The train slowed to its first stop, a small platform with little more than a vending machine and a few benches on the outskirts of town. No one entered or left the train, and first class remained empty. I had no idea how far Edinburgh was, and I hadn’t eaten in a long time. I wanted to count the colorful foreign money stowed in my front jeans pocket, but was embarrassed to do so in front of him. It was easy to see that Ben Hunt had few financial worries.
“How far are we going, Ben…um, Mr. Hunt?”
“Call me Ben, please,” he said, with the first hint of a smile I’d seen from him tonight. “We’re on this adventure together now, like it or not. It’s five hours or so to Edinburgh, but we are changing trains in Peterborough, should be about forty minutes. Why?”
“I skipped dinner…” He was staring at me like a schoolteacher, as if demanding that I come clean. “Okay, I skipped breakfast, lunch, and dinner…”
“Jane Andrews! Don’t be daft—you’re acting like a child. You need to take better care of yourself. I need you healthy, let me find the conductor.” He stood up and left our train car. He needed me?
He returned minutes later with a small paper sack and two paper cups of a steaming liquid delicately balanced in his right hand. He dropped his haul onto the small plastic table in front of me with a smile that lit up the empty train car. I would never forget Ben Hunt’s smile that night, on a train hurling through the dark, to an adventure that would change my life in so many ways. As Ben pulled two sandwiches wrapped in cellophane from the paper sack, I finally felt warm enough to come out of my coat. My favorite green sweater, although well-worn, felt cozy and as familiar as a hug around me. He smiled at me again as he asked, “Turkey or roast beef?” I chose turkey as he slid a cup of tea toward me and retrieved several sugar packets from his pants pocket. “Julie, the conductor, was very hospitable but out of milk, I’m afraid. We’ll have to have our tea black.” Did you normally put milk in tea?
I was so famished that my normal self-consciousness about eating in front of a man faded away as I hungrily inhaled the sandwich. As I came up for air, I noticed Ben’s eyes on me, drifting up from where my sweater clung to my not-so-impressive boobs. As his eyes met mine, he effused that warm smile again. He gestured for me to have his, but I shook my head and reached for the cup of tea. As he grimaced at his sandwich, obviously not his normal dinner fare, I sipped at my hot tea. I rarely drank tea unless I was out of coffee, but the warmth of the liquid was exactly what I needed. I was beginning to feel human again.
Ben focused his attention on the photo from Uncle Stuart as he picked at his sandwich. “How do you know this statue is worth anything? And why are you willing to go to all this trouble to help me find it?” I asked, unable to ignore the obvious question any longer. “This,” he said, stabbing a finger at the object of interest, “is a sculpture, not a statue. It is a fine work of art, I’m just not sure exactly how fine yet. I recognize this room; I’ve been there. It was taken at an estate, Hopetoun House, in the countryside outside of the city of Edinburgh. Earlier tonight I showed your photograph to an old professor of mine, Sean Devane. Sean knew your uncle, and told me that Stuart had possession of a rare work of Renaissance-era art. I’m guessing that this is that piece of art, and I’d like to help you obtain it.”
“Why? Why do you want to help me? What’s in it for you?” Now fed and warm, I was thinking more clearly, and Ben’s sudden change of attitude made me suspicious. Ben leaned back into his seat, wiping his lips with a paper napkin. “You’re a clever girl, and it’s a fair question. If this is what I think it is, I want this piece for the museum. I’m willing to buy it from you—I’m guessing it’s easily worth ten thousand U.S. dollars.” He sat staring at me as I tried to absorb his assessment of the value of the statue, or rather the sculpture. Ten thousand dollars would not only pay off my debt, but leave me in a very nice position to get back on my feet.
“So you’ll help me find the sculpture, and then you want me to sell it to you?”
He nodded slowly. “I’ll help you either way, but yes, Jane, I’d love for you to sell me the artwork.”
“Do I have to decide that now?”
He shook his head. “No, let’s find the piece, and then we’ll negotiate the details. Fair enough?”
I nodded. “Fair Enough. What is it though? You called it Cupid, but the writing under the photo says Eros.”
“The object is a sleeping Cupid, a classic subject of sculpture and paintings. Eros is the Greek name; the Romans used Cupid.”
“Why the urgency? Are we in danger?”
He smiled again. “You watch too many films, Jane. I don’t feel that we’re in physical danger, but when I spoke with Sean I sensed he wanted this piece. He was a little too interested for my taste, and I’d rather we get to the sculpture before anyone else is aware of its presence.”
He began to gather up our garbage as the train pulled into the station, much larger than the last one. We quickly changed trains in Peterborough, the next first class car looking exactly the same. After a bathroom stop, I settled into a seat next to him for the long trip to Scotland. At some point I must have fallen asleep; I remember him wrapping me in his coat as I slept on his shoulder. I shouldn’t have, but I felt safe and cared for that night.
Early the next morning, the thick dark still enveloping us, Ben nudged me awake gently. “We’re here, Jane,” he said softly. As I peeled his coat off to return it, he pulled it back around my shoulders. “Keep it, please—we’ll get you a proper coat when the shops open.” As we exited the train station, Ben carried the bags a few feet to two waiting valets, who we followed. “The hotel is adjacent. I’ll call my friend at Hopetoun House at a decent hour and see when she can entertain us. Before then, we’ll need to kit you out in proper clothes.” Kit me out? What did that mean?
“Uh, okay,” I said as I kept up with his quick steps behind the two valets. “Uncle Stuart didn’t leave me a lot of money for…extras.”
“Jane, money isn’t a concern for me. Don’t worry about that part of things; leave it to me to take care of you.” I didn’t trust Ben, but as far as the financial aspect went, I had no problem letting him pick up the tab.
Chapter Four.
Even at this ungodly hour, the formal doorman wore a kilt outside the grand façade of the stone Victorian castle-like hotel, The Balmoral, located next to the Waverly train station. Ben settled me into my room, the most luxurious I’d ever seen, and tipped the valet.
“It’s still early, Jane. Get some sleep, order room service if you like. Would you mind staying in your room, however? If you need me, I’ll be in the room next door. Here’s my mobile number as well. I’ll call for you at around noon.” I nodded as I took his engraved ivory business card. He turned to leave and closed the door behind him.
The room was beautiful, decorated in elegant shades of sage green and chocolate brown. I was so completely drained that I fell into the soft, luxurious bed like I was falling into a cloud, fully clothed with only my canvas sneakers removed. Ben’s long coat was still wrapped around my thin body, cradling me in the peppery, masculine scent that was purely his. I slept for hours—a deep sleep, the first time I’d felt warm and safe since I’d left Ohio. Although, even in my cold apartment there I didn’t feel as comfortable as here; for the first time in years I felt…happy.
When I finally awakened, I felt better rested than I had in weeks. It was late in the morning, already past ten. After ordering room service, I walked over to the windows and pulled the drapes open. For the first time since I’d arrived in the United Kingdom, the sun was shining. Edinburgh Castle sat high on a hill in front of me; ancient, gleaming, and magnificent. I could have stared at it forever, but I desperately needed a shower.
The pure marble bathroom made me feel like a princess. Heated, plush towels and toiletries so ritzy I felt compelled to toss the extras in my suitcase. I washed my hair, shaved my legs, tweezed my eyebrows, blow-dried my hair, and felt like a woman again.
I even put on more makeup than my usual swipe of eyeliner. I slipped my gold studs back into my ears, the only real jewelry I owned.
There was a knock at the door before I was dressed, so I signed for my room service still snuggled in the hotel’s plush bathrobe. That morning, still in the robe, I ate like I hadn’t eaten in years. I gobbled through an omelet, toast, pancakes, fruit, some potato thing, almost everything from the breadbasket smeared in real Irish butter, orange juice, and several cups of sweet, creamy coffee. I was in heaven, and I enjoyed it even more knowing there was no bill coming. The card near the bed had Wi-Fi information, so I pulled out my iPhone, which had been rendered useless since leaving my cellular plan in the U.S. With a few quick clicks, I had internet access to finish my coffee with. After reading my email, and replying to the one or two friends who cared whether I’d arrived safely, I switched over to Google.
I shouldn’t have, I wish I hadn’t, but I Googled Ben Hunt. There were way, way too many entries. I modified my search to Ben Hunt, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam. There were lots of articles on Ben, including countless photos. It seemed Benedict Michael Hunt came from money on his mother’s side; his father was a middle-class American Air Force officer. His mother, however, was titled British aristocracy, complete with money and a very palatial family estate in East Anglia. The pictures of Ben at various society events with beautiful women didn’t surprise me. Neither did the articles mentioning him acquiring rare and priceless works of art from all over the world; one article even referred to him as a “real life Indiana Jones.”
I’d expected to see all of that. Ben was larger-than-life perfect, that didn’t surprise me. What did shock me, however, were the news stories about Ben’s sexual escapades. Mrs. Carr had hinted that Ben was notoriously kinky, and I certainly witnessed that first-hand at the museum yesterday. What I hadn’t expected was the fact that he’d been arrested several times for his kinky behavior. One article in particular caught my eye, from the BBC News Online:
Benedict Hunt, notorious art dealer and the son of Lady Eleanor Stafford of Bury St Edmonds and commoner David Hunt of America was detained late Saturday evening near Jesus Green for engaging in lewd public activity. Mr. Hunt was happened upon by local constables while engaging in public acts of fornication including multiple partners and nudity. It has been reported that several months prior, Mr. Hunt and several peers were cautioned by police for engaging in sexual acts on the Cambridge Punts in broad daylight, visible to several tourists. This second incident calls into question whether Mr. Hunt is of a high enough moral standard to continue to serve on the board of the prestigious Fitzwilliam Museum, as well as to remain on as consultant to the Art Department at King’s College.
No wonder Mrs. Carr at the Bed & Breakfast was well acquainted with Ben’s kinky antics. My level of sexual experience was admittedly limited, but I was no prude. Yes, Ben with two women at once at the museum shocked me, but I also felt to each their own about sex. The three of them were adults, and their sexuality was none of my business. I shut down my iPhone and decided it was time to get dressed.
One look through my suitcase was disappointing. I didn’t really own nice clothes—the truth was it had been a few years since I’d had the luxury of shopping for new things. I’d usually stuck to the discount stores or thrift shops. It didn’t bother me much as a preschool teacher, but here, next to Ben, I felt shabby. He clearly didn’t like my wardrobe, hence the Pretty Woman style shopping trip he’d planned for today.
Promptly at noon, Ben was at my door. I had on my one other pair of jeans, a slightly less ratty pair of Levis, and a navy blue thermal top. The only shoes I had were my worn Converse sneakers. For some reason I’d expected him to be in a suit, the only way I’d ever seen him, but the vision of him in casual clothing caused an unexpected jolt to my system. He seemed younger and far more personable in a button-down ivory shirt, dark tailored jeans, and leather boots. He smiled a warm, well-rested smile and sat on the edge of my disheveled bed and helped himself to a cup of coffee from the carafe.
“Jane, I need you to pack up, I’m afraid. We’ve been invited by my friend at Hopetoun House to stay there tonight. We’ll stop by Harvey Nick’s first to get you some weather-appropriate clothing as I’d promised.” It took me only a few minutes to pack up, including stashing any further unused toiletries in my suitcase, much to Ben’s amusement. I didn’t care; let him look down his aristocratic nose at me—that stuff was deluxe.
“You look nice, by the way, well rested.” His warm smile took the sting away from his judgmental toiletry-hoarding smirk the minute before.
“Thanks,” was all I managed to muster in reply before there was a knock at the door. A formally uniformed valet came in and took my bags as Ben stood and held out his arm for me. I’d only seen it before in movies, but I laced my arm through his crooked one and allowed him to escort me from the room I was sad to leave. It had been one of the most comfortable mornings I’d had in the last five years. We walked out of the elegant hotel, through the beaming lobby, to the front where a sleek black sports car was waiting. The valet handed Ben the keys before loading our bags in the back. Ben still had my arm wrapped around his as he walked me to the passenger door and guided me in. After closing my door, he tipped the valet and joined me in the car. As he adjusted the mirrors, he asked, “Do you like it?”
“The car?”
“Yes, the car. It’s a rental—an Aston Martin DB9. I don’t get to drive much at home, George likes to ferry me about, so I thought it’d be fun to drive to Hopetoun House.”
“I don’t know much about cars…it’s nice. I—I, uh, do sometimes get car sick.”
“You’ll be fine,” he assured. “I drive like an old woman.” That was a relief.
As he sped out into traffic, several taxis slamming on their brakes and blowing their horns, Ben barely even glanced back. I grabbed on to the sculpted dashboard as he shot them some sort of peace sign. As the taxi drivers swore and shot it back, I realized this two-finger salute was no gesture of peace—it was their version of flipping someone off. “Bloody Scots can’t fucking drive!” He shouted as he shifted gears, the car lurching forward as a pedestrian leapt from the sidewalk in fear for their life.
It was only a few blocks to the store, but it was one of the most terrifying trips of my life. Ben pulled up to the valet area of a large department store, Harvey Nichols. I pried my bitten fingernails from the sporty leather dashboard, thanking God I was still alive. Ben gave the keys to the valet and walked around the car and opened my door. The crooked arm came out again, and he escorted me into the store. I still thought Ben Hunt was up to something, but his manners were growing on me. I’d never had a man like Ben pay any sort of attention to me. He was handsome, rich, successful, and for the moment, with me.
When we arrived at Ladies Fashions, a tall, thin woman approached us and gestured to Ben. “Mr. Hunt, I am Ann Norris. I’ll be honored to assist with your shopping today.” Ben barely gave her a second glace, his eyes on a display of Burberry trench coats. “Thank you. My friend Jane will need appropriate clothing for her stay here in Edinburgh. Will you help her find whatever she needs? A weather appropriate coat, boots, some new trousers, jumpers…whatever you think she’ll need for a week here. Maybe a new handbag as well so we can do away with the satchel she’s been traveling with. Just put everything on my account.” He handed her a silver card and turned his mesmerizing blue eyes toward my brown ones. “Jane, let her pick things out for you. The weather here is harsh, and I can’t have you catching your death. Pay no mind to the expense, promise?” I’d taken care of myself since my parents died. No one had provided for me or looked after me in a very long time. It was stupid, but my eyes misted over at the warmth I felt from the gesture. I gulped hard and struggled to say, “Thank you, Ben.” He waved his hands in front of me as if swatting a fly. “Think nothing of it. I’m going to try to make a few calls while you shop if that’s alright.”
As he settled into a large blac
k leather chair, the attentive Ann set about spending as much of his money as she could. I hated shopping, and clothes shopping was a particular torture for me. I was thin and built like a boy—unimpressive chest, narrow hips, and a woefully inadequate flat ass. I wasn’t tall enough to wear model-type clothing, so most of my things hung on me and made me look even more shapeless. Every time I shopped for bras, I remembered being made fun of by the cruel boys at school—Plain Jane, flat as a pancake with too much brain. I’d forever hear that ridiculing sing-song chant in my head.
After I had been fitted in one of the Burberry trench coats, lined for the cold and completely waterproof, my stylist moved on to boots. I was still reeling from the price tag on the coat, over a thousand pounds, when my feet slid into the perfect boots. They were exactly my style, if I actually had a style. The Isabel Marant waterproof suede boots fit me perfectly: they were flat, but elegantly shaped with a large leather wraparound tie flanking the ankle. My feet were warm and dry for the first time since I’d arrived here, the warm faux-fur lining cradling my feet in decadent luxury. I felt guilty about the nearly five hundred pound price tag, but not guilty enough to not nod greedily at Ann, nearly drooling in desire for them. Those boots cost more than a month’s rent on my tiny apartment back in Ohio. Ben, still on his sleek black iPhone, barely even acknowledged us as Ann looked to him for approval on the boots.
Ann managed to fit my slender body in the perfect pair of jeans, and three pairs of designer jeans were also added to Ben’s credit card before she moved on to tops for me, followed by an elegant leather shoulder bag, soft as butter and far more attractive than my worn out Jansport canvas backpack. It was fun being pampered in a fancy store, but in the back of my mind, the question nagged at me: why was he spending so much money on me? If his intent was to buy an artwork from me for the museum, it seemed frivolous. But, then again, it was clear Ben Hunt had plenty of money and the acquiring of artwork for his museum was more than a financial transaction for him—I suspected it was the thrill of the chase.
The Hunt for Eros Page 3
