Rupert’s eyebrows are almost in his hairline. ‘Lord Jakie?’ he repeats. There is unconcealed delight in his face. He seems a man who has found a bottle of rare wine in his own humble cellar. ‘That’s terribly kind of you, Mr. Barrington. Terribly kind. Of course, we’d love to,’ he accepts for both of us.
‘Good. I’ll leave your names at the door. See you there.’ He nods at me and I register the impression that he is obsessively clean and controlled. There is no mess in this man’s life. A place for everything and everything in its place. Then he is gone.
Rupert and I watch him walk away. He has the stride of a supremely confident man. Rupert turns to face me again; his face is mean and at odds to his words. ‘Well, well,’ he drawls, ‘You must be my lucky charm.’
‘Why?’
‘First, I get the deal I’ve been after for the last year and a half, then the great man not only deigns to speak to me, but invites me to a party thrown by the crème de la crème of high society.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He, my dear, is the next generation of arguably the richest family in the world.’
‘The Barringtons?’ I whisper, shocked.
‘He even smells of old money and establishment, doesn’t he?’ Rupert says, and neighs loudly at his own joke. Rupert himself smells like grated lemon peel. The citrusy scent reminds me of Fairy washing up liquid.
A waiter appears to ask what we would like to drink.
‘We’ll have your finest house champagne,’ Rupert booms. He winks at me. ‘We’re celebrating.’
A bottle and ice bucket arrive with flourish. The only time I have drunk champagne is when Billie and I dressed up to the nines and presented ourselves as bride and bridesmaid to be, at the Ritz. We pretended I was about to drop forty thousand pounds into their coffers by cutting my wedding cake there. We quaffed half a bottle of champagne and a whole tray of canapés while being shown around the different function rooms. Afterwards, Billie thanked them nicely and said we would be in touch. How we had laughed on the bus journey back.
I watch as the waiter expertly extracts the cork with a quiet hiss. Another waiter in a black jacket reels off the specials for the night and asks us if we are ready to order.
Rupert looks at me. ‘The beef on the bone here is very good.’
I smile weakly. ‘I guess I’ll just have whatever you’re having.’
‘I’m actually having steak tartare.’
‘Then I’ll have the same.’
He looks at the waiter. ‘A dozen oysters to start then steak tartare and side orders of vegetables and mashed potatoes.’
‘I’m not really hungry. No starter for me,’ I say quickly.
When the waiter is gone, he raises his glass. ‘To us.’
‘To us,’ I repeat softly. The words stick in my throat.
I take a small sip and taste nothing, so I put the glass on the table and look at my hands blankly. I have to find something interesting to say.
‘You have very beautiful skin,’ he says softly. ‘It was the first thing I noticed about you. Does it…mark very easily?’
‘Yes,’ I admit warily.
‘I knew it,’ he boasts with a sniff. ‘I am a connoisseur of skin. I love the taste and the touch of skin. I can already imagine the taste of yours. A skin of wine.’ He eyes me greedily over the rim of his glass.
I have been trying my best not to look at the dandruff flakes that liberally dust the shoulders of his pin-striped suit, but with that last remark he has tossed his head and a flurry of motes have floated off his head and fallen onto the pristine tablecloth. My eyes have helplessly followed their progress. I look up to find him looking at me speculatively.
‘What will I be getting for my money?’ His voice is suddenly cold and hard.
I blink. It is all wrong. I shouldn’t be here. In this dress, or shoes, sitting in front of this obscene piece of filth hiding behind his handmade shirt, gold cufflinks and plummy, upper class accent. This man degrades and offends me simply by looking at me. I wish myself somewhere else, but I am here. All my credit cards are maxed out. Two banks have impolitely turned me down and there is nothing else to do, but be here in this dress and these slutty shoes…
My stomach in knots, I smile in what I hope is a seductive way. ‘What would you like for your money?’
‘Forget what I would like for the moment. What are you selling?’ His eyes are spiteful in a way I cannot understand.
‘Me, I guess.’
That makes him snort with cruel laughter. ‘You are an extraordinarily beautiful girl, but to be honest I can get five first class supermodels right off the runway for that asking price. What makes you think you’re worth that kind of money?’
I take a deep breath. Here goes. ‘I’m a virgin.’
He stops laughing. A suspicious speculative look enters his pale blue eyes. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty.’ Well, I will be in two months’ time.
He frowns. ‘And you say you’re still a virgin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Saving yourself up for someone special, were you?’ His tone is annoying.
‘Does it matter?’ My nails bite into my clenched fists.
His eyes glitter. ‘No, I suppose not.’ He pauses. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’
I swallow hard. The taste of my humiliation is bitter. ‘I’ll undergo any medical tests you require me to.’
He laughs. ‘No need. No need,’ he dismisses genially. ‘Blood on the sheets will be enough for me.’
The way he says blood makes my blood run cold.
‘Are all orifices up for sale?’
Oh! the brutality of the man. Something dies inside me, but I keep the image of my mother in my mind, and my voice is clear and strong. ‘Yes.’
‘So all that is left is to renegotiate the price?’
I have to stop myself from recoiling. I know now that I have committed two out of the nine sorts of behaviors my mother has warned me are considered contemptible and base. I have expected generosity from a miser and I have revealed my need to my enemy. ‘The price is not negotiable.’
His gaze sweeps meaningfully to my champagne glass. ‘Shall we give this party a go first and bargain later, when you are in a…better mood?’
I understand his thinking. He thinks he can drive the price down when I am drunk. ‘The price is not negotiable,’ I say firmly. ‘And will have to be paid up front.’
He smiles smarmily. ‘I’m sure we’ll come to some agreement that we will both be happy with.’
I frown. I have been naïve. My plan is sketchy and has no provisions for a sharp punter or price negotiations. I heard through the office grapevine where I worked as temporary secretary that my boss was one of those men who are prepared to pay ten thousand pounds a pop for his pleasure and often, but I had never imagined he would reduce me to bargaining.
While Rupert stuffs himself with cheese and biscuits I excuse myself and go to the Ladies. There is another woman standing at the mirror. She glances at me with a mixture of surprise and disgust. I wait until she leaves, then I call my mother.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Where are you, Lana?’
‘I’m still at the restaurant.’
‘What time will you be coming home?’
‘I’ll be late. I’ve been invited to a party.’
‘A party,’ my mother repeats worriedly. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know the address. Somewhere in London.’
‘How will you get home?’ A wire of panic has crept into her voice.
I sigh gently. I have almost never left my mother alone at night; consequently she is now a bundle of jittery nerves. ‘I have a ride, Mum. Just don’t wait up for me, OK?’
‘All right. Be careful, won’t you?’
‘Nothing is going to happen to me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she says, but she sounds distracted and unhappy.
‘How are you feeling, Mum?’
‘Good.’
>
‘Goodnight, then. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Lana?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I love you very much.’
‘Me too, Mum. Me too.’
I flip my phone shut with a snap. I no longer feel cheap or obscene, but strong and sure. There is nothing Rupert can do that can degrade me. I will have that money no matter what.
I look at myself in the mirror. No need for lipstick as I have hardly eaten—just watching Rupert gurgle down the oysters made me feel quite sick, and how was I to know steak tartare was ground raw meat. For a moment I think again of that sinfully sophisticated man, his eyes edged with experience and mystery, his lips twisted with sensuality, and I am suddenly overcome by a strong desire to press my body against his hard length. But he is gone and I am here.
I return my phone to my purse and go out to meet my fate.
* * *
Read More Here:
The Billionaire Banker
Sample Chapter
Blackmailed By The Beast
Chapter 1
Chelsea
* * *
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-7IHOXkiV8&list=RDhn3wJ1_1Zsg&index=24
“Oh, Father tell me, do we get what we deserve?”
* * *
“Ms. Appleby.”
The busy street below my window suddenly ceases to exist. I freeze, not daring to even take a breath.
Thorne Blackmore?
No. No. No. It can’t be. He couldn’t have found me here.
And yet … I would recognize that voice anywhere. Husky and beautiful. I hear the click of my office door closing and his footsteps come closer. Closer still. So close I can feel the heat from his body. The raw power of his energy surrounds me and makes my skin tingle. In the industry they call him The Beast, because he is so cold and ruthless, his methods are pitiless.
“Hello, Chelsea,” he whispers in my ear. The familiar rumble of his voice is bittersweet. Greedily, I drag in the scent of his aftershave, leather, pine forests, and the tangy ocean. I shut my eyes. Oh, sweet Jesus. How I have missed him. These last two years without seeing him have been hell. How did I survive? I walked wounded and bewildered. Days passed, then weeks, the leaves changed, the cold winds came, then the mornings began to fill with sunlight again. After the first year, I lied to myself. I told myself I had forgotten him. But like a ghost, this man haunted me.
Will he still match the memory I keep deep in my heart?
I take a step forward, then turn around to face him. For a second my whole body goes cold. It is like coming home to find that a leopard has leapt in through your kitchen window and it is eating your sweet little dog. He’s standing there in his usual ten-thousand dollar suit and thousand dollar tie, but he is bulkier, deadlier, bloodier, scarier and; oh God, his eyes. The gray orbs were never warm before, but now they are as frozen as the most inhospitable winter lake. And yet he is beautiful. Beautiful like lightning ripping through the night sky, or the angry sea crashing into cliffs. The breath I was unconsciously holding escapes in a rush, and I stand there like a deer, beyond conscious control, motionless, sniffing the air, terrified, ready to run.
He studies me expressionlessly.
For a few seconds, I can do nothing but stare into those pitiless eyes. Then I force a bright, happy smile onto my face. Pretend, Chelsea. You can do this. Just pretend. “Hiya. What a lovely surprise to see you again.” My voice sounds breathy and shaky.
He smiles slowly. A cold, mocking smile. Undertones of danger.
Oh, Mother of God. I decide to take the bull by the horns. “I know you must be angry, I’m really sorry I stole from you.”
His smile grows. It could be mistaken for an almost friendly grin except for the hostile wasteland in his eyes. “Are you now?” he murmurs.
“Yes, yes, I am very, very sorry. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll make immediate arrangements to return the money to you.”
His blunt charcoal eyelashes sweep down, and I stare at him hungrily. I never expected to see him again. He is spectacularly elusive. Even catching a glimpse of him is hard. He is hard. “What kind of arrangements might they be?”
“I … I have some savings and I’ll take a loan for the rest and pay it all back.”
“All of it?”
“Every last cent.”
“With interest?’
“Of course,” I agree instantly, even though I feel my stomach tighten. I probably won’t be able to afford it, but maybe I can make a deal to pay him back monthly, or something.
His eyes glitter. “And the cost of finding you? Will you pay that back too?”
“The cost of finding me?” I repeat stupidly.
“Yes, it is very, very difficult to find a girl who stops using her credit cards, social media, and completely drops off the face of the earth.”
“Well, living in New York is not exactly dropping off the face of the earth.”
“Let’s just say it is hard to find someone when you’re looking for Chelsea Appleby, and she is living under the name of Alison Mountbatten, and has gone to considerable trouble to erase her digital footprint from the net. Didn’t you ever miss going to your favorite online store to get those black shoes you love so much or that peach lipstick you always wear?”
My mouth feels like it’s full of dust. I swallow hard. “Well, yes. However, I figured a new life was the best way forward.”
“Hmmm ...”
“Look, you can either tell me now, or let me know later how much I owe you. I’ll make the arrangements straight away. But I … er … have a pile of work to finish right now.” I wave my hand in the direction of my desk.
“Um … I suppose we could call it two million even.”
My eyes pop wide open. “What? You can’t be serious! You want two million? I stol … took $300,000.”
He shrugs carelessly. “Interest … opportunity costs.”
“Interest … opportunity costs?” I echo incredulously.
“Three hundred thousand in my hands has unlimited investment potential,” he sneers.
I frown. Thorne is so freaking rich he can give away three hundred thousand dollars without batting an eyelid. This is the man who flies hand-churned butter from France to wherever he is in the world. Three hundred thousand is a drop in the ocean to him. “Why? Why are you doing this? You don’t even need it. All those billions sitting in your bank account. You couldn’t spend it even if you tried. You don’t even care about it. They’re just numbers to you.”
He takes his phone out of his expensive camel coat. “It’s the principle.”
“It’s nothing to you. It’s less than the cost of a round-trip in your private plane.”
He lets his eyes flick to the phone in his hand. “But if you’d rather I alert the proper authorities instead—”
Panic surges through my veins. I raise my hand up. “Wait. Just wait a second. We can work something out. I’ll pay it all back. I swear. I will. I just need a bit of time.”
“So you can run away.” His voice is icy.
“I won’t run.” Taking a rasping breath, I stare into his cold, watching eyes. “I promise.”
He takes a step closer and I stop breathing. His hand rises up and he runs his finger down my exposed throat. “So soft and pale,” he murmurs as his thumb caresses the skin where a pulse is kicking. “How can I trust a thief and a liar?”
“I give you my word,” I choke out.
He shakes his head slowly. “No, Chelsea. Your word is not good enough. It was once, but not anymore.”
To my horror my eyes fill with tears. When I blink, they spill down my cheeks. He laughs. “The oldest trick in the book, Chelsea. I should have known you’d stoop to that. Well, I’m afraid female tears have the opposite effect on me.” He bends his head and licks my cheek, his tongue warm and velvety. He lifts his head and meets my stunned eyes. “They excite me. You, my little thief, are going to cry for me. A lot.”
I did not
realize that my hands had flown up. I must have wanted to shove him away, but they are resting on his chest, my fingers spread out on the hard muscles. “What do you want from me?” I whisper hoarsely.
“I want you to pay your debt with your body.”
I hear my blood rushing in my ears, and I stare at him in shock. “What do you mean?”
“For three months, you will be my toy. You will sleep when I tell you to sleep, you will eat when I tell you to eat, and when I tell you to spread your legs, your only thought will be, how wide. During that season when you will be mine, I will use you when, where, and how I decide.”
“You can’t do that to me,” I gasp.
“Or you can go to prison. You will be very sweet meat in a women’s prison. All this soft, unmarked flesh.”
I shudder and he smiles. “Yes, Chelsea, shudder you should. Trust me, my cock would be infinitely better.”
“You could have any woman. Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can. Now strip.”
* * *
Read More Here:
Blackmailed By The Beast
Sample Chapter
The Other Side Of Midnight
Chapter 1
Autumn
* * *
It’s just struck midnight, but I’ve no thoughts yet of leaving the backroom in the art shop where I double as Larry’s shop assistant and cleaner, and going home. I sneaked back in here after dinner to work on my little painting, but I’ve become so totally engrossed in it, I could be here for hours more.
I know most artists prefer working in daylight. Not me. I love creating things long after everyone else is tucked up in their beds and the air is shimmering with all their dreams.
I load my brush with the precious oil paints that take up a great proportion of my wages and let it glide effortlessly across the canvass. Almost as if it has a will of its own. I’m still a student with much to learn, but I have to admit my painting is starting to look good. Exceptionally good. Maybe because this painting is special… important.
The Russian Billionaire: A Romantic Suspense Novel Page 19
