Dark Melodies (The Black Combe Doms Book 1)

by Ashe Barker

  And it is in that moment that it occurs to me that we will indeed start. I am really, seriously intending to give this mad scheme of his a try.

  And, sad cow that I am, I know exactly why.

  I’m a thinker, not a doer. A passionless, unfeeling analyst. All my life has been about my brain—my super, overachieving, ‘profoundly gifted’, IQ of one hundred and eighty-one brain. About what I know, how much I know. And I do know a lot. I’ve spent my life thinking, learning, studying, understanding, reasoning. Racking up qualifications left, right and realise—more qualifications than I could ever possibly need, but I chase them, collect them because they’re there, I can get them, and I really don’t know how to do anything else, what else to achieve. All things cerebral, that’s me.

  But that’s all I am. Anything physical, and I’m a wreck. I’m useless at sports, which I can live with. But emotionally I am little more than an embryo, made worse by the fact that intellectually, I completely understand what it is that’s missing in me. I understand perfectly well what emotional intelligence is, why most other people I know get on so well together. And I can’t manage to make or keep even one friend. Or haven’t, until now. I understand all about ‘relational capital’ and I know I’m totally bankrupt in that department. I know what interpersonal skills the people around me seem to have in spades, and I don’t. I can explain perfectly well why everyone except me is able to work together in teams, able to collaborate, cooperate, persuade, negotiate, succeed. I know exactly what it is I’m missing, and that’s why it hurts so much.

  I might be academically outstanding, welcome in any university I decide to grace with my presence, but I’m as much an object of research as I am a colleague. A curiosity. A freak to be studied and explained, artificially replicated.

  My party trick is that I can learn. I can learn more or less anything, effortlessly. And I never forget anything I have learned. That’s my claim to fame, that’s what makes me interesting to the other academics. And despite all this ‘brilliance’, my emotional development is more or less equivalent to a goldfish’s, as far as I can tell. I’m not a team animal because I don’t have a clue about sharing, relying on others, doing my bit. Totally self-obsessed and goal-driven. I can’t generate any interest in anyone else’s work—only my own.

  It’s not that I don’t care about anyone else’s feelings or recognize that their goals are just as legitimate as mine. On a purely intellectual level I understand about being polite. My mother made sure of that, and I do try. I can pretend, for a while, if I concentrate hard and try not to forget to look engaged, but the truth is I’m just not interested. I’ll put on a show of listening carefully to what others have to say, but pretty soon I’ll lose patience working with anyone who knows less about a subject than I do—and after a few weeks at most of studying a subject I will know more than anyone else around me, definitely. So long-term professional relationships are strained, to say the least. Personal relationships are easier, but only because they’re nonexistent.

  I have no social graces as far as I can tell. I am often rude, always by accident—which seems worse, in my view, than upsetting people on purpose—and always despite my best efforts to be consciously polite. I’m not liked. Even I don’t like me that much. If I’m respected—and it’s a big if, frankly—then it’s for my weird and wonderful abilities rather than for anything in my personality, anything in myself.

  On the plus side, my mother likes me, loves me in spite of everything. In spite of how difficult I am to be around. I suppose because it’s in the Mother’s Job Description. She’s so proud of me, proud of my achievements, and now she just wants me to be happy. Settled. I daresay she wants grandchildren, although she’s never said so, but as to that, I’m a lost cause. I’d be downright dangerous as a mother—no defenseless, helpless little child ought to need to depend on me. My mum is always on at me to lighten up, to give people a chance. Not me, no way. I don’t let anyone close. I never let anyone except my mum touch me. Except for Nathan, now, apparently, and that’s as much a mystery to me as anything I’ve ever encountered before.

  In his house, I have started to make friends. I’ve found people in this wild place who don’t know me or anything about me, but who seem to like me, accept me, joke with me, laugh and play with me. I feel more relaxed, more at home here than I can ever remember. For my whole life, I have felt empty, alone, set apart, numb. I can’t even accept my mother’s unconditional love without running out on her without a word. But now something has changed. Something incredible seems to be happening to me, around me, and I want to grab it, hold it.

  This man is offering me a chance to feel, to really feel something, even if it has to be pain.

  I know from my experience on his kitchen table, though, that it will be a lot more than just that. He will pleasure me too. I know he will because I know he can. Without even trying, it seems he can get past all my hang-ups and reach me, touch me. And he is turning out to be very, very good at it.

  Whatever happens between us might not last long. In a month or so my contract will be up in any case, and I will have no reason to stay at Black Combe. But, blessed as I am with the power of total recall, I will be able to hold on to this experience forever, and relive it. This experience will last me a lifetime. It will very probably have to. So there’s no way I am passing it up.

  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “You will? That was an unusually easy sell, if you don’t mind me saying so. Are you sure?” His sharp gaze is puzzled, quizzical, as though he knows there’s more, something I’m not saying. I have no intention of explaining my reasons if I can help it. He already thinks I’m weird enough. And I don’t want him backing out now, thinking I’m some sort of head case he can do without, and, worse still, who shouldn’t be around his daughter.

  “It sounds like it could be fun—well, sort of… And we’re both consenting adults. I like to live dangerously.”

  “Do you?” His intelligent gaze is riveted on me now, disbelieving. He knows there’s more to this. Oh God, please don’t ask. Just don’t ask. “That’s not the impression I’ve had. You seem like a timid little mouse most of the time, apart from when you’re yelling at me about penis substitutes, obviously.”

  He pauses. For a few moments there is silence between us and I cringe, waiting.

  “By the way, you clearly need to become better acquainted with my penis, and I intend to make a start on that very soon.”

  His blunt sexuality shocks me again, but at the same time I’m flooded with relief to hear the devilment in his voice. I peep up at him. He is smiling. His dark eyes are twinkling in amusement now, rather than drilling through my lies and half-truths, and I recognize sexual appraisal as his gaze sweeps over me again. I smile back, nervous still, but with a growing sense that this is just possibly, somehow, going to be okay. Probably even more than okay.

  “Ah, Eva, I am so going to enjoy you,” he murmurs, his tone satisfied, relieved even, as he leans in to kiss me. A long, deep, sensuous kiss, full of promise of something much more intense to come. He skims his hands over my upper body, over my clothes—grungy black T-shirt, as usual—then underneath to fondle my bare-as-usual breasts and squeeze my nipples sharply. I gasp, wince at the pain whilst my arousal spikes unexpectedly.

  “Shall I take my top off?” I ask. Please.

  “A generous offer, Miss Byrne” he murmurs into my ear, nuzzling my neck, “and very tempting. But perhaps not, not this time. We’re in a public place, in broad daylight. I prefer to watch you unravel in private. And we don’t want to get arrested.” It doesn’t stop him kissing me again, though. With one final, deep sweep of his tongue into my mouth, he breaks the kiss at last and, his hands firm and capable, he carefully restores my clothing to a state of near-enough decency—if we overlook the protruding nipples. “We will finish this, Miss Byrne, and very soon,” he promises, restarting the engine.

  * * * *

  Incredibly, we chat companionably throughout t
he rest of the drive, about nothing much—Nathan pointing out landmarks, me asking questions about the area, about places we pass. We both manage to work around the elephant in the back seat. And the sexual tension is almost unbearable. I am wound so tightly I might just snap here and now. As we get closer to Leeds I try to concentrate on my surroundings, on what’s outside the car rather than inside it, between us, inside me.

  I am dimly aware of the landscape becoming harder, more built up, densely urban, made up of high-rise buildings, three-lane carriageways, noise and crowds. This is much more the sort of environment I am used to in London, but now it seems quite alien, harsh and stark in comparison to the beautiful, rolling moorland we have left behind. The bleak and beautiful landscape that, even after a couple of weeks, seems to have wrapped itself around me like a warm quilt.

  Here in Leeds the buildings are now predominantly made of red brick, the traffic frantic and loud. Everyone and everything seems busy, in a rush to be somewhere, do something. I used to thrive on the excitement of the city, love the buzz of energy and purpose, but now it just sounds like confused babble. I want to go home. To the moors.

  Nathan drives us right into the heart of the city realise, somehow negotiating the maze of one-way signs and inner city loop system to end up on double yellow lines at the bottom of one of the busiest shopping streets. Leaning across me, he points to the Vidal Sassoon sign mounted at right angles to a shop about thirty yards up the road. “That’s you,” he says. “Just go in and ask for Damien. When you’re done, get him to point you in the direction of Harvey Nicks. And remember, not too short.”

  He rakes his fingers through my hair, tangling them in it as he kisses me long and hard. Then, breaking the kiss, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket for a business card—tastefully unfussy, of course—which he hands to me.

  “When you’ve finished all your shopping, hop in a taxi and ask the driver to bring you here. This is my office. I’ll be waiting for you. No rush, take all the time you want. Enjoy.” Leaning even farther across me, he opens the passenger door and I am dismissed, unleashed onto the mean streets of Leeds.

  * * * *

  Hours later, wearing some of the new clothes I have spent the afternoon choosing, and teetering on a pair of fuck-me red heels—my pride and joy—I scramble out of a Leeds taxi in front of a huge, glass and chrome waterfront construction, apparently the home of Darke Associates, Nathan’s company. The doors glide soundlessly apart as I stand there, the gentle waters of Clarence Dock lapping against the dockside behind me, on the edge of what looks to be acres of understated gray carpeting rolling across the huge foyer laid out before me. I enter hesitantly, double-checking the address on the card. Yes, right place. According to this, Nathan’s office is on the eighth floor. I look around for the lift.

  “Can I help you, madam?” The smooth, polite tones of a doorman flow over me from behind and I turn suddenly, wobbling on my new red heels. I have only a couple of shopping bags with me, and a lovely little black, satchel-style leather handbag I bought on impulse now carefully guarding my bits and pieces—phone, glasses and my seriously underused credit card. Nicola at Harvey Nicks insisted on charging everything to Nathan, and on having everything delivered. Where my purchases went, I have no idea, just that Nathan ‘left instructions’.

  “I’m looking for Nathan Darke’s office, please. He’s expecting me.”

  “Ah, yes. Darke Associates. You need the eighth floor, madam. The lift is over here. Can I help you with your bags?”

  “Er, no, thank you, I can manage. I’m fine.” I pick up the carriers, hitch my little satchel over my shoulder, and head somewhat precariously for the lift. The doorman, unhampered by fuck-me red heels, gets there first and presses the call button. The doors slide open and I totter in, then press the button with a number eight on it. Nathan, here I come.

  Apart from the shoes I have a new outfit, right down to my coordinating lacy bra and panties in a fetching shade of red. To match my shoes. These are topped off by a smart black shift dress reaching to mid-calf with a split at the back, and a short, boxy pillar-box red jacket. My old clothes are buried somewhere among the purchases from Harvey Nicks, and I assume have been delivered to wherever, in line with Nathan’s instructions.

  My finest piece of work today, my absolute triumph, is my hair. My wonderful, beautiful, softly waving, sophisticated hair. Damien was not a good stylist. Not even a great stylist. He was simply outstanding, exceptional. Two down from God in the world of hair and beauty.

  Earlier, I slunk into Vidal Sassoon ready to settle for whatever I might get. I’ve never had a nice haircut in my life, so it never occurred to me there might be any reason to expect to start now. Damien was waiting, expecting me. He sat me down and stood behind me, making eye contact through the mirror and lifting strands of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers, checking the ends. Then he brought a stool around and sat right in front of me, reaching out for chunks of frizz to examine again, pushing it back behind my ears to study the shape of my face, my colouring. He had questions for me. Important matters to be settled.

  “This is its natural colour?” As if anyone would pay good money to have their hair dyed the colour of a Wotsit!

  “And the texture, do you use any products at all?” Me, products?

  “It’s quite thick, maybe a little difficult to style…?” And the rest…

  Then came his diagnosis.

  “It’s a lovely colour already, but I could give you more copper to add interest, maybe some blonde and amber highlights to break up the lines. And maybe just a hint of purple…” At my look of astonishment, he actually laughed out loud. “Miss Byrne—or can I call you Eva? You have lovely hair. Long and thick and wavy. Most women would kill for hair like this.” At that point I was sure he was taking the piss, but, bless him, he seemed sincere, serious. Deluded, of course, but serious.

  “We just need to educate it a bit, so it knows its place. And in return we will pamper, moisturize, shape it, thin it, colour it, take care of it. Trust me, I will make you, and your hair, even more beautiful.” I could only stare and nod. Yes, anything, just make it nice. Make it behave. Submission starts here.

  And he did make it nice. I emerged from the salon some three and a half hours later, a different woman. Gone is the Tango frizz, the harsh shades of marmalade and boiled carrots. Now my hair is soft, the curls loose and gently flowing across my back and shoulders, courtesy of Damien’s skill with a hairdryer and straighteners—first thing on my ‘to buy’ list, a pair of Cloud Nines. The Belisha-beacon orange is now mixed with shades of vibrant copper, honey blonde and yes, even dark aubergine to give a slight purple sheen as the light catches it.

  The effect is stunning—I still look like me, but so much more than me. I couldn’t help myself, stopping every few yards to admire my reflection in shop windows. Damien has shown me how to twist my hair up into a sophisticated knot for this evening’s dressier look, and has even supplied me with a sophisticated, carved wooden claw to hold it in place. But for now, I’m floating along, swinging my hair from side to side, my flowing, glossy locks glinting in the artificial light inside the lift. Absolutely wonderful. I can’t wait to show Nathan.

  Upon reaching the eighth floor, I find myself standing in front of the lift, a carrier bag in each hand, in a quiet, spacious reception area. At the far end, across an expanse of blue and gray speckled carpet, is a reception desk where a rather attractive, youngish man is engaged in what appears to be a difficult conversation on the phone. As I approach, being careful not to get my heels caught in the shag pile, I can hear him trying to assert himself.

  “Mr. Arzan, please slow down. I can’t understand, please… Ayshe isn’t here—can we call you back? Mr. Arzan, please…” With a grimace, he holds the phone out from his ear, and I hear a faint stream of rapid-fire Turkish from the other end. With an apologetic shrug, he smiles at me, then goes back to his efforts to converse with the agitated Turk. It’s a one-sided affair,
clearly doomed. Mr. Arzan isn’t going to be put off by talk of calling back or desperate promises to fetch Ayshe, whomever or wherever she might be.

  Eventually, I can keep quiet no longer. The young man’s face is a picture of misery and frustration, and I decide to offer my help. See. I can be nice. Must be the Black Combe influence at work.

  “Can I help at all?” I ask politely.

  “Excuse me? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, I’ll be with you in just a moment,” comes the harried answer from the receptionist—James, it would appear, going by the name plate on his desk.

  “No, I mean can I help you? Would you like me to translate for you?”

  “Translate? Can you…? But it’s… Do you understand Turkish?” His look is one of utter incredulity.

  “Yes, I do. May I…?” I hold out my hand for the phone, which he hands over dumbly. Watching, waiting.

  “İyi günler,” I start. “Adım Eva Byrne. Nazıl sınız?” Hushed silence for a moment, then without further pleasantries, the torrent is unleashed once more. It seems Mr. Arzan is site manager on a construction site in Ankara, and has just taken delivery of a couple of hundred tonnes of substandard RSJ girders destined for a residential development under his supervision. He is not happy, not prepared to continue the build with materials not to the correct specification, and the project is already behind schedule. Apparently Darke Associates are the architects and main project developer, and Mr. Arzan wants instructions from on high.