Her Two Doms

by Ashe Barker

  HER TWO DOMS

  By Ashe Barker

  Text copyright © 2018 Ashe Barker

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by www.studioenp.com

  My special thanks go to Karen, for her superb (as ever) beta-reading, and to Emmy Ellis at www.studioenp.com for her awesome editing and gorgeous cover design.

  Dreams can come true…

  Ellie has adored Declan Stone and Iain Frazer-Lyons since she was twelve years old. Her schoolgirl crush was cut cruelly short when she made a disastrous mistake, but though they’ve all gone their separate ways her love for her ‘golden boys’ has never diminished. Now Iain (Fraze to his friends) is the Duke or Erskine, one of the richest and most successful businessmen in the country. Declan Stone is a top flight international footballer. There’s no reason, none at all, why they should remember the geeky little kid who trailed after them at school.

  But a chance meeting changes everything. Is it possible, after all these years, that her dreams might still come true? Might she actually be able to have both of these gorgeous men as Her Two Doms…?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Ashe Barker

  Chapter One

  When will I ever learn?

  For someone with an IQ that allegedly qualifies me for membership of Mensa, I’m an expert at making the same mistake over and over. Case in point, my so-called overnight bag. It weighs as much as a small car. I stagger along the endless concrete walkway making up platform seven at Kings Cross station, heaving what must be half my worldly goods behind me on a pair of tiny wheels which scream for mercy. At least I’m travelling first class, one of the perks of heading up an international research team making ground-breaking progress on treatments for migraine. The condition blighted my childhood, but these days I can’t complain. It’s brought me fame and prestige within the world of medical research and put me very much in demand on the conference circuit. As head of the research team, I get paraded out to fly the flag. It’s one of the conditions of my job, so I can grumble all I like, it’s still happening.

  But I do get to travel first class, so I reach my carriage a good ten minutes before I would have if I’d had to haul my case right down to the standard-class portion of the train. I check my ticket and the number embossed beside the door of the Virgin express headed for Edinburgh. This is me. I drag my luggage up the two small steps onto the train, then navigate the narrow corridor in search of my seat. I asked the department secretary to book me a forward-facing window seat so that should –

  Bugger!

  Seat twenty-seven in carriage B is a rear-facing aisle seat. I double check, but there it is, plain as you like. Still, the seat opposite, number twenty-five, is unoccupied. I check the overhead display and find that, like mine, seat number twenty-five has also been booked from Kings Cross to Edinburgh Waverley. The difference is, though, I’m here on the train and the rightful occupant of seat number twenty-five is not. The train is due to leave in less than two minutes, so perhaps… Anyway, I’ll move if they show up.

  I really should stow my case in the rack above my head, but I’d probably break my neck trying to lift it up there. Even with my laptop and notes safely tucked away in my briefcase, which doubles as a handbag, that still leaves clothes, shoes, toiletries, make up, and of course several books crammed into my case. I absolutely could not contemplate leaving my apartment without stuffing my bag with everything I could think of that I might conceivably need. There’s no way I’m manhandling all that lot up into the overhead locker. It’s all I can do to lift it onto the seat next to the aisle while I settle into the roomy window seat. I stretch out my legs, sink back against the plush upholstery, and heave a satisfied sigh of contentment as the inter-city express glides noiselessly out of the station.

  We’re off.

  I like trains. Even though I could have made this trip in a fraction of the time if I’d flown to Edinburgh, I loathe airports. I especially dislike Heathrow, the airport closest to my flat in Richmond in West London. I appreciate the need for security, but everything about air travel is too frantic, too manic for my taste, and totally intimidating. These days there are armed police everywhere. I prefer the relative peace of a mainline station. So now, cocooned in the comfortable carriage I seem to have to myself, I can settle in for the next five hours or so and quite literally let the world go by.

  I set up my laptop on the table in front of me and stretch my legs out under it. At five foot seven, I value plenty of leg room, another reason I love to travel first class. I pull up my conference notes and make a few, not especially necessary tweaks to the presentation I’ll be giving tomorrow.

  No less than two hundred leading academics will be assembled to hear about our latest insights on patient-centred and cost-effective management of migraine. It’s a talk I’ve rehearsed several times already. I know my material, can recite the statistics and analyse the data almost in my sleep. But this audience will be demanding, their questions more searching and critical. If there are any undefended areas in my reasoning, any aspect of my research not thoroughly and indisputably evidenced, I can be certain they will attack with military precision. I may be the best in my field, but I will be in good company tomorrow. The International Symposium on Clinical Excellence and Innovation is a big deal. The biggest. This has to be right.

  I barely notice when the train begins to slow down. I’m engrossed in my work and only vaguely aware that we have stopped. Peterborough is the first port of call on this cross-country journey, and a couple of people make their way down the central corridor to disembark. I ignore them as I scan the rows of figures in my data tables, checking for any stray anomaly or inconsistency that might be seized upon tomorrow.

  “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…right, this is us.”

  Male voices reach me, but still I ignore them. I have no interest in my fellow passengers. It’s only when a bright orange holdall is dumped unceremoniously on the table next to my laptop that I look up and meet his gaze.

  And I freeze.

  Declan Stone.

  My breath hitches in my throat. I remember those dark-grey eyes. I remember them with infinite clarity despite not having seen them for seventeen years. I’d know Declan Stone anywhere, although he’s filled out somewhat from the rangy fourteen-year-old I knew back at St. Hugh’s College in Hexham, Northumberland. He was heart-stoppingly gorgeous then and is even more so now. I goggle at him in disbelief. Can it really be…?

  “I think this is my seat.” Declan Stone consults the ticket in his hand. “Yup, twenty-six. This one.” He indicates the seat currently occupied by my ridiculously heavy case.

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Well, which is mine, then? Twenty-five?” Another large male shoulders Declan to one side as he leans in to inspect the seat numbers, and my heart is definitely about to give up the ghost. If there was one boy at St Hugh’s who was even more attractive than Declan Stone, it had to be Iain Frazer-Lyons. The pair of them were inseparable then and seem to be just as tight all these years later, although I know their lives have taken completely different courses. I watch the news, I know what they’ve both been up to these past several years. Yet here they are, together, on a train bound for Edinburgh.

  And I’m in their seats. Both of them.

  “I’m sorry, I
thought these were spare.” I start to fold up my laptop. “They were reserved from Kings Cross, and when the train pulled out and they were still empty I thought—”

  “Ah, yes. We decided to get on at Peterborough instead.” Iain Frazer-Lyons’ soft Scottish brogue is every bit as sexy as it ever was. “Hey, let me help you with that.” He takes hold of the handle of my case and hauls it from the seat alongside me. “I can put it up there if you like. Unless you need anything out of it…?”

  “What? No, I don’t need anything. It’s heavy, though, so—”

  He just grins, a smile which used to melt my insides back in the day and now just melts my knickers instead. He starts to lift it, then flashes me an amused look. “Hey, do you have a body in here?”

  “No, only—”

  “Give me a hand, will you?” Iain glares at Declan. “Don’t just stand there.”

  Between the pair of them, my case is soon hoisted up and into the locker. Flustered and embarrassed, I start to scramble out of the seat ready to move into the one rightfully allocated to me.

  “No, you stay where you are. I’ll sit here.” Iain drops into the seat opposite and treats me to that gorgeous smile again. To my horror, Declan slides in beside me, taking the place previously occupied by my bag. I’m trapped, sandwiched between them. For the next four hours.

  “So, Miss…?” Iain pauses, inviting me to tell him my name.

  My heart sinks, crumbles. They don’t recognise me. I have their images indelibly etched on my consciousness, and these two don’t remember me at all. Iain waits, one aristocratic blond eyebrow raised, his moss-green eyes courteously expectant. I can only stare across the narrow table at him, a butterfly pinned in the brilliant glow of his aura. His features were always impeccable, I was wonderstruck back then and the magic hasn’t faded. His strong jaw, finely chiselled nose, expensively styled ash-blond hair, and enticingly agile mouth create a picture of perfection, the product of centuries of flawless breeding, privilege, and a lineage which can be traced back to Robert the Bruce.

  Iain clears his throat. “My name’s Iain. The lout next to you is Dec.”

  I know.

  “And you are…?”

  His smile is pleasant enough, encouraging.

  At last I find my voice. “Eleanor. Eleanor Davidson.”

  It’s embarrassment. That and pure, abject humiliation which makes me give them my married name. They shouldn’t have to ask. They should know me, instantly, as I know them. But they don’t, they forgot all about me, and that hurts. I could have offered the name they might recognise, the name I was known by at school, but I prefer to spare us all the inevitable awkwardness as they realise their mistake and fall over themselves in their efforts to apologise. There’s no reason they should connect Eleanor Davidson to little Ellie Scott, the skinny, bespectacled twelve-year-old who followed them around the school like a lost puppy for half a term.

  “Eleanor. Yes, that suits you. Very classy. Are you going all the way to Edinburgh?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “Yes, Edinburgh.”

  “Business or pleasure?” asks Declan, seated beside me.

  “Business. A conference.”

  Declan gives a short nod. “Oh. What conference is that?”

  “It’s about clinical research.”

  “I see. Is that your field, then? Are you a clinical researcher?”

  “Yes, I am. I… I’m giving a keynote speech.”

  I don’t know why I add the final bit. Vanity I suppose, and a lingering desire to impress these two. Anyway, it seems to do the trick with Iain Frazer-Lyons. He nods his approval. “I see. What’s your topic?”

  “Migraine.”

  He inclines his head again and seems to want to know more. “Important stuff. So, what are you going to be saying about migraine?”

  “I…my team in Imperial College has been working on migraine pathophysiology…”

  Both men exchange a bemused look.

  I try to translate into layman’s language. “That’s what happens in the brain to cause migraine attacks. We’re working on techniques to slow the development of migraine and maybe prevent attacks altogether. Drugs aren’t right for everyone—pregnant women, for example, or patients with other complicating conditions. So my team has been working on non-drug options. The results are very promising and…there’s a lot of interest.”

  Declan twists in his seat to better regard me. “I imagine there is.”

  “I was working when you got on. I have things I need to finish, to check before tomorrow, so if you don’t mind, I’ll… I need to carry on…”

  “Oh?” Declan regards me with amusement. “But you closed down your laptop.”

  “Yes, but I have to…” I grab it and pull it back in front of me, then flip open the lid. I turn to look at Declan. “Would you like to swap places? Then you can talk to Iain…I mean to your friend.”

  “Iain’s fine,” confirms the man himself. “But we’re okay. You stay where you are and do your…whatever. I’m going to get a coffee from the buffet car. Would you like anything?”

  “No, thank you. And anyway, someone will come round soon to take orders.”

  “I want my coffee now.” Iain Frazer-Lyons eases himself along and out into the aisle. “Are you sure I can’t interest you?”

  Interest me? You fucking fascinate me. You always did. “No, really,” I mutter. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll have an espresso if they do that. Otherwise just a normal black coffee.” Declan gives his order then settles back with that lopsided, mischievous grin I remember so well. “Run along, then.”

  It’s a piece of banter which throws me straight back to when we were at school together, a private joke between the pair of them. Iain offers his friend a one-finger salute, then saunters off along the corridor in the direction of the buffet car.

  With Iain gone, I have a few minutes in which to take in Declan Stone. Declan is every bit as handsome as Iain, though the two are not remotely similar in appearance. Where Iain is blond and beautiful, Declan is dark and brooding. His hair is a rich ebony shade, cropped short now, though it used to be much longer. He has the toned, athletic build of the professional sportsman I know him to be.

  I take advantage of the respite to start up my laptop and lean forward to peer intently at the screen. It’s no use. The figures in my tables dance in front of my eyes. My concentration is shattered. In my mind I’m back there, a shy, lonely twelve-year-old sent away to school, desperately homesick and completely out of her depth. No wonder, then, that I latched on to the first people to show me the least bit of interest. Just my luck that they happened to be Iain Frazer-Lyons, known as Fraze to his friends from the rugby club and the cricket first eleven, and Declan Stone, top scorer in the school soccer team.

  Declan and Fraze were something of a legend at St. Hugh’s, a charmed duo who could do no wrong. They excelled at everything and were easily the most popular boys among staff and students alike. No wonder I was mesmerised by them.

  I got into St. Hugh’s on a scholarship. I was one of the lucky few awarded places in a government initiative to drive up standards in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. They invited entries from comprehensive schools, and I was put forward because I was good at maths and sciences. It was, I daresay, one of the few occasions when being a female actually worked to my advantage… positive discrimination and all that. Anyway, I was offered the coveted place at one of the north of England’s most prestigious independent schools where my talent was, presumably, to be honed and polished. My parents were ecstatic, even if it did mean I’d be away at school for thirty weeks a year. My dad worked for Leeds Council in the Libraries department, and my mum was on the checkouts at Tesco. There was no way they could have afforded a private education for me, and they were always going to struggle to put me through university, too, though I know they intended to shift Heaven and Earth to make it happen. The scholarship was my passport to all that they wanted for me and more.r />
  So off I went, a fresh-faced, enthusiastic, apprehensive eleven-year-old from inner city Leeds, thrust out there alone among the flower of English and Scottish youth. The only problem was, I knew no one. I spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent, had no idea about correct table manners or how to properly address a bishop. My parents drove me up to St. Hugh’s in their seven-year-old Ford Fiesta, whilst my classmates swanned through the great iron gates in Daimlers and Alfa Romeos. I arrived with two changes of uniform, my sports kit in a gym bag made for me by my grandmother, and five pounds spending money. My parents promised to send me more in a couple of weeks or so, if I needed it.

  My classmates wore designer clothes and top-of-the-range sportswear. They had accounts at the various stores in the city and as much cash as they needed. They swapped tales of holidays in the Bahamas or the Seychelles and whined about Daddy’s latest posting to New York or Moscow and the problems of finding a half-decent gamekeeper these days.

  For the first few weeks I spoke to almost no one. I attended my classes and did the work the teachers asked of me. I did my best, and the work wasn’t especially difficult, so I expected no issues as far as that was concerned. But there were. It soon became apparent that I was rather better at mathematics than the rest of the students in my year group, and several parents complained that I was undermining their little princelings’ confidence. The head teacher decided to move me up a year, and then another when a similar issue arose again. I found myself in classes with students two years my senior, and still I more than held my own. I felt like an oddity, some sort of freak. I was set apart by much more than my modest background.

  Then I met Fraze and Declan. I was put in the same class as them for mathematics and physics, subjects in which neither of them possessed the slightest aptitude. I suppose my fame preceded me, because the first morning when I sidled into the classroom, intending to settle down at the back, out of sight, Declan shouted to me across the room.