A thundering sound breaks the peaceful stillness of the morning. I reel around, startled. Out of the mist a man on a shining black stallion appears. He is riding without a saddle. His horse is like him—a terrifying presence, raven-eyed. A big brute. Hard and unyielding. I am struck by how animal and man are so blended, so in tune.
He stops beside me. The stallion snorts restlessly. Its eyes are wild. I drag my gaze back to the man, in awe at the sight of him on that big black stallion. In the soft morning light his face is hard and watchful.
‘Come for a ride with me,’ he commands, from a long way up. He sits dead still, his expression intense, his eyes picking up every detail of my person. Despite the stillness there is no mistaking the intent in that big body. At that moment it seems as if nothing can stand in his way.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I shake my head. I have never been on a horse, let alone a gleaming black monster like this one.
‘You don’t talk much,’ he notes and offers his hand. He knows inside I am clamoring for him.
Dazed by his appearance and the way he makes me feel I put my hand in the cradle of his. His hand is huge. It feels like hot damp earth. It closes over mine tightly. He hauls me up so suddenly, I yelp. I find myself dangerously unbalanced at the back of him. The horse neighs at my panic. He places his calm, steadying hand on its strong neck and holds it there until it stills. He squares my weight on the horse.
‘Put your arms around me,’ he says.
I do it gladly. The heat and scent of him envelop me. I hear the staccato of my heart, loud, strong, fast. I have to resist the desire to lay my head on his taut back.
‘OK?’ he asks, turning his head to look at me.
‘OK,’ I croak.
He clicks his tongue and eases the horse into a canter through the fields. There are no sounds but those we make. The horse’s snorting breath, the twigs crackling underneath. He does not speak and neither do I. There is something magical about our ride.
He slows the horse to a walk as we enter the woods. Here the air is colder and darker and full of the scent of summer, wildflowers and clover. Squirrels and small animals scamper in the underbush and trees. When we get out of the woods we are suddenly on a beach.
‘Wow,’ I whisper.
‘Hold on tight,’ he says, and puts the horse to a gallop along the shoreline. For a few seconds I am shocked and a little bit afraid and then I laugh. The wind tears at my hair, tossing it about wildly. Beneath me I can feel the stallion flexing gracefully as he flies over the ground with amazing speed.
The hard man against my front, the horse underneath me, and the fantastic sensation of total freedom: it is old magic. Magic that can only be conjured up when all the trappings of civilization have been stripped away. The horse stops. Jake throws a leg over and deftly jumps to the ground. With his hands around my waist, he lifts me down. He pats the horse’s sleek neck and it runs away from us.
I look up at him. ‘The horse…’
‘He’ll be all right.’
I notice then that he is barefoot. And unlike all the other times I have seen him, he is wearing an old, ripped T-shirt and faded brown corduroy trousers. I take my borrowed shoes off and hold them in my hand.
‘Come on,’ he says and we walk together, our hands almost touching but not quite. We never speak. There is not a soul in sight. Salt water laps at our bare feet. Above our heads a lone seagull circles the sky. I cannot explain the sense of peace or the inevitability of the moment. It feels as if there is no other life for me but this. I am not a dancer in a gentlemen’s club and he is not a gangster.
I want to ask him why—why is he sharing his paradise with me?—but I find the words choke in my throat. Maybe because I know that this is temporary and words will only taint it. Once, I turn sideways to look at him and find him watching me. His hair is windswept, the hard cheekbones flushed, and his eyes bright in the morning sun.
‘What?’ I mouth.
He shakes his head and whistles. The horse flies toward us, mane flying. A beautiful sight. It stops in front of him and he carefully cups its face and in hush tones speaks to it in a language I cannot understand. Maybe Gaelic.
‘What are you saying to him?’ I ask.
‘I am introducing you to him. We gypsies have always talked to our animals.’
‘What are you telling him about me?’
‘That’s our secret.’
He takes my hand and brings it to the horse. I feel its hot damp breath on my palm. I touch its cheek and see a flare of panic in its eyes. It paws the ground. He cups its face and soothes it.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Thor.’
‘He loves you,’ I whisper.
‘I love him,’ he says simply and kisses the horse between the eyes.
With a clean hop he mounts the horse and, sitting squarely on it, reaches for my hand. With me securely seated behind him we return to the house. The journey back seems much faster and too soon we are outside the front entrance of the house. He dismounts and helps me down.
I look into his face and already he has changed, become distant. He regards me carefully. ‘I have other matters to attend to and will not join you for breakfast. After breakfast Ian will take you back to London.’
Other matters to attend to. And suddenly I remember the woman he spent the night with. A flash of jealousy rips through me. Fuck her. Fuck them both.
‘Thanks,’ I call out casually as I walk away from him.
I am dying to, but I don’t watch him gallop away.
Inside the house, I find Maria hovering in the living room. She seems to be fluffing some cushions, but she must have been at the window watching us arrive.
‘Good morning,’ she says brightly.
‘Morning.’
‘Well then, young lass, what would you like for breakfast? Waffles, cereal, full English, continental, or something different?’
‘Continental sounds good.’
‘Excellent. Breakfast will be served in the dining room in ten minutes.’
After she leaves I wander over to the window. How strange it all is. Me in this house. Me on a horse with Jake Eden. Ten minutes later I go into the dining room. It is exactly like the rest of the house. Rich and splendid and unlived in.
I eat my warm, perfectly flaky croissant with lashings of butter and jam and drink my cup of freshly brewed coffee alone. But as I am finishing my food Jake appears at the door.
His hair is still wet from his shower and he is dressed in a charcoal shirt, black trousers, a white silk tie and maroon shoes. I remember again the way he looked coming in from the mist, at one with his beast. Uncivilized and utterly beautiful. He is holding a box in his hand.
I stare at him, surprised. I did not expect to see him again this morning. I brush croissant crumbs from my fingers and wipe them on the napkin on my lap.
‘I got you something.’ He seems awkward, totally at odds with his usual macho bravado.
I stand, the chair scraping on the carpet. ‘You got me a present,’ I say stupidly.
He comes toward me and holds it out. I take it cautiously. It is a square box, five inches by five. It is wrapped in dark gray paper with a broad red ribbon. It screams expensive.
I undo the ribbon and tear the paper open. Inside a transparent plastic box is a spray of white orchids. The stem is immersed in a small plastic tube of water and attached to a comb-clip.
‘For your hair,’ he says softly. ‘Wear it tomorrow night… For me.’
White flowers. I remember the poem: Somewhere there’s beauty. Somewhere there’s freedom. I nod slowly, my eyes locked on his. Hypnotized by what I see in them. ‘So you’re coming to the club tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Wait for me?’
I register a surge of uncontrollable joy inside my body. It makes my ears burn. I smile—happy, wistful.
‘And one more thing—Miss Mornington didn’t stay the night.’
Chapter 7
Lily
It is a sl
ow night at the club and I worry about how awkward it will be to see Shane there, but as it turns out he does not come in. At two Melanie and I take a cab back to the apartment.
‘I’m hungry,’ I say walking to the fridge. ‘Do you want something?’
‘Get the ice cream out,’ she says flinging herself on the sofa.
‘Chocolate or vanilla?’
‘Both.’
I bring two bowls of ice cream out into the living room and Melanie is taking crumpled, damp notes out of her bra.
‘Whoa,’ I say, kicking off my shoes and curling up on the couch opposite her. ‘I thought we all have to use ECs.’
‘Yeah, we do,’ she admits. ‘But some guys want me to have cash. They know I’d lose twenty percent during cash out and they’d rather I had the whole thing.’
‘Does Brianna know?’
‘Sure.’
‘So how much money do you make in a night then?’ I ask curiously.
‘About a thousand on a bad night and three to five on a good night.’
My eyes widen. ‘Three to five?’
‘Why? How much do you make?’ She looks at me with narrowed assessing eyes.
‘After paying the house fee and other costs about three hundred quid. Once I made seven hundred.’
‘No fucking way,’ she erupts, clearly as shocked as I was that she was taking in up to five thousand in one night.
‘Why is that so shocking?’
She shakes her head. ‘Damn, girl, if I looked like you I’d be making five thousand a shift. That’s what those blonde bimbos take home every fucking night.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really, and you know what else? If you don’t start earning at least four figures soon Brianna is going to ask you in for a little chat, and if your income doesn’t improve real quick after that you’ll be politely asked to leave.’
‘Shit,’ I curse softly. I can’t afford that to happen.
‘What did you think? You’re taking up the place of a girl that could be earning thousands for the club. We are the sweets in the sweetshop.’
I stare at her stupidly.
‘Look, it’s not hard. You just have to apply yourself. Do you know what Jolene takes home?’
‘Jolene?’ I frown and shake my head. Jolene is the least good-looking girl at the club. She even has buck teeth. When I met her in the changing rooms it surprised me that Brianna had taken her on.
‘That girl takes six to seven thousand. Sometimes I’ve heard she even makes ten when her regulars come.’
My jaw drops open. ‘Ten thousand pounds?’
‘Yup.’
‘A night?’
‘Yeah. You should see when she cashes out at the end of her shift. It’s like someone hitting jackpot at the fruit machine in a Vegas casino.’
‘What does she do to get them to give her all that money then?’
‘To start with she doesn’t act all high and mighty like you do.’
I open my mouth to deny it, but Melanie holds out a warning hand. ‘I’ve seen you. You will be sitting down with a guy and your body language will be screaming, I don’t want to be here. I mean which man is going to pay a girl who clearly tells him she finds him unattractive.’
‘But they are unattractive..’
‘True, but,’ she licks her spoon, ‘why did you become a dancer?’
‘To make money.’
‘You’re not going to make any with your attitude. You know what Jolene does? She goes and sits next to them and whispers in their ears, “I’m here to be anything you want me to be. I can be the dirtiest, most forbidden whore of your fantasies. Tell me what you want me to be? Talk dirty with me.” And guess what? They never get to touch her, she talks dirty, they empty their wallets, and they come back for more. Now that is a clever dancer. She’ll even invite other girls into the VIP room to dance for her customer and pay them for it.’
The whole idea puts me off. I feel decidedly glum. ‘I don’t get why they just don’t all go to a knocking shop and buy a prostitute.’
‘Aha!’ she cries triumphantly. ‘That is why plain Jolene is taking home ten thousand and super gorgeous you is bringing in three hundred. Because you don’t understand the job. The “no touching” rule means there is no longer any pressure for the man to sexually perform. It’s all about his fantasies. For a few hundred quid he can be that guy of his dreams with beautiful girls hanging on his every word, laughing at his most inane jokes.’
She leans back and takes off her boots. There are more sweaty notes stuck to her calves. As she peels them off and straightens them out on the table I see that some of them have phone numbers scribbled on them.
‘And here is something else you should understand. Dancing can be incredibly empowering and a great turn-on. Why do you think all the girls wear tampons even when it’s not their period?’
My eyes widen.
She just nods sagely. ‘When your garter starts to bulge with twenties and fifties you know you’re not just hot, you’re bloody good at what you do. I always make them sit with their legs spread wide so I can see them get a hard-on. This gives me total control of the situation. I will then roll my body inches away from their faces so they feel the heat coming off me.’
She puts her feet up on the coffee table and wriggles her toes.
‘And I’ll purposely let my hair trail their cheeks or let out a long sigh close to their ears. Usually they will start breathing heavily, which means I’ve done a good job, but sometimes they will become so fixated, so paralyzed they actually forget to take a breath and have to take a sudden sharp intake, and that is when I know. They are ready for the VIP room.’
Melanie looks at me as though seducing strange men is the simplest thing in the world to accomplish.
‘And if you know a guy is really satisfied with your service you can even ask for a tip.’
Wow! It had not even occurred to me to do such a thing. ‘Won’t they feel robbed after they’ve paid all that money for the dance?’
‘Don’t ask, don’t get.’ She grins. ‘These men know the game. They know what I do and where they are and that means if they spend my time it has to be in exchange for money. Exactly as they would pay their lawyer, by the hour. I’m not there for fun. I’m there to make money.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ she adds, ‘the more wealthy and powerful the man the more cheeky and forthright you can be with them. They’ll think you’re hilarious and that’s another tip there for you. It’s a hustle only if they feel they’ve been harassed. I take pride in never letting them feel they’ve blown away good money.’
I think of her dangling from the top of the pole and doing splits mid-air to David Guetta’s electronic music and a voice screaming, ‘Let me see your fucking hands,’ as she starts tumbling down the pole. And when the male voice asks again, ‘A party without me?’ the lights come on and the club fills with lines from the song, ‘I Might Be Anyone’. But she is not anyone. She is as beautiful as Lupita Ny in that iconic Lancôme advert. After her performances the club always erupts into applause.
‘I know you are very good at what you do,’ I tell her sincerely.
‘Damn right. I’m not just showing them a pair of tits. I’m giving them a performance that will blow their heads off. And if a customer treats me with contempt—some of them come in there just to do that, a stripper and a black stripper at that, I must be despicable—I’ll use his money the next day to buy me something that will make me feel good, and that will be my revenge.’
Melanie yawns hugely.
‘Thanks for the advice,’ I say gratefully. She is absolutely right. I’d better get off my high horse or forget dancing altogether. And since leaving Eden is not an option I’m going to have to do things very differently from now on.
Chapter 8
Lily
The club has a carnival air to it. Men throwing money into the air as if it is confetti, champagne flowing like it is free, gorgeous girls dressed for showtime, and then th
e cabaret starts, and ladyboys from Thailand flutter onto the stage. They are bold, highly talented, and gregarious.
I stand backstage and hear the DJ announce my name. As I walk up to the door I remember Ann, my instructor, saying, When you are on stage wave a wand and become a tigress. Make eye contact with the punters, hold their gazes for a long time. Make them think you want them. Make them squirm in their seats. Make them feel your power, so that when you have finished your routine and are walking toward them they know it’s time to reach for their wallets.
At the doorway of the stage I hold onto the doorframe and strike a pose while I survey the darkened audience of men. The lights are hot and bright in my eyes, but I see him immediately. He stands out like a sore thumb, the only man who does not look like he is looking for a good time. His pose is relaxed, his knees spread apart, one hand on a thigh, another loosely curved around a glass of amber liquid, but he stares directly at me with intense, unsmiling, furious eyes.
What the fuck is he angry about?
I freeze and almost lose my self-confidence. But then a blast of candy white smoke from the stage bathes me. A blue strobe light cuts me in half. Then the music comes on and my heart starts to pound with sexual energy, the kind that Melanie uses in her performances, and I think, fuck you, Jake Eden. I haven’t done anything wrong.
Totally ignoring him I strut onto the stage. There are whistles and catcalls from a stag party that are seated right at the edge of the stage. There are about twelve of them and I am glad for them. They straighten my spine. I will give them the best performance of my life. I’ll take their money. My time has to be paid for.
I concentrate on the music. I let it fill every cell in my body as I dance around the pole and rub myself sinuously on it. Flicking my hair back, I grip the pole hard and perfectly execute the flying around the pole move that landed me on my knees at the audition. The men from the stag party seem impressed judging from the whistles.
I search for the bridegroom. Early thirties, red hair, pleasant face and has an L sign pinned to his shirt. I will dance for him. It’s hard to explain, but it’s so much easier to dance for someone you don’t fancy. You look into their eyes and you pretend. So I do. And the more I stare at him the more rowdy and boisterous his mates become. I am clearly a success.
The Heir: A Contemporary Royal Romance Page 24
