I know. I think I have a fever.” I held a hand up. “You probably shouldn’t get too close, Des. I’d hate to give you whatever it is that’s infected me.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Gaby. I am never ill.” He reached for my baggage trolley and took over pushing it for me. “Your flat then, I’m guessing?”
I nodded gratefully. “Yeah. I just want to get into my bed and sleep for a long time.”
“Of course.”
We talked in the car on the way into the city. I told him how I’d gotten lost in the storm and had to wait in the dark for three hours until Mr. Everley finally decided to answer his messages. I explained how he was angry when I’d arrived and thought I was somebody named Maria, and felt his privacy had been compromised. I left out the part about how we’d hooked up at the National Gallery. Just the remembrance right now gave me a shiver. I shared that Mr. Everley might be a jerk, but his servant, Mr. Finnegan, was most certainly not. How he had been kind and showed me to my room, and then helped me this morning to make it back to my rental car.
“It sounds like this Everley’s a crazy bastard, and I’m glad you’re not taking his job. And your dad will be glad, too.”
“I know he will. Dad doesn’t trust most people.”
Des cracked a tiny smile and raised an eyebrow at me.
“I know he trusts you,” I said absently as I switched my phone off airplane mode, and waited for it to update.
There were three alerts. Texts. All from him.
I read them and couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Oh—my—God. The lunatic is asking me to come back there and accept the job.”
“What is he saying?” Des asked.
I read the texts out loud to him.
“Why is he fucking you about like this? He’s angry you’ve come to his estate and wants you gone, and then when you’ve left the job, he begs you to stay? You’re right, he is a lunatic plonker.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t tell anyone I’d had a sexual encounter with the man. Instead I decided right then and there to put the nightmare experience of Mr. Everley behind me for good. I’d made a terrible lapse in judgment the night of the gala in a moment of weakness, and I had paid for my sin. I needed to put the whole hideous mess behind me and move on.
By the time we got to my flat, I could hardly stand on my feet without wavering. Desmond helped me up all five flights of stairs, his strong arms practically carrying me.
I did manage to dredge up enough energy to change into some yoga pants and a T-shirt, and to crawl into my bed while he went back down to get my bags.
Des was such a good person, I thought, as I settled under the covers and let my eyes close. I should maybe thank him by inviting him over to Dad’s place for a home cooked dinner. Yeah, I might just do that once I was feeling better...
ENOUGH of this silent-treatment bullshit. I phoned her.
Except it wasn’t her. Some chap answered.
“I’d like to speak to Gabrielle Hargreave,” I said.
“And who’s asking?” So, I’d gotten the correct number for her at least, but the voice on the other end of the line was hostile, so I figured there was nothing to lose.
“My name is Everley and I want to speak with her about a job she was hired to do at my home.”
“Well, she doesn’t want your blasted job, and she’s not coming back there ever, you arse.”
“Who is this speaking?”
“Someone who cares about her. Someone who cares that she’s ill with a fever right now, and worn out from the crazy shit you bloody well know you put her through. Who abandons a woman out in a storm for hours and then tells her she needs to leave as soon as she arrives? Who does that and then bothers her with messages to come back there?”
“I’ve made a mistake and I need to speak with her. Can you tell her to ring me?”
“I doubt it, but what I can tell you is that you’re going to fuck off now.”
Then the line went dead.
I’d bet money he wasn’t her man because he’d have said so if he was. She’d never corrected me when I’d addressed her as “Miss” either. Whoever that was who’d answered her mobile was somebody close, yes, but he wasn’t her husband and he wasn’t her boyfriend.
He said she was il
l, and that part didn’t sit well with me.
I felt badly about her being frightened and feeling unwell as she tried to find the house in the storm. I felt even worse about how I’d blown up at her when I saw her in the light and got a good look. What were the odds of that happening? She was such a goddamn mystery, no doubt about it. Was she an escort sent to dig up more sordid dirt on me, or had that part been all a misunderstanding as well? She claimed over and over she wasn’t working for any escort service. Langley was appalled at the suggestion. Finnegan had labeled me a tyrant, as had her unnamed telephone champion. Was I way off the mark with Gabrielle Hargreave?
I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d been in that closet with me at the National Gallery, though. It played and replayed over and over in my head. My body remembered all too well how she felt deliciously melted in my arms, submissive and content after I’d made her come. How she’d wanted everything we did together in those too-short minutes. That encounter had been all about the sex. Crazy, raging, filthy sex. I wanted to have her like that again. I wanted to believe she was just a grad student sent to do some important work, who just happened to have some incredible chemistry with me. I could still remember how she tasted, sweet and exotic, and how she let me have my way.
Tantalizing infuriating woman.
I went outside for my daily therapy in hopes of figuring it all out.
As I shot arrow after arrow into the targets, I thought about what had happened with her, and wondered if I would ever see her again. Or if I did manage to find her, would she ever allow me to apologize and make it up to her? It bothered me very much she was ill and had to travel on her own while feeling that way. I was sorry for upsetting her to the point of tears and driving her away. I needed to see her again so I could attempt to figure out where things had turned so horribly wrong. How had I read her so inaccurately?
I’d get my chance eventually. Despite my lot in life, I was genuinely optimistic about most things. And confident. It was just part of how I’d been made, and I knew how to fight for the win. I’d done it plenty of times, and under extreme pressures most people would never understand.
