by S. Quinn
The fluttering in my stomach softens a little, and a smile sneaks onto my face. ‘I love that you’re interested in history.’
‘History gives us stories, and stories give us movies. I’m deeply interested in history.’
We walk on, and Marc weaves me around a corridor, and then into an elevator.
‘Wow again.’ The inside of the elevator looks like a shelf of books. I reach out and brush the book spines with my fingers and find they’re made of resin.
Marc pushes a button and the doors slide closed.
He takes my fingers between his hands and kisses the tips. ‘So curious.’
We look at each other, and suddenly his eyes tell me how much he wants me.
The lift begins to rise, and my stomach drops to my feet. The elevator is cool and silent, and I can hear Marc’s breathing. He’s looking at me like that again. Like he’s a hunter, and I’m his prey.
Suddenly, Marc lifts my arms high above my head, then presses my hands against the wall of the lift.
Oh.
He’s leaning over me, and I feel his strength. This is getting dangerous.
Marc leans down and kisses my neck, softly and slowly, working his way around.
This is getting really dangerous.
‘What I wouldn’t do,’ he whispers into my skin, ‘to have you tied up in here, waiting for me to fuck you every time the elevator came to my floor.’
‘What about the other guests?’ I murmur.
His hands tighten around my fingers. ‘If the other guests came anywhere near the elevator, they’d have me to deal with.’
He runs his fingertips down my upper arms, and I feel a silent ‘oh’ shaping on my lips. Then his fingers slide back up to my wrists and grip them tightly.
‘Sophia, Sophia, Sophia,’ Marc breathes. ‘I’d fuck you right now in this lift. You do know that, don’t you? You do know who you’ve got yourself involved with?’
The lift is still rising, but I can feel it slowing down.
I feel the hardness of his fingers against my wrists. He starts tightening, releasing, tightening, releasing in a slow rhythm, watching me, fully aware of what he’s doing. Of the effect just that little bit of movement is having on me.
I look right back at him, determined to have an effect on him. Determined not to melt under his gaze and let him take total charge of me.
‘Don’t fight me, Miss Rose. This is the natural order of things. I take charge, and you obey.’
He presses his body against mine, still tightening and releasing.
‘What if I don’t obey you?’ I murmur.
I feel his hardness against my hip, and suddenly he shifts his hands so only one of them is holding me. His free hand lifts my thigh and pulls it up around him.
‘As you know, I have ways of dealing with disobedience.’
He looks into my eyes with a fierceness that makes my stomach turn over and over.
The elevator doors slide open with a ‘ping’.
9
I turn in shock, looking to see if any horrified guests are watching. But there’s no one.
Marc’s eyes are still fixed on me, his lips open. I can see he’s breathing hard, trying to stay in control.
We’re looking at each other, not moving, not speaking, but our bodies tell the whole story. I’m aching for him, and I know he’s aching for me too.
Marc breaks the stare first.
‘Our floor, Miss Rose.’ He releases me from his grip, and I let my arms fall to the sides. My wrists are tingling in a good way, and I’m desperate for Marc to touch me again.
Did he lose control just then? I mean, we were in a public elevator. Hardly the most discreet place, especially since we haven’t even given our press interview yet.
‘Marc ... would you have? Just then? If the doors hadn’t opened?’
Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘You mean, would I have fucked you?’
I nod, blushing.
‘I would have tried.’
‘I’m glad I can have that effect on you. That I can make you forget where we are.’
‘I didn’t forget where we were,’ says Marc. ‘I asked that no staff accompany us to the suite. That means privacy. I knew there’d be no staff or guests on our floor. This is a private suite.’
Oh. Right. I feel disappointed.
We step out of the lift, and I feel soft carpet under my feet.
Straight ahead is a white door, and Marc takes the key from his pocket and slides it into the lock.
‘After you.’ He steps back to let me into the hotel room. Except it’s not a room. It’s a small apartment. A suite - isn’t that what Marc called it?
There’s a hallway, and as my feet guide me forward, I find bedrooms and bathrooms and a comfortable living room with a fireplace and sofas.
It’s not as fancy as downstairs, but it’s still lovely. Calm. Liveable luxury. Warm and comfortable, but with touches of grandeur like oil paintings, swooping curtains and antique furniture.
When I see the view from the windows over Green Park, I’m disorientated.
‘We’re much higher up than I thought,’ I murmur. ‘I guess I lost track of time in the lift. It’s so quiet up here.’
Even though I can see buses and taxis racing along Piccadilly, I can’t hear a sound. The whole space is totally still and peaceful. I see two layers of glass in the window frames, and realise why.
‘Enjoying the view?’ says Marc, and I turn to see him behind me. I feel the heat of him against my neck.
A ‘bleep bleep’ makes me jump, and Marc steps back and whips his mobile phone from his pocket.
Typical Marc. No customised ring tone.
He snaps the phone to his ear. ‘Blackwell ... Yes ... So soon? Fine. No, soon is good.’ He drops the phone back into his pocket and turns to me. ‘Well, Miss Rose. Is the suite to your liking?’
I love it up here, but ... this isn’t my world. I don’t know what to do here. How to be. Where to sit, even.
‘It’s beautiful, but ... this hotel isn’t something I’m used to. It might take me some time to feel comfortable.’
‘Time is what we don’t have. That was my PR team. Our journalist has arrived.’
10
‘A journalist? Already?’
Marc nods. ‘The interview will take place here. In this room.’ He gestures to the living area, and I take a look at the fireplace and antique cushioned chairs. I notice bottles of mineral water on a round, wooden table. I guess it’s as good a place as any to have an interview. I don’t know what I was expecting – some press conference room with a long table and lots of jostling reporters shouting at me for a comment.
I look at Marc, wondering what he’s thinking. His eyes have clouded over, and he looks softer and cuter than usual in his black t-shirt and cargo trousers. His hair is as floppy as ever, and he’s not clean shaven.
Those curved lips of his look less red than usual though and are pulled tight together as he surveys the room.
I feel his hand around mine and suddenly feel very small and young.
‘Just be yourself,’ says Marc. ‘And she’ll love you.’
‘She?’
‘I invited the nicest journalist I know. Arabella from Gossip magazine. We’ve given her an exclusive, and in exchange, my team will be able to vet the article before it goes to press.’
‘Vet?’
‘Make sure it contains everything you’d want it to contain. And nothing you wouldn’t. I couldn’t care less what they write about me, but I do care what they write about you.’
‘That doesn’t sound very ... ethical,’ I say. ‘Aren’t journalists supposed to be able to write what they want?’
Marc smiles. ‘Ah, Sophia. So much to learn.’
‘But I want them to be honest,’ I say. ‘I want them to write what they truly think.’
Marc shakes his head. ‘The job of newspapers is to tell a good story. If we don’t tell our story, then they’ll tell their own. Honesty doesn�
�t come into it.’
‘But if she’s a nice person, then what’s the problem?’ I ask.
‘Even nice journalists have editors who want to spice up stories. This is a safety measure. Believe me – it’s a good idea.’
‘No.’ My voice sounds firmer than I expect.
‘No?’ Marc raises an eyebrow.
‘Please, Marc. I want her to write what she wants. I’d feel awful if I knew your team had a hand in the final story. It just feels ... icky.’
Marc grins then, his big, broad Hollywood grin.
‘Icky? Why Miss Rose, I never realised you were so articulate.’
I smile back. ‘Extremely articulate.’
Marc puts his arms around me.
‘Okay,’ he whispers into my hair. ‘If you feel so strongly about it, I’ll talk to my PR team. See if we can’t come up with a middle ground. I can’t have you completely unprotected and at their mercy. But ... maybe we can reach a compromise.’
‘Marc,’ I say. ‘What sort of questions will she ask?’
‘She understands that you’re young and haven’t been part of this world before. But ... she’s going to want a story. She’ll push, I have no doubt about that. Don’t worry. I’ll be there the whole time. I’ll step in if I sense you’re getting uncomfortable.’
‘Thank you.’ I let out a long breath, feeling a little sick. Until now, Marc and I have been in a cocoon. A bubble. All we’ve known is each other, but now we’re in the real world, trying to hash out a real relationship. And something tells me it won’t be easy.
Marc pulls me back from him so he can see my face. ‘You know, it’s still not too late to back out of this.’
I shake my head. ‘No. I love you, Marc. Thinking about this interview makes me more sure of that than ever.’
‘You weren’t sure before?’ Marc’s smile becomes even more dangerous.
‘I was sure. But this interview makes me realise I don’t care what people think of me. I only care about being with you.’
Marc squeezes my shoulders. ‘I hope I won’t disappoint you, Sophia. There are things about me ... my life ...’
There’s a knock at the door.
‘Are you ready for this, Sophia?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Come in,’ Marc barks at the door, not taking his hands from my shoulders or his eyes off mine.
The door opens, and a young woman in a beige coat, with blonde frizzy hair tied back in a ponytail, comes into the room.
11
‘Oh! I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?’ Her voice is a little high and wobbly, like she’s gargling something.
‘Not at all,’ says Marc. ‘We’re ready for you.’
The woman smiles, and pink lipstick stretches right across her face, almost to her ears. She looks kind, and I feel relieved.
‘Good to see you again, Marc.’ The woman bounds forward and shakes his hand. Then she holds her hand out to me. ‘Arabella Price – Gossip magazine. You must be Sophia. So nice to meet you. This must be very nerve-wracking for you.’
I nod and try my best to smile. I like her energy.
‘Well? Shall we take a seat and get started?’ Arabella takes off her coat and throws her black handbag by a chair. She’s wearing jeans, riding boots and a pink v-neck sweater, and sinks into the armchair like she’s in her living room.
I nod and swallow, realising I’m still wearing my coat. I take it off, fold it and place it on the windowsill.
Marc guides me to a sofa, and the two of us sit down opposite Arabella.
Marc feels solid beside me. Calming. And he looks totally relaxed. I’m so proud of him. I let my fingers weave into his, and he squeezes them tight.
I smile inwardly, and I know he’s smiling inside too.
‘So.’ Arabella takes an iPad from her handbag. ‘How are you feeling, Sophia?’
‘Nervous,’ I admit. ‘There are lots of girls who want to be with Marc. I have a feeling plenty of people are going to hate me. Especially considering how we met.’
Arabella nods. ‘Tell me about that.’
Marc leans forward, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. ‘I can’t pretend I like how things are. I wish Sophia hadn’t met me. She doesn’t deserve all the rubbish that comes with being part of my world. The gutter press and the garbage they write. They can write what they want about me. No one thinks I’m a decent man, anyway. But I hate the idea of her reputation being dragged through the gutter.’
‘I think you’re a decent man,’ says Arabella. ‘You give millions to charity. You founded Ivy College to help struggling young actors. I’d say you were a very decent man.’ Her eyes dart to me for a moment, then return to Marc. ‘Of course, people are going to question what sort of man starts a relationship with a student.’
‘They should,’ says Marc. ‘Believe me, I’ve asked myself all the questions there are to ask. But the bottom line is, I love Sophia. And this is her choice.’
‘It’s her choice?’Arabella perks her head up. She looks at me, her head tilted expectantly.
I nod. ‘He never ... I mean, it was all me. My choices. I wanted to be with him. Marc didn’t want any of this.’
‘Marc has a reputation,’ says Arabella. ‘As the strong, controlling type. What do you have to say about that?’
I can’t help but smile. I glance at Marc, but I can’t read what he’s thinking.
‘Oh, he’s strong and controlling alright,’ I say. ‘But I think he’s softer than people realise.’ I try to catch Marc’s eye again, but he’s looking away.
‘What did you think of Marc when you first met?’ Arabella asks.
I think back to that first audition. ‘He was very charismatic,’ I say. ‘I could see why he was a big star. But ... maybe he seemed a little arrogant, too.’
‘Marc Blackwell? Arrogant.’ Arabella is smiling now. ‘Never!’
I notice Marc has a quiet smile on his face.
‘He’s not arrogant, though,’ I say. ‘Bossy, yes. He thinks he knows what’s best for everyone. But he’s not full of himself. I’m not sure he thinks very much of himself at all, deep down.’
Marc turns to me, and our eyes meet. There’s that lost look again. That confusion. And I know what I just said is true. Beneath that cool, cold exterior, there’s much more to Marc Blackwell than meets the eye.
‘I’d say you’re right on the money.’
Oh? Jealousy rears its ugly head. What does she know of Marc?
‘So tell me,’ Arabella continues. ‘When did you fall for him?’
‘I can’t pinpoint it exactly,’ I say. ‘Just little by little, I started seeing more of him. And of course I got a crush, just like every other student. I never thought in a million years he’d be interested in me.’ I smile, thinking of the time he rescued me from the lake. ‘Maybe he took pity on me.’
‘Nothing could be further from the truth,’ says Marc. ‘Believe me, Arabella. None of this was planned. If it had been anyone other than Sophia, I would have left the college, or just ... ignored my feelings.’
Arabella is watching him closely. ‘My, my. Marc Blackwell, you’ve got it bad, haven’t you?’ She’s teasing him.
‘Have it bad doesn’t come close to describing it,’ Marc says, his voice quiet.
‘I’ve never seen you this way,’ says Arabella, cocking her head. ‘Your eyes look all mushy.’ She leans forward. ‘So what is it about our lovely Sophia that has the famously cold Marc Blackwell head over heels?’
‘I’m sure I’m not the only person to have fallen head over heels for her,’ says Marc. ‘Sophia is so natural. So genuine. A beautiful person, inside and out. The whole world will love her, given the chance.’
‘I’ve never heard you talk about anyone this way,’ says Arabella. ‘And I must say, it’s rather lovely. And unexpected.’
‘Don’t get used to it,’ Marc snaps. ‘I’m doing this interview for Sophia. So that we can set the record straight, and hopefully at least some of t
he mongrels will leave her alone.’ He jumps up from the sofa. ‘Getty was at the college gates this morning.’
Arabella puts a hand to her mouth. She glances at me. ‘Oh no.’
12
‘What?’ I ask.
‘He’s dangerous,’ say Marc. ‘Everyone in the industry knows the lengths Giles Getty will go to get a story. He’ll stop at nothing. He hires actors to set people up. Alters pictures. The man is a criminal. But as long as he sells papers, no one stops him.’ He glances at me. ‘And there’s more. Where women are concerned. I’ve known him a long time.’
‘We’re not all like Giles Getty,’ says Arabella, her eyes going watery and nervous. ‘Some of us are decent. Some of us just want to tell the truth.’
‘That’s what I’d like you to do,’ I say. ‘I want you to tell our story how you see it.’
‘The truth?’ Arabella smiles. ‘Well, there’s a word I don’t hear very often in this business. I’d be delighted to write the truth about you. Tell me more about how you two met. I’m guessing ... on campus?’
‘Actually, it was at Sophia’s audition,’ says Marc.
‘Do tell,’ says Arabella, putting her palm under her chin.
‘When I saw Sophia perform, there was something about her that just ... shone.’
‘She’s a beautiful girl,’ says Arabella.
‘There are lots of beautiful girls,’ says Marc. ‘Especially on drama courses. It wasn’t to do with what she looked like. It was ... something else.’
‘Love at first sight?’ Arabella raises an eyebrow.
‘Perhaps. She was ... quite something.’
‘Did you think it would be a problem?’ asks Arabella.
‘The only thing I allowed myself to think about at that stage was her talent. What Ivy College could do for her. But, as I’m learning, nothing concerning Sophia is straight forward.’
Arabella turns to me. ‘And how about you, Sophia? Were you attracted to Marc at that first meeting? Arrogance aside?’ Her eyes crinkle.
I smile and look at my lap. Attracted isn’t even the word for it. I felt utterly drawn to him. ‘I was ... captivated by him,’ I admit. ‘Like most women are, I guess. By his intensity.’
