Besotted (The Billionaire Banker Series)

by Le Carre, Georgia

  She continues to stare at me.

  ‘Please,’ I continue, more carefully this time, ‘take a seat.’

  Dazed she looks at the two chairs facing me, but she does not move. ‘How did you know I would be here today?

  I tell her about the nifty little software that flags her name and date of birth if it comes up in the banking system.

  She frowns, but says nothing.

  I need to engage with her. The shock has dazed her. ‘Is all the money in the Swiss account gone?’

  She nods distractedly. ‘But why are you here?’

  ‘Same reason as before.’

  ‘For sex.’

  I sort of lose my head then. ‘Sex?’ I hiss, my jaw clenching tight. ‘God, you have no idea, have you?’ I go around the table and advance towards her. Honestly, at that moment I want to throttle her. How easily she had said that word, diminished all my intolerable pain and my insatiable longing into one meaningless action. She carries on staring at me, almost fearfully. I stop a foot in front of her, electricity crackling between us. I take one more step and we are inches apart and suddenly I smell her. I breathe in the scent. What the…?

  Baby powder!

  Sick, but it fires up my imagination the way the most expensive perfume cannot. Like a snake, lust is uncoiling in the pit of my belly, spitting its venom into my veins. I want her so bad I ache. Quickly, I lower my eyelids, but it is as if she has already seen the potency of my desire for her. For the first time since she came into the room, color tinges her skin.

  She reaches out a trembling hand toward me.

  My reaction is instant and beyond my control. ‘Don’t,’ I rasp, stiffening. I cannot let her have the upper hand. This has to be all my way. And there is no highway for this little bird.

  Shocked by the violence of my reaction, she retracts her hand. I see the realization in her eyes. Now she knows she has damaged me. Her face crumples as if she gives a flying fuck. What an actress.

  ‘Please,’ she whispers.

  She put a lot emotion into that word and I am shocked at how much I want to believe that it is not an act. My pathetic neediness annoys me. I bend my head toward her face. Her eyes are riveted on my lips. What is she remembering? The taste of me?

  ‘Dishonest little Lana,’ I murmur, so close to her neck that if I put my tongue out I’d lick that tender skin. I run my hand down the smoothness of her neck—skin like pure silk. I let my fingers wrap around it—so slender, so breakable. I hear her draw in a sharp breath. Languidly I slip my hand into the collar of her cheap blouse.

  She begins to tremble. I pay no attention. Instead I watch my fingers slip a button out of its hole and then another. I spread apart the joined material so that her throat, chest, and the lacy tops of her bra are exposed. The desire to rip her clothes is so strong I have to physically fight it. I frown. Yes, she is very beautiful, but I have had other very beautiful women—why does this woman alone have such an effect on me? Even knowing what I know about her doesn’t change a thing. Not having total control over my own impulses makes me feel vulnerable and defenseless. It is like falling backwards into nothing. I hate the sensation. I can never let her see my weakness. I turn coldly furious. The breaths that escape her lips are suddenly shallow and quick. I smile possessively. So nothing has changed on that front.

  ‘You were, by far, more when you squeezed into that little orange dress and your fuck me shoes, and went looking for money,’ I taunt. ‘Look at you now; you’re flapping around inside a man’s jacket. Two hundred thousand and you don’t even buy yourself a nice suit.’

  I tut. ‘And this…’ I raise my hand to her hair. ‘This ugly bun. What were you thinking of?’ I ask softly, as I pluck the pins out of her hair and drop them on the ground. I return her hair to its silk curtain. Beautiful. I reach back, pull a tissue out of its box and start wiping away her lipstick, a horrid plum. I am unhurried—let her stew from the outside in.

  I toss the stained tissue on the ground. ‘That’s better.’

  She stares at me helplessly, and guess what? It turns me on to have her at my mercy.

  ‘Lick your lips,’ I order.

  ‘What?’ She looks horrified by the cold command, and yet electrified by the sexual heat that my order obviously arouses. Like a beautifully tuned guitar, the tension in her body matches mine. I feel the same desire rippling through her.

  We have played this game before. We both know where it leads.

  My jaw hardens. ‘You heard me.’

  The tip of her small, pink tongue protrudes and I eye its sweet journey avidly. ‘That’s more like it. That’s the mercenary bitch I know,’ I say, thrusting a rough hand into her hair. It is exactly as I remember it. Soft and silky. A year of waiting. Bitch! I tug and pull her head back. She gasps with shock, but her eyes are wide, unafraid, and innocent. Fuck you, Lana. You’re no innocent. We had a deal and you cheated me. And that fucking Dear John letter? You didn’t even have the decency to wait until I got out of hospital. I could have been dead for all she cared. I expect better from a two bit whore. But the thing that hurt the most: she didn’t care.

  Now I will have my revenge. Another part of my brain is sneering—you’re fighting a losing battle here, dude.

  The thought powers me to kiss her. This kiss means nothing to me. It is only a way of gauging her reaction. I will not allow myself to get sucked into it. I descend on her roughly, painfully, violently, purposely bruising her soft lips, my mouth so savage that she utters a strangled, soundless cry. That sound wakes up an uncivilized beast. I make room for it. The intense desire to hurt and have my revenge is greater than me. Let her understand that I am not the same man that I was then. Before she betrayed me.

  I taste the fury in my kiss: blood!

  Really, Blake? But I cannot stop. Cannot control my emotions. Cannot resist her. Cannot live without her. I don’t allow myself to feel.

  A moan escapes her. And it affects me—in a way I could never have guessed. It almost makes me forget my carefully laid plans. It almost makes me take her on the floor of this drab office. The effect this woman has on me is incredible. I feel raw and starved. No matter what she does or what she is, I want her. All I want is to be buried deep inside her, but I am not a Barrington for nothing. Years of iron control come to my rescue. One of us is going to get hurt this time, and it will not be me.

  Her hands reach up to push me away, but her palms meet the solidity of my chest, and as if with minds of their own, they push aside the lapels of my jacket, and her fingers splay open on my shirt. Oh, I know that sign. Pure submission. She’s mine. I can do anything with her now. But I want more, more than just sexual surrender. I’ve got a plan. And I’m sticking to it.

  I change the kiss, gentle it. Instantly her body scents victory and tries to burrow closer to me, but I keep my grip on her hair, relentless and tinged with hurting force. I cannot let her get nearer. I am in dangerous territory. One wrong move and I will fall into her honey trap again. She tries pushing her hips toward my crotch. Can’t have that. That would give me away.

  I end the kiss nonchalantly, as if I have just participated in a meaningless encounter, or a polite social interaction. With the same feigned lack of emotion I put her away and casually prop myself against the desk. I fold my arms across my chest, and watch her with great satisfaction. This is my territory. Here I am boss. This time, Lana honey…

  She stands before me aroused, breasts heaving and hands clenched at her sides as she tries to regain some measure of composure.

  I smile. Round one—me.

  Silently she takes two steps forward, reaches a hand out and puts a finger on my throat. I freeze. I can feel her skin on my frantically beating pulse. And just like that we are connected. We never break eye contact. Fuck her.

  Round two—is not over yet.

  ‘Is it sex when I want to see you come apart?’ I ask bitterly.

  Her face crumples. This woman deserves an Oscar. She takes her finger away from my throat. �
�What do you want, Blake?’

  ‘I want you to finish your contract.’

  She drops her face into her hands. ‘I can’t,’ she whispers.

  ‘Why not? Because you took the money and ran while I lay in a hospital bed?’

  She takes a deep breath, but does not look up. Guilty as charged.

  ‘I was cut up to start with,’ I say as coldly as I can. I don’t want to give her any more power than she already holds.

  She looks up. Butter wouldn’t melt in that sweet O. ‘You were cut up?’

  ‘Funny thing that, but yes.’

  ‘I thought it was just a sex thing for you,’ she murmurs.

  ‘If you wanted money why didn’t you ask me?’ My voice is harsh.

  ‘I…’ She shakes her head.

  ‘You made a serious miscalculation, didn’t you, Lana, my love? The honey pot is here.’ I pat the middle of my chest.

  She simply gazes at my hand.

  ‘But not to worry,’ I say sarcastically. ‘All is not lost. There’s money in the pot.’

  How predictable. Her gaze lifts up to my mouth.

  ‘You did me a favor.’ I try to sound detached, but my voice comes out bitter and pained. ‘You opened my eyes. I see you now for what you were… Are. I was blinded by you. I made the classic mistake. I fell in love with an illusion of purity.’

  She carries on looking at me blankly.

  ‘If I had not bought you that night you would have gone with anyone, wouldn’t you? You are not admirable. You are despicable.’

  ‘So why do you want me to finish the contract?’ she asks breathily.

  ‘I am like the drug addict who knows his drug is poison. He despises it, but he cannot help himself. So that we are totally clear—I detest myself. I am ashamed of my need for you.’

  ‘The… The…people who paid me—’

  ‘They can do nothing to you. My family—‘

  She interrupts. ‘What about Victoria?’

  And suddenly I feel very angry. What the fuck has Victoria to do with this? This is between me and her. Besides, I am fond of Victoria and hide a measure of guilt for the pain I have caused her. Her shock when I tried to break off our engagement surprised me. I had imagined that she was marrying me for the same reasons I was—consolidation, security, and continuity—but in fact she is in love with me. If anything, the extent of her possessive passion worried me a little. A marriage of convenience only works when both parties exhibit similar detachment. I don’t want to think of it now, but the truth is that I do not want Victoria. At that moment I realize that I can never marry Victoria. But for now I will deal with the most pressing problem I have: I cannot think of being with anyone other than the witch standing in front of me.

  Angrily I forbid her to ever again drag Victoria into our arrangement. A flash goes off in her eyes. It’s gone in a second, but even lidded it reeks of jealousy! I seize the opportunity to manipulate her by exaggerating Victoria’s loyalty. I rub it in that Victoria stood by me through my worst period while she swanned off to Iran. ‘One day,’ I tell her, ‘I will wake up and this sickness will be gone. Until then… You owe me forty-two days, Lana.’

  She closes her eyes and hangs her head.

  ‘Name your price,’ I demand curtly.

  Her head snaps up. ‘No.’ Her voice is very strong and sure. ‘You don’t have to pay me again. I will finish the contract.’

  ‘Good,’ I remark casually, but I turn away from her immediately. Cannot let her see how elated I am by her capitulation. I can hardly believe I have won so easily. My mind is doing victory back-flips as I go around the desk, and retake my position behind it.

  Chapter 2

  I slide into the black swivel chair and open the file in front of me. ‘So, you’re setting up a business?’

  She drops into one of the chairs opposite me and tells me that she and Billie are thinking of starting a business. I ask the appropriate questions but my mind is elsewhere. I am not interested in hearing about her business plans.

  ‘That reminds me, how is your mother?’

  To my surprise her face contorts with pain. Seconds pass in acute silence. ‘She passed away.’

  I lean forward, eyes narrowed, shocked. ‘I thought the treatment was working.’

  She bites the words out. ‘A car. Hit and run.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m real sorry to hear that, Lana.’ And I am, too, really sorry. She was a good woman. I liked her.

  She blinks fast. Oh my God, she is going to burst into tears. She stands. I stand, too. Immediately she puts out a hand to ward me off, and runs to the door. In an instant I don’t hate her anymore; all my desire to hurt crumbles to dust and I just want to help her, make it easier, take her in my arms and protect her. I stride toward her and grab her arm. She twists away from me, but my grip is too firm.

  ‘This way. There’s a staff restroom,’ I say quietly, and quickly opening the door I lead her down the corridor. From the corners of my eyes I can see the tears are streaming down her cheeks. I hold open the toilet door and she rushes in. The door swings closed in my face.

  I stand there looking at the door and then I hear her. Wailing for her mother. I lift my hand to push the door open, but I don’t. I take a step back. Then I begin to pace. I have never heard anyone cry like that. I come from a family where all our expressions of sorrow are carefully controlled, a dab from a handkerchief to the eye. When my grandfather died, my grandmother did not even stop the journey of her cup to her mouth. Only after she had swallowed her sip of tea did she say, ‘Oh dear.’ At the funeral not a tear was shed, by anybody.

  More than once I go to the door and almost push it open. I want to go in, but I cannot. My feet refuse to move forward. Anyway, it is clear that she does not want me, and that it is unsafe for me. I am already too confused and unhinged by a few minutes in her company. A woman appears in the corridor apparently heading for the toilet. She glances at me and I growl at her. Yeah, that’s right, I growl.

  She does a hundred and eighty degree right turn and flees. I look at my watch. Five minutes have passed. The wailing has become long sobs. I continue to pace. I jam my fists into the pockets of my trousers. She’ll be out soon. Suddenly the sobs stop. I go to the door. The door is cheap and I hear the tap running. I step away instantly and move a few feet away from it. I lean my back against the wall and stare at the ground. For the last year I have been dead inside. Now all kinds of thoughts, desires, and emotions are coming to the fore. They are like those strange, mud-covered creatures that the tide uncovers when it goes back to sea. The door opens. She is standing there, her blouse buttoned to the neck. She won’t lift her eyes. She won’t meet mine.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She nods.

  ‘Tom will take you home.’

  Very slowly her eyes, the eyelashes damp and sticking together, rise up to meet mine. They are like her voice. Level. There is nothing there to hold on to. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Let’s get this loan business out of the way.’

  If she had slapped me in the face it would have been better.

  We go back to the clinical office.

  I take up my position behind the desk once more. ‘Baby Sorab?’ I say and look up from her application form.

  And what I see chills my blood. Her face is cold and totally devoid of expression. How could she howl one moment for her mother then sit opposite me with that look. She shrugs carelessly.

  ‘Yes. We thought it was a good name for our business.’

  ‘Why baby clothes?’ It seems a curious business for two young girls to get into.

  ‘Billie has always been good with colors. She can put red and pink together and make them look divine. And since Billie had her baby this year we decided to make baby clothes?’

  ‘Billie had a baby?’ I frown. I thought she was a lesbian. And then it hits me, of course. It’s what they do. Have a baby—the government gives them a flat and an income for the next eighteen years!

  ‘Yeah, a beautiful
boy,’ she says, and suddenly I have a gut feeling. She’s lying about something. She says something else and I reply, but it is all just a charade. One I lose interest in prolonging.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘OK what?’

  ‘OK you got the loan.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘There is one condition.’

  She becomes very still.

  ‘You do not get the money for the next forty-two days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ I say softly, ‘for the next forty-two days you will exist only for my pleasure. I plan to gorge on your body until I am sick to my stomach.’

  ‘Are you going to house me in some apartment again?’

  ‘Not some apartment—the same one as before.’

  She sits up straighter. She looks me in the eye. She has some stipulations, too. She wants to bring Billie’s baby to the apartment for four nights a week. And she wants Billie and Jack—the guy she thinks of as her brother and I fucking know is in love with her—to be allowed to come to the apartment. I don’t like the idea, but I let it go for now. Nothing she has asked for is what I would consider a deal breaker. The baby might be annoying, but I’m cool with Billie. Jack might be another matter but I will handle that with time.

  I engineer a bored expression. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine. Have you plans for tomorrow?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Good. Keep tomorrow free. Laura will call you to go through the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘OK. If there is nothing else…’

  ‘I’ll walk you out.’

  Heads turn to watch us. I ignore them all, but Lana seems disturbed by their regard. Again I have that unfamiliar sensation of wanting to protect and shield her. The bank manager catches sight of us and hurries toward me. He has an odd expression on his face, a cross between constipated and stricken, no doubt horribly concerned that I could leave without giving him the chance to flatter me. I lift a finger and he stops abruptly. I pull open the heavy door and we go into the late summer air. It is wet and gray, but it is not cold.