“It’s been my pleasure,” she replied, thinking just how much more pleasurable it could have been had she been brave enough to take the leap of faith and pursue their personal relationship. “It’s a lovely home and–” she paused, hearing the front door close, wondering if it signaled the last of the inspectors leaving. Was she was now alone in the house with Sean Harrington?
“What is it?” Simon asked, concerned at her abrupt break in conversation.
“Sean’s still here, and I think the last inspector just left,” she said in a hushed voice, not wanting to be overheard. “If you don’t mind I’ll call you back from my car.”
“Yes, leave,” Simon ordered, his voice stern. “Come to the hotel.”
She heard a sound, and glancing up saw Sean walking towards the arched opening of the sunroom, carrying something in his hands she couldn’t quite discern.
“I will–uh–bye!“ she said hurriedly,
Quickly she dropped her phone into her large bag, unaware that she had failed to disconnect the call. Simon could still hear her, as well as the sounds in the room.
“Sean–what’s that you’ve got?” Simon heard her ask anxiously.
“Just a little something to help us,” he growled.
“What? Sean–don’t be silly–SEAN! NO!”
Simon, alone in his suite, having sent Cecil out with Parker to run some errands, pressed his phone to his ear.
“Belle–Belle–Belle what’s happening?” she shouted.
There was no response, and to his horror he could hear what sounded like a struggle. An ugly, sick feeling washed over him. Never had he felt so helpless. Frantically he grabbed the hotel phone and called the concierge.
“Do you have a young, fit driver who can double as a bodyguard if necessary?” he asked, impatience and urgency in his voice.
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair, we do. Shall I have him bring a car around?”
“Immediately–a town-car,” he ordered, recalling Belle’s admonition, thinking it would prove faster than a limousine.
“Yes, Sir. It will be waiting for you in the parking area.”
Simon ran from his suite and up the walkway. He had told Sean very clearly, to be respectful of Belle and keep his distance, and while he sensed the agent had a nasty streak, he hadn’t thought for a moment Harrington would attack her, especially not at the house the man was selling, but that was exactly what Simon believed he had heard.
If anything happens to her I’ll never forgive myself, he thought, rushing up the path to meet the car.
The parking lot came into view and he spied a strapping young man in uniform standing by a town-car.
“Mr. Sinclair?” he asked, as Simon jogged up.
“Yes, start driving and I’ll give you directions,” Simon ordered hurriedly, ignoring the open back door and jumping in the front seat.
“What’s your name?” he asked, as the young man climbed in next to him.
“Joseph, Sir. Joseph Cardinelli.”
“Can you handle yourself in a tight spot?”
“I was a Marine, Sir,” he grinned, gunning the car out of the driveway.
“Excellent. We’re going to 3224 Moresham Lane. There’s a woman there in trouble.”
“Ah–I know a short cut,” he said quickly, and turned sharply away from Sunset Blvd and up into the hills.
For five days Sean Harrington had stewed. For five days his anger had grown, and for five days he had schemed and plotted.
He would not be bullied or intimidated by any man, certainly not some pompous British asshole. Who the hell did Simon Sinclair think he was? Sure the guy was loaded, so what! No British upper crust snob would to tell him, Sean Harrington, what he could and could not do.
Fuck him–and fuck Belle Somers!
He was going to nail her ass, and nothing and nobody was going to stop him. If she spilled her guts afterwards it would be his word against hers. He would claim he left shortly after the last inspector and Belle was still at the house; he would claim he saw one of the pickup trucks headed back up the driveway when he was leaving and assumed one of the guys had left something behind; he would state, indignantly, he was a well-respected and highly sought after Beverly Hills realtor and any slanderous remarks besmirching his good character would be met with a lawsuit.
He would have had her at that damn Christmas party but for her nosey friend who’d shown up out of the blue, but he’d figured if he waited long enough the right situation would present itself. It had with the others and it would with her. As far as he was concerned, that time was now. He’d show her and that fucking asshole Sinclair.
The little he needed he’d put in his briefcase; duct tape for her big mouth and a condom for his big dick. No telling who that slut had bedded. It would be a simple matter to wait until the inspectors had left and corner her in a room somewhere. How easy she made it for him, going into the small sunroom in the back of the house. Only one door in and one door out and no space for her to maneuver, just a couple of love seats to dance around. Let the fun begin!
The instant Belle had seen him approach she knew. His tie had been pulled from around his neck and he was carrying it in one hand, a roll of duct tape in the other. His eyes were dark and his brow furrowed, his lips set in a grim, grotesque smile.
Dropping her phone in her bag she’d made a run for the door, but she was a split second too late. He lunged forward, blocking her exit. She had darted around the coffee table, making a second dash for the doorway, and as he turned around to grab her she did a pirouette, twirling her large bag above her head, hitting him in the face. Already off-balance he fell backwards, giving Belle her chance to escape, and screaming loudly, she’d made a dash for the foyer.
To her great alarm she found it impossible to run in her high heels. Afraid to stop and pull them off she did her best, but he caught her just as she reached the front door, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her easily off her feet.
“BITCH!” he bellowed. “YOU BITCH! You hit me with that fucking bag!”
Kicking and screaming and struggling as he half dragged, half carried her into the nearby living room, she tried desperately to remember what she had learned in the self-defense class she’d attended just a few months before.
“Fight,” the instructor had said. “Keep thinking but fight. Grab anything around you that you can use as a weapon. Make it as difficult for your attacker as you possibly can.”
As he lugged her past an end table she managed to grasp a bronze statue, and swinging it wildly behind her, she landed a lucky blow, smashing the heavy ornament into the front of his head.
“AAARRGGGHH,” he cried, dropping her as he grabbed at the wound spouting copious amounts of blood.
She landed in a heap on the floor, but before jumping to her feet she took two precious seconds to pull off her shoes, then ran as fast as she could across the Persian rug, but when she hit the highly polished marble floor it proved perilously slippery to her stocking feet. A few strides in and she felt herself tumbling forward, her voice wailing in panic. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man’s body appeared in front of her, his two arms reaching out to catch her mid-fall.
“Help me! Help me!” she screamed, completely unaware it was Simon’s arms into whose she fell.
“Oh thank God,” she sobbed, grabbing the apparent stranger around the neck.
Looking up at his familiar blue eyes and handsome face, she sobbed loudly, collapsing into his chest. Swiftly he lifted her up, and turned to carry her out to the car.
Joseph, who had been a few steps behind him, launched into full Marine attack mode, ripping off his chauffeur’s jacket as he bolted past them after Sean Harrington. Noises of a scuffle followed just moments later, and to Simon’s ear it sounded as if Joseph was in full control. Confident his assessment was correct, he carried Belle out of the foyer and into the car, climbing in after her, pulling out his phone to call the police. Belle crawled into his lap shaking uncontrollably, crying profusely.
“You’re safe, you’re safe,” he promised, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly against him as his finger tapped out 911. He gave the dispatch operator a fast account of events, and though he longed to go inside the house and find out what was happening with Joseph, he wasn’t going to leave Belle. She needed him right where he was.
Had he entered the living room, he would have found Sean Harrington sitting on the floor, his hands knotted behind his back with his own tie, his feet bound together with a telephone cord, and a very red, quickly swelling, bloody broken nose, Joseph looming over him.
“I’m going to go and check on Belle,” Joseph declared. “Please do something stupid while I’m gone. I’d love to black out both your eyes and crack a couple of ribs.”
Sean was in too much pain to answer, and had no intention of doing anything except pray that the police had been called and would hurry up and arrive. He had no desire to suffer any further bodily harm at the hands of the husky chauffeur.
Joseph hurried to the car, and opening the back door found the beautiful girl curled up in Simon Sinclair’s lap, trembling and crying.
“Sean is tied up, perfectly incapacitated,” he advised. “Should I call the police?”
“Done, but Belle here needs a shot of something. Can you check in the house and see if they have any whisky or brandy?”
“I have,” Joseph replied, closing the door and hopping into the driver’s seat. “What’s your pleasure? I have vodka, gin and I think some whiskey.”
“V–v-vodka,” she squeaked. “I can’t s-stop s-shaking.”
“You’re very prepared,” Simon remarked, grateful the young man had the liquor.
“Sometimes passengers like an adult beverage on the spur of the moment. It’s a handy kit to have,” he answered, hoping a little levity would help the poor girl. He opened what looked like a large briefcase, but open revealed a portable mini-bar. Pulling a shot glass from its elastic holder, he poured the vodka and offered it across the seat to Simon.
“Drink this,” Simon said, offering the small glass, but Belle’s hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t grasp it. “It’s okay, just tilt your head and open.”
That she could manage. Never had the spicy, soothing heat of the liquor flowing down her throat felt so good, and she let out a deep, sobbing sigh.
“Would you like another?” Simon asked.
Belle shook her head.
“I’d better put this away,” Joseph remarked, the sounds of fast approaching sirens alerting him to the arriving police cars.
He buckled up the case, slid it into the darkness of the floor under the glove compartment, then jumped from the car to greet the officers and lead them into the house. It only took a few minutes for Sean Harrington to be handcuffed and led away, and though no ambulance was called, the police informed Joseph that Sean would be transported to a hospital. A few minutes after Sean’s departure a detective arrived, and sat Joseph down in the living for a full accounting.
“Where is the young woman in question?” the detective asked, after Joseph relayed the dramatic story.
Joseph indicated the town-car in the driveway, and together they walked out of the house. As Joseph climbed into the driver’s seat, the detective tapped on the back window and Simon lowered it down. Belle wasn’t shaking as badly as she had been, but as far as Simon was concerned she was not yet in a state to answer any questions.
“My name is Detective Tennison,” the man said. “I’m sure this isn’t a good time but I do need to get a statement from the victim. Would you mind coming into the house?”
Simon quickly sized him up. Lifetime on the force, seen it all, rugged cop who didn’t like the bad guys. A man that Simon believed could be empathetic.
“Detective–my name is Simon Sinclair. I appreciate your diligence and want to make sure Sean Harrington gets what’s coming to him. May I beg your indulgence? I am staying at the Bel Air Hotel. Could you possibly follow us back there? It will give Ms. Somers a chance to catch her breath and be in a more comfortable setting to give you whatever information you need.”
It was an easy sell. Simon didn’t become the success he was by brains alone. Charm and salesmanship were at his core.
“Yes, I suppose that will be all right. I’ll follow you,” the detective replied.
“Thank you. I assume the house will be secured? I’m in the middle of buying it.”
“Yes, sir. Most definitely,” the detective assured him, and strode off to his car.
“I know a back way into the hotel, Mr. Sinclair. Save you having to bring her down the public walkway,” Joseph offered.
“Much obliged,” Simon replied. “You’ve been extraordinary, Joseph, and you seem like a very bright young man. Why are you driving cars?”
“In my last year of law school,” he sighed, as the car began to move slowly down the driveway. “I have to pay for it somehow.”
“Is that right? What type of law do you wish to practice?”
“Real Estate, Sir.”
“Make sure I have all your contact information. I may have a job for you.”
“Really? Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”
Belle stirred in his lap and sat up, rubbing her hands across her face.
“S-s-sorry for falling apart,” she stammered.
On her empty stomach, the vodka was quickly having the desired effect, and though she was still clearly distressed, her shaking had all but disappeared.
“Don’t be silly,” Simon said softly. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. You must tell the detective everything that happened.”
“I should have known,” she lamented. “Especially after the Christmas party.”
“You mentioned that before.” Simon frowned. “Was there more to it than you told me?”
“He kind of–well–he tried...”
“Never mind. I get the picture. You’ll tell the Detective about that as well.”
“Yes, I will,” she replied, then looked up into his sparkling blue eyes. “How can I ever thank you? You saved me.”
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he scolded quietly.
His eyes were full of deep concern, and as they blazed into hers, Belle felt a twist in her stomach.
“Simon,” she whispered, and weakened by the drama of her narrow escape, and overcome with her unrequited need, impulsively she threw her arms around his neck.
He swallowed hard. The sound of his name spilling so tenderly from her lips, dispatched a scintillating warmth through his body, and as her breasts pressed against him, and her mouth brushed his neck, he felt a deep, craving ache to own her.
“Belle,” he breathed, and silently added, we are going to have a long talk.
After the detective left the hotel, having extricated the entire story about Sean Harrington’s thwarted attack at the Christmas party and the events of the afternoon, Simon called room service, ordering a variety of foods and the obligatory pot of tea, but Belle couldn’t eat anything, in spite of having had virtually nothing since breakfast. A doctor was summoned who administered a sedative, after which Simon decreed she would stay the night, and sent Cecil out to buy her a pair of pajamas and some casual clothing for the following day. Once she was settled in bed sleeping, Simon finished a light dinner then took himself to the hotel lounge.
It wasn’t busy and he sat at one of the tables by the fireplace, ordering a brandy. He needed time to think and reflect. The timing of his arrival at the house had been nothing short of miraculous. When he’d burst through the doors to see Belle running for her very life, slipping and sliding on the glossy floor, his heart had stopped, then instinct had propelled him forward, arms outstretched to catch her.
It was only a moment later that Joseph galloped by chasing down the evil Sean, and never in his life had Simon been so grateful for backup. It would have been impossible to give Belle the attention
she needed and catch Harrington as well. He owed the young man a great deal, and was going to make sure he was rewarded handsomely.
As he sat watching the flickering flames, sipping the warm, amber liquor, Belle consumed his heart and mind. When she had melted into his chest, clutching him and shaking with fear, it almost brought him to tears. Initially, the thought of what might have happened to her had filled him with fury, but when she murmured his name, the anger was abruptly replaced with a deep and heavy caring, the likes of which he’d never felt in his life. It was far more than simple concern for a damsel in distress. As he’d held her tightly, reassuring her and doing his best to provide comfort, he had the overwhelming feeling that he never wanted to let her go; never wanted her to be out of his life; never wanted anything bad to happen to her ever again.
The piano player was caressing the notes of a haunting Eric Satie melody, and Simon faced the truth. Belle was a woman with whom he wanted to share his life.
The concept was startling to him. For the many years he had been building his empire, his assignations were many and varied, and none of them involved any kind of emotional strings. Belle was different. His feelings for her were different, and the alacrity with which he had fallen for her was nothing short of astonishing. Downing the last of his nightcap he returned to his suite.
As he readied himself for bed, feeling her presence in the guest bedroom, he began pondering her feelings towards him. The intensity in her voice and the look in her eye as she had crawled into his arms in the back of the limousine, made it abundantly clear she was harboring far more than simple gratitude. So why had she abruptly pulled away?
Climbing between the sheets he closed his eyes and considered the question, but a burning ache in his groin demanded his attention. Pushing back the covers he reached for his cock, visions of the beautiful young woman dancing in his mind’s eye.
He imagined her dressed in a transparent robe, her luscious breasts waiting for attention, her hips swaying softly as she moved towards him. He imagined her climbing on the bed, lifting the robe and straddling him, taking hold of his hardness and...
The British Billionaire Bachelor Page 7
