by Cole, Harper
With a bit of distance, this would be a tale I could tell my girlfriends back home. It would become apocryphal. I imagined Carlee egging me on, urging me to tell the tale one more time. "Hey, you remember that time I had that guy in London with the super-stuck-up accent?"
And who was he, anyway? I thought about checking him out online. But time was passing and I needed to be out the door and heading to my next schmooze-for-the-clients gig.
* * * *
I went through the expected motions. This company was smaller than I'd first thought, with a trendy open-plan layout and far too many primary colors. It felt like kindergarten. They were "hip" and "trendy" and no one wore suits. After my presentation, they tried to ask me questions that made them sound intelligent, especially in ear-shot of their managers; I was trapped there for five hours, and I was exhausted by the time I left.
I staggered out onto the sidewalk, scanning the street for a cab. A few zipped past, not even slowing down as I waved frantically. I didn't really want to get the Underground rail system. The stations baffled me and I would spend too long trying to work out the map; nothing said "mug me, I'm a tourist!" more than someone staring at the posters for ten minutes, frowning.
I started to walk down the street, hoping to find a cab rank someplace, but I hadn't gotten three yards when a car drew up alongside me, from behind. I looked, in case it was a cab, but it was a dark gray saloon with tinted windows.
The rear window slid down with a whirr as the vehicle kept pace with me. I looked nervously to the side, and saw a face that looked strangely familiar but I didn't know why.
And next to the unknown-yet-familiar face was an older man, with a neat dark suit and a good head of gray hair. He spoke first, in a rich molasses tone.
"Ms. Turner. May we offer you a lift home?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I think you are mistaken." I increased my pace to match my steadily rising heart rate. I saw a little grocery store up ahead and decided I'd dive in there.
"I rather think we are not, are we, Arthur?" the smooth man said.
"Mm, no sir, we are not."
Arthur - that "mm" - it was the Maître D' from Claridge's. Recognition bloomed. I slowed my pace. So that was why he was familiar.
"Please, my dear, you shan't obtain a taxi at this time of night. Every man and woman in London is hurtling to the ranks to escape the fetid air for a few days of blissful weekend. Do hop in."
I suspected he was correct. And I did know Arthur, in a way. Perhaps this was a networking opportunity. Anyhow, I had my rape alarm and my pepper spray - I had managed to buy some on my second day in London, but I still wasn't clear on the legality of it. It didn't matter. It was a comforting weight in my purse.
My rational mind must have still half-been on vacation because I stopped walking, and when the door popped open, I slid into the vacant space on the wide rear seat. As soon as I was there, and the door closed, the outside door opened and Arthur was let out into the oncoming traffic. Someone's horn sounded - the door slammed - and we were cruising forward once more.
The suave older man slid into the space left by Arthur, and half-turned toward me, his dark brown eyes wide and warm. He smiled kindly, and I felt immediately at my ease. He was like a gentle uncle, and I smiled back.
"Welcome to England, Ms. Turner. Your company is certainly growing at a most impressive rate! Justin Acora must be very proud."
He knew the CEO? "Yes, sir, the company's doing fine." Even though the mention of my boss's name helped put me even more at my ease, I knew I had to keep a little back. "Can I ask your interest, sir? And how you know of me, and my work?"
"Of course. How rude of me! I am one of those tiresomely active business sorts who have fingers in all the pies. I am a Member of Parliament in the home counties but I have my companies, of course - all very dreary once you get to executive stakeholder level you know - as Justin himself will soon discover. However, what excites me, of course, are people like you."
"Me, sir?"
"Oh yes. Young, ambitious, already building a name. Your company's doing well and when I heard they were expanding, naturally I did a little investigation. I was hoping to arrange a meeting with the representative that they sent over. Now, of course, it's all changed." He inclined his head, and smiled almost sadly.
I was already feeling as if I were floundering in his stream of rich, warm words - of course, of course - and trying to piece together what he was telling me, and spot what he was leaving out. "It's changed?" I parroted back at him, feeling stupid.
"The representative they sent is you, my dear. I heard about the impression you made earlier in the week. Each presentation you make causes little ripples in London's world, you know. Oh yes. I was intending on meeting with you to discuss a business opportunity but when I did some research into you and your background, I decided that I could employ you in a far more useful capacity."
"You haven't told me your company's name, sir." I had to wrestle back some control. I realized I was being seduced by this silverback's suave manner, and I fought to ignore the compliments and stay on track. No sugary toff was going to get one over on me, I reminded myself.
"It shan't be for my company - any of them. No, I would like to ask you to do some work for me in a private capacity, and it needn't compromise your current employment situation."
No, no, no, no, nope. All my alarm bells set off at once, and my hand was on the door right away. "Thank you for your offer and your time, sir, but I need to be leaving now. Please ask your driver to stop."
"The recompense will be considerable."
"No, thank you."
"You will change your mind," he said, and the tone in his voice sent my heart rate through the roof. When I looked at him now, his eyebrows were lowered and his face was set and hard. How had I seen a kindly Uncle there? He was all pure hard businessman. And he screamed danger.
I wanted to know more - yeah, who wouldn't? A bit of cloak and dagger stuff, well sure, that sounded intriguing. But this wasn't the movies and I wasn't Angelina Jolie, and I was pretty sure that it couldn't end well. I pulled at the door handle but there was some locking thing in operation.
So I raised my voice, saying firmly, "Please stop and let me out now."
"Of course," he said. "We are here, are we not?"
I squinted through the tinted glass as the car pulled up outside my apartment building. The doors unlocked with a tiny click, and I tumbled out. I just needed to get out and get away, and I ran a few steps before half-turning to look back.
He was leaning across the seats, and smiling, once more all avuncular and gentle. "Thank you so much for your company, Ms. Turner. Until we meet again."
He reached out and slammed the door closed, and the car glided away.
My hands were sweaty and I felt like I was about to snap from tension. I looked around at the surroundings and felt a strange comfort - like now I was on familiar territory again, I was safe, even though this was still a new place to me.
And then it hit me. I realized I'd never told him where I lived.
So how the fuck did he know?
Chapter Five - Andrew
For a one-off casual liaison, that American woman had certainly wheedled her way under my skin.
I didn't have the time for this, I told myself. Work was going well, and my new life was proving promising. It had been difficult to walk away from everything and start again, but I had enough contacts to ease the networking, and finally I felt as though I was in control of my own future.
So maybe it was time to allow a woman into my life.
But not a woman like Jasmine Turner. Brash, bold, and with a mouth like a dockyard worker - she was hardly an appealing long-term prospect.
She had been a sexy, fiery woman; her body was curved but toned, and she had wrapped her legs around me in a way that made me melt. I wanted to fuck her again, see how hard I could make her cum.
But her nature was one of argument and arrogance. It was obvious that she h
ad worked hard to get where she was, and I admired that. I wondered about her past, but then, we all had our personal demons to overcome, didn't we? I wasn't going to put her on an ivory pedestal just because she had surmounted some great obstacle to end up the high-achiever that she was now.
She was used to getting her own way, and she had a stick up her ass regarding the whole feminism thing. She mistook an individual's right to be pleasant and respectful with the whole mess of society and culture. She clearly thought I was an old-fashioned fossil, and while she was, indeed, correct, she had mistaken my intentions and my nature.
And my desire.
That weekend I had a triathlon event I was competing in. The day before, I was busy with packing and planning and going over my race prep multiple times, but when the day itself dawned, I suddenly had time to contemplate the issue. All my preparation was put aside: all I had to do was compete.
While my body competed, I had time to think. Lots of time.
I swam, and the rhythm of my body doing what it had been trained to do left my mind going over the sex with Jasmine.
I biked, and the pumping of my legs doing what they had been training to do left my mind going over the conversations with Jasmine.
I ran, and the pounding of my feet doing what they had been trained to do left my mind going over the sparks that Jasmine created in my whole being, and I knew I was going to have to do something about it.
Maybe she could be trained. I'd dealt with brattier subs than her, but they had known they were subs - they had worn their bratty nature on their sleeves, a challenging badge of honor, a signal to a Dom like me that they were there to be trained. Jasmine, for all her sway of the hips and flash of her eyes, had no clue.
I completed the tri in one of my best times ever - perhaps it was because I hadn't been thinking about my performance. My muscles ached almost straight away and I knew that Monday would bring even worse pain, in spite of the ice bath I plunged into and the sports massage I'd booked for Sunday.
Sunday itself was a day I'd cleared in my diary. Post-event, I was planning to lie around my townhouse, eat carb-rich food and watch dvds. It was supposed to be a self-indulgent day of rest. Rare, in my life.
I woke to a morning glory which reminded me of my teenage years in its throbbing intensity. I dealt with it perfunctorily, like I was scratching an itch, and my thoughts went to Jasmine.
I rolled over in bed, the sheets tangling around my legs; I'd had a restless night, where I'd expected to sleep like the dead. But my dreams and half-dreams had kept me returning to hazy consciousness, and now I felt groggy and out of sorts.
My cellphone was on the bedside cabinet; I'd muted it, determined to enjoy a lazy morning. When I woke it up, the screen showed a couple calls from an unknown number so I checked the voice messages.
"Mr. Walker-Wilkinson, you have made a mistake but it's not too late. You know what you need to do."
I deleted it.
And another - the same number, the same voice, both unknown to me. "You are stubborn but we are dangerous. Think carefully. Choose."
I deleted it again and threw my cell with some venom across the room. Let it break. I didn't care as the hot anger surged up within me. How dare they still pursue me? They had no hold on me. Nothing.
I owed them nothing and I would win this.
I would win the right to my own life.
* * * *
Later that day, as I lounged around in sweatpants, flicking between cable channels while feeling lackluster and bored, I decided I'd do it.
I'd call her.
It was a way, I suppose, of staking my claim to my own life and my own decisions. I had to retrieve my cellphone; it hadn't suffered any damage in its journey across my bedroom, and there were no more threatening messages on it.
I didn't send her a text. I needed to talk to her. I wondered how she would react to my call - after all, I'd walked away from her. But that was when I thought this was going to be a casual fling.
Now she was going to be my little project, and I had to change my approach somewhat.
"Hello?"
"Jasmine. It's Andrew," I said, remembering that we hadn't established the basics of what she was going to call me. Not that she knew, yet, that it was not going to be Andrew.
"Oh. Hi." She sounded guarded.
"I wanted to apologize if I offended you when I left that night."
"Whatever. I knew it was a one-off, right?"
"Of course. As we both did. However I feel that I was ungentlemanly in simply walking away, and I have no reasonable excuse to offer you. I was wrong."
"Right."
She wasn't going to make this easy for me. "So I'd like to have the opportunity to make it up to you. I have rather a busy week ahead - no doubt you also have commitments. I wondered if you would like to get to know London better, perhaps? Next weekend?"
"I don't know. Sounds good and all but you know, I was pissed when you just up and left like that."
I was about to comment that I didn't think she was particularly drunk when my internal US-UK translator kicked in. She meant annoyed. I really had to address her use of slang and bad language when she was talking to me.
But not yet. "I understand. It was unforgiveable. It shan't happen again."
She hesitated before saying, with a suddenly flirty tone, "The sex or the walking away?"
"The rudeness," I said.
"You're evading the question."
"I am," I said. "Now then - would Saturday be a good day for you?"
"Now you're assuming I'm gonna say yes."
"If you were going to say no, you would have done so by now."
"Jeez! You're presumptuous."
"Yes, that is also true."
She sighed and there was a smile in her voice as she finally agreed. "Okay then. Fine. Whatever. But I'm kinda tied up in the morning."
Her phrasing made me smile too. "Wonderful. I shall collect you at two in the afternoon. Dress comfortably; let's walk and explore the hidden delights of this city."
"Yeah. Okay. Catch you then."
Her capitulation to me had improved my mood considerably, and I was able to settle to watching a movie with a much more relaxed attitude.
She'd be a challenging project … but a worthwhile one.
Chapter Six - Jas
I should never have said yes. I spent the whole damn week kicking myself for my weakness. I tried to call Carlee but she never picked up so I fired off a long, ranty email to her. I busied myself with chores and tasks.
But in my quieter moments I still found myself daydreaming about him. I don't know how the fuck it happened but over the week, my memories of his arrogance somehow morphed into an appealing trait. A man like that, who takes what he wants - sure, that had something going for it.
I might be a modern woman but yeah, that primal baby-making bitch inside me wanted to lay down on the floor and just go on and spread my legs. I blamed biology, and in blaming it, even kind of accepted it.
It's not my fault I want to be with him. It's my hormones.
Jeez.
And I nearly did bottle out of our meeting. I was going to call him on Saturday morning and cancel. I'd had a real good week, and made some awesome connections. My boss back home was impressed; we'd had a skype call at some godforsaken hour and he was keen to encourage me. Whatever I was doing, I was doing it right, he assured me.
But the thought of Andrew Walker-Wilkinson haunted me and I knew I'd be in for more sparks and more arguments, and I was in such a good mood from my work success that I wasn't sure that I wanted to spoil it.
Each time my hand strayed to my cell to call him up and cancel, though, I stopped, and remembered how it felt when he'd held me down and fucked me, hard. I'd been nothing but meat to him, and yet - it was a paradox - he had wanted me. He had needed me. He had hungered for me, and that was intoxicating.
I wanted more.
He'd told me to dress comfortably but I needed my armor on, so
I ignored his advice and dressed to impress. I could tell from his expression as he pulled up in his car - no sign of his driver, Amjad, this time - that he was both disappointed and aroused.
The weather was warm, and in spite of my general impression of London as wet and gray, today it was actually sunny. I wore a bright blue sheath dress in fine linen, and held a cream purse of the softest leather. I'd piled my hair into an artful heap of barely-there curls, and my heels were a compromise between flirty and practical.
"Jasmine," he said, sliding out of his car and walking around to the sidewalk, almost bowing to me. "You look … delightful. I thought we might take in the British Museum first …"
He cast a glance at my shoes, and I threw back my head defiantly. "Sure, sounds great. Let's go!"
He pressed his lips together as if he were stopping himself from saying something, and opened the passenger door for me. "Please."
I got in, deciding not to argue the gesture, but once he was back in the driver's seat, I said, "Do you really think there's a place for all that chivalrous shit these days?"
"But of course." He concentrated on the street as he drove, and I was able to sneak little glances at his profile. He was classically gorgeous, with a chiseled jaw, and his just-too-long-to-be-buzz-cut hair begged for a hand to be run through it. "I respect each individual, and I expect that they respect me. We all have different standards. In my presence, I do have certain foibles. I offer to open doors for people. Not just women. If I am collecting someone in my car, I shall open the door to them. If I have taken someone for a meal, I shall pay. These are little thing but important."
"Right. So if I'd taken you for a meal, you would have let me pay for it?"
"Indeed, I should have expected it. However. I would not have allowed you to take me for a meal. Therefore, I should have found myself paying for it, regardless."
