The Dirty Dozen: Damsel Edition

by Kay Maree

  “This will never work,” Phyllis corners me in my dressing room. “I’m calling this library adventure off.”

  Clasping both her hands in mine, I plead, “No, please. I promise it’ll work.”

  “But, Desmond—”

  “I have a plan.” Disbelief flits across her face. “It’s true. I’m going to go see him at work this afternoon and offer him a proposal.”

  “And that only consolidates my decision,” Phyllis scoffs. “There’s one sort of proposal that creature would agree to and it’s not something you should be thinking about. The library will be rebuilt just fine without you.”

  “No.” My voice is hard, although my expression is harder. Hitting her with a heated glare, I continue, “I won’t let you call this off. I need this. I’m going insane trapped in this ridiculous mansion with no one but you to talk to. If you try to stop me, I’ll. I’ll…”

  My threat dies on the tip of my tongue when I realise that the sole card I have to bluff with will hurt me more than it’ll hurt Phyllis. I could have her fired. I could have her reassigned to the kitchen. It wouldn’t matter because I’d still be stuck here, and her replacement would likely be someone a lot less pleasant.

  “I understand that you’re disappointed. We’ll find something else for you to do. How would you like painting lessons? I know your mother has mentioned her desire to see your family move further into patronage of the arts.”

  Swallowing down the ugly words I want to spew at her, I force a small smile. “That sounds lovely. I’ve always wanted to paint.”

  “Consider it done.”

  When I head deeper into my dressing room to put some space between us, Phyllis doesn’t object. Instead she heads back outside and loudly gushes over the next dress in the fitting line. I appreciate her easy acceptance of my lie. We both know I have the art skills of a barely trained chimpanzee. Kicking arse at Boxercise is about as close as I get to anything remotely elegant.

  As my mood darkens, my anger builds. Why am I letting one setback stop me? Phyllis might be ready to call this off, but I can’t. Not yet. Not until I’ve at least tried to reason with Desmond.

  What’s the worst that can happen?

  He refuses me and tries to cop another free feel.

  Been there. Survived that.

  Before all the reasons why Phyllis is right penetrate the optimistic cloud I’ve shoved my head inside, I stride out of my dressing room and cough loudly.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well. I hope it’s not too much to ask, but since you have my measurements and we’ve fitted all but two of the dresses, would it be possible for you to finish off everything and bring it back tomorrow morning?”

  Immediately, Phyllis’s expression turns suspicious. I ignore her and concentrate on ushering the seamstress and her team out of my suite. The make quick work of gathering everything up, exuberantly promising to have my dresses ready if I’m well enough by tomorrow, and it’s not long before I’m left alone with a surly assistant and my own growing doubts.

  “Should I call your doctor? I’d hate for you to suffer unnecessary from this sudden affliction.”

  I pretend her inquiry is genuine and answer in a weary voice. “No, but I appreciate your concern. I think a day of rest will be sufficient to cure what ails me.”

  We’re both aware that the other is speaking in code.

  We’re also aware that the other isn’t going to yield without a fight.

  I break our stalemate by lifting the handset of my phone and dialing my mother’s suite. She answers on the second ring.

  “Jenny. What’s wrong?”

  My conscience is momentarily pricked at the worry that invades her voice at my unexpected contact. I remind myself that her demands are the cause of our distance and move ahead with the second phase of my plan.

  “I’m feeling a little tired. Since I’m planning to have a nap, I was wondering if you had something to keep Phyllis occupied? You know how she hates sitting idle when there’s so much to do for the weekend’s activities.”

  Straightaway, Mum’s voice perks up. There’s nothing she likes better than having someone else to boss around—especially Phyllis, who intimidates her just a tad.

  “How thoughtful of you,” she purrs. “I can certainly use her help. Send her upstairs. I’ll make sure she’s busy until you feel better.”

  Shooting a look filled with victory at my frowning assistant, I infuse my glee into my voice when I reply, “Wonderful. She’ll be up in a jiffy.”

  As I go to hang up the handset, my mother speaks again. “Ah, Jenny. Are you sure you don’t need me? I can come sit with you if you’d like?”

  This time my conscience does more than prick. Her concern squeezes it to the point of bursting and for half a second, I consider asking her permission to help with the library rebuild. That contemplation dies a quick death when I remember that the library is deep in Carlucci Clan turf and even if my mother deigned to provide her approval, my grandfather would overrule her decision the second he got wind of my plans.

  “No, that’s okay. I don’t need you.” Silence grows after I turn down her offer. It gets under my skin until I soften the blow. “I will call if that changes.”

  “Make sure you do,” she replies in a tight voice. “I know you’re growing up, but I’m here if you need me.”

  I end the call without saying another word. What can I say to the woman who keeps me in a gilded cage out of the goodness of her heart and some weird desire to atone for circumstances that were created well before her birth? A cage is still a cage. I’m still trapped whether it’s by the bars of a prison cell or the thick walls of a Northern Sydney mansion.

  Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, I drag a deep breath in through my nose and hold it in my lungs until my resolve returns. Turning to Phyllis, I motion toward the door with my chin.

  “My mother is waiting for you,” I state as plainly as I can. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  “Miss DeLuca,” she implores.

  With a shake of my head, I dismiss her. Phyllis’s throat works as she swallows down whatever she wants to say, then she walks to the door. With her hand on the gold handle, she stops.

  “Just be careful. His father isn’t a nice man and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in that family.”

  “I will.” Those two simple words betray a confidence I’m not sure is warranted.

  Leaving the mansion without a bodyguard isn’t something I’ve done before. It’s a sad state of affairs for an almost nineteen-year-old, supposedly grown woman, however this it’s a set of circumstances that I’m determined to change starting today.

  I lock the door behind her, then quickly change into pair of dark denim jeans I stole from one of my high school friends, a green peasant blouse that brings out the colour of my eyes (also an item I pilfered from someone at school), and gold ballet flats. After a cursory look at my makeup in the mirror, I fluff my almost black hair and finish my outfit with a set of plain gold hoops and the matching bracelet. With my off-the-shoulder top that displays a sliver of my toned stomach and the tight fit of the jeans moulding to my shape, I feel sexy in a way that makes my stomach a little squidgy.

  This is as normal as I’ve ever dressed. Here’s hoping it’s enough for me to blend into the early morning crowds while also holding Desmond’s attention when I try to find his better side to appeal to—if it turns out that one exists.

  For someone who’s never done it before, I manage to use my private line to order a taxi to meet me around the corner and climb out of my first story window quite efficiently. Once I’m safely ensconced in the cab on the way to Desmond’s office, I breathe a sigh of relief and allow excitement to grow within me.

  I’m free.

  Yes, it’s tentative. Yes, it’s fleeting. But, it’s a first and I’m determined to enjoy it as much as I can.

  The taxi journey goes by quickly. I spend the duration
of the journey with my face close to the smudged glass window watching familiar sites go past through new eyes. Somehow, the same old streets look completely different from the back of a cab than they do from the window of a blacked-out Escalade.

  “That’ll be thirty-five,” the driver says, breaking through my elation.

  “Oh, ah, I,” I try to stall long enough to come up with a plan to pay for this when I didn’t think to bring cash with me. After rifling through my small purse—the only thing I was smart enough to grab on my way out—it quickly dawns that I’m going to have to use my emergency credit card to pay. “Um, do you take AMEX?”

  “I take whatever pays,” he retorts.

  When he holds out the machine for me to swipe my card, I pause. The moment I do this, I set off a timer. It won’t take long for my father to be alerted to its use, and then shortly after that, he’ll rally my grandfather’s men to find me.

  My mum’s reticence to utilise her dad’s name is not something my father shares. He basks in his close proximity to the Imbruglia’s, even though he publicly plays the part of upstanding citizen.

  “Jennifer?” My door is pulled open and a familiar voice invades the interior of the cab. “What are you doing out by yourself?”

  “I, um, I—”

  He cuts off my stammering by pulling me out of the taxi and thrusting some notes at the driver. The green and white vehicle zooms away from the curb and I’m suddenly left face to face with the man I came to see.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Desmond leers. He grips my upper arms and holds me out from him so he can run his gaze from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “Fucking edible is what you are.”

  “I, ah… thank you. I guess.”

  My lack of protest makes his expression harden. His fingers tighten, digging into my flesh, then he drags me inside the building that bears the name of his law firm. I’m too stunned to protest. It’s so early that I thought I’d have some time to come up with a plan of attack once I’d arrived. I certainly never expected that he’d catch me in the cab.

  Once we’re inside with other people, he lets go of my arms and takes hold of one of my hands. The dampness of his palm is off-putting and his cloying, no doubt designer cologne makes me want to sneeze, however I feel enough gratitude for him rescuing me in the taxi to let him keep hold of me until he closes the door to his office behind us.

  “Jesus, Jenny,” Desmond thrusts his hands in his hair and perches on the edge of his desk. While he looks me over again, I press my back against the glass door he just closed and pretend that I can’t read the growing lust in his eyes. “I knew you were beautiful. I also knew you had to have a good body under those stupid princess dresses your mother forces you to wear, but fuck me dead, if I’d known the curves you were hiding, I would’ve found a way to get you into clothes from this century sooner.”

  It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to stop from storming out of his office.

  He’s a pig, and Phyllis was right. I shouldn’t be here alone.

  Either way, it’s too late for regrets. I’m here. I’m committed. It’s time to pull up my big girl panties and get on with what I cam here to do.

  “All compliments aside, I have a reason for being here.”

  Desmond leans back and crosses his legs at the ankle. “I expect that you do. After all, last time we were together you made it quite clear that I repulse you.”

  “Repulse is a strong word—”

  “It was the word you used.” He smirks at me as he cuts off my weak protest. It’s not a nice sight. Reminiscent of a crocodile sizing up its prey, Desmond inspires nothing but dread in me when he pushes upright from his desk and swaggers forward until I’m trapped between his body and the door. “I also recall you telling me that there would be nothing on this planet that would ever persuade you to give into me. Has something out of this world occurred since then because you seem awfully compliant for someone so easily repulsed by me?”

  It would be remiss of me to say that Desmond McMahon wasn’t attractive. His tall, broad swimmer’s body seems strong. His copper hair is well coifed and his caramel eyes glimmer from a classically chiseled face. Clean shaven and reeking of old money, he’s easy on the eyes and known as a catch in our circle.

  Unfortunately, his surface appearance does nothing me because I see the horror show that lurks in the depths of his deep-blue gaze. A yearning for power and domination simmers just below the surface. I’ve witnessed the toll my father’s similar urges have taken on my mother and I know, deep in the marrow of my bones, that my spirit wouldn’t survive Desmond’s desires. He further compounds this knowledge by nuzzling the crook of my neck with his nose then resting his forehead on mine.

  Phyllis’s warning pops back into my head and my entire body stiffens.

  Eye to eye, we size each other up. Beneath his usual sardonic mirth, I see confusion, and it settles my unease a little. Seems he’s just as off-balance as I am.

  “I wouldn’t say that it was out of this world, per se,” I quip, breezily. Deciding it’s time to take some control back, I attempt to duck under his left arm. Desmond moves to block me, so I dance past him on the other side. Once I’m free, I pop my hands on my hips and tilt my head to the side. “Now that it’s a bit easier to breathe, why don’t we try to approach this like two rational adults. I want something and you want something, surely there’s some common ground to be found?”

  Desmond laughs. “Common ground? Enlighten me.”

  Replicating his early position, I plant my butt on his desk and cross my arms. His eyes light up and his hot gaze sears a path over my chest. I quickly let my arms hang loose, aware of the picture I just posed in this flimsy top, but it’s too late. I’ve lost all the ground I’d gained.

  “Look, Desmond,” I stammer. He moves toward me, a smirk curling his lips. Lust emanates from him in waves. Holding my hand up, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “If you agree to lie to my parents about me being with you for two weeks, I’ll let you kiss me.”

  I don’t know if it’s the desperation in my voice or the sheer stupidity of my suggestion, but it works. Desmond stops advancing on me. His mouth drops open and, for the first time in all the years I’ve known him, I see real emotion emerge from beneath the façade of entitlement he normally wears.

  Shock covers his face, then he bursts into snorting laughter. His guffawing bounces around the small room, a genuine sound that’s at odd with the politely cultured, borderline mocking chuckles he was taught to affect from the day he was able to toddle on his own two feet.

  And, no. I’m not supposing here. It takes a born elitist to know one. After all, I was taught the female version of class warfare before I even stepped foot in pre-school. Only in my case, possessing a vagina meant I was taught to be demure and unthreatening to the suitable males in my circle while simultaneously learning how to cut anyone beneath me to the quick with merely a look.

  While I do my best to resist the corrupting allure of the total power that’s been laid at my feet by dint of our family name, this is the first time I’ve seen a sign of something else hiding beneath Desmond’s smarmy veneer.

  It gives me hope that I might get through to him.

  “A kiss?” he crows. “You think I’d settle for a fucking kiss?”

  “I think you’d settle for less than that,” I retort.

  “You think wrong.”

  Standing, I close the distance between us. Wariness flits across Desmond’s face, but it disappears when I place my palms flat against his chest. In its place, his old look of predatory need settles on his features. I’m not sure what has possession of me right now—I guess I’m just going with my instincts. The one thing I do know is that I need his agreement if I’m going to take part in the library rebuild next week and offering Desmond a kiss in return for his benefaction in this ruse is a price I’m willing to pay.

  “I don’t think,” I proffer with a
purr. His nose creases when he sneers down at me. “I know.”

  “You—”

  A finger pressed against his lips cuts off his sure-to-be snarky reply. “While I’m not opposed to kissing you, I’d rather offer you a deal.”

  Desmond purses his lips beneath my finger, then he opens his mouth and sucks my wayward digit into his mouth. My body stiffens; however, I allow him to use his tongue to circle the tip of my finger without protest.

  “Shit. Ouch,” I yelp. He grins and I squeeze my finger with my other hand to soothe the ache. “You bit me.”

  “I did.”

  I search his face. Not one sign of apology is apparent. The only thing I see is a dark kind of lust and mirth. So much humour at my expense. Abandoning all hope of getting anywhere with him, I push my way past him and head for the door.

  “You’re an arsehole,” I snarl, turning back to face him with one hand wrapped around the door handle. “All I wanted was your help and all I got was Desmond fucking McMahon at his finest. Well, you can take your boorish behaviour and stick it straight up your—”

  My tirade is halted when he slaps his hand over my mouth and I barely have enough time to get my arms out of the way before he pushes me face first against the door.

  “If you wanted help, then that’s what you should’ve said.” Desmond’s tone is harsh in my ear. “Strutting in here, dressed like my wettest dream, promising to kiss me is not asking for help.”

  His words invade my psyche. As much as it kills me to admit it, he’s probably right. I’ve made a fool of myself. Maybe my dad is right?

  I shouldn’t be let out on my own.

  Being sheltered my entire life has left me too stupid to function.

  “I’m sorry.” Despite my very real regret, my voice refuses to cooperate and I end up sounding like a petulant child. I try again, softer this time. “Really. I am.”

  With surprisingly gentle hands, he turns me around. I’m reluctant to meet his eyes, instead concentrating on the lightly tanned skin that’s exposed at the top button of his business shirt. Desmond catches my chin between two fingers and forces me to look up at him.