by Ellis, Dee
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear and she had no intention of letting logic get the upper hand. She was steaming, at herself more than Jack, and it was just too bad for anybody else in the way. It was a side of her that she wasn’t especially proud of, this volcanic anger that surfaced in times of deep stress.
The streets, empty of traffic at this pre-dawn hour, flashed by but Sandrine didn’t notice. She was beyond paying attention to anything but her scrambled thoughts and misplaced recriminations. She was still tired, drained physically as well as emotionally but the adrenalin firing through her veins pushed her forward.
When the car drew up outside her apartment house, she said not a word, merely grabbed her bag and launched herself across the pavement and into the foyer like she was heading into battle. She left the passenger door of the car gaping open. She didn’t see Jack’s rueful smile or hear him wish her a good night’s sleep.
It was only later that morning as she sipped her tea that she brought herself up short, stopping with the cup inches away from her lips, as the realisation struck her. She hadn’t talked to Jack the entire trip yet he drove her directly home. She was sure she hadn’t mentioned her address earlier. How did he know where I live?
Chapter Ten
Sandrine wasn’t paying attention to the time, not at all, she was busy cleaning the bathroom but she nonetheless noted that it was 3.12pm precisely that Jack rang for the first of several times that afternoon. She let the call go through to the answering machine.
“Hi, it’s me, Jack. Just want to see how you are. You seemed a little edgy when you left here this morning and I’ve been pretty worried about you. Please give me a call when it’s convenient.”
“You’ll be waiting a damn long time,” she said with a finality she found enormously satisfying at the time. Dressed in a pair of old grey sweat pants and a Harvard t-shirt she’d bought when at college, although not at that college, she’d made good progress on a long-overdue spring clean and everything from the bath to the shower, toilet and hand basin was gleaming like new. The air was thick with the fumes from the chemical cleaners; Heathcliff had wandered in earlier to check things out, sniffed discouragingly and disappeared to another part of the apartment.
While she worked, there was little time for reflection which was exactly how she wanted it. Tchaikovsky drifted in from the living area, matching her mood and providing the necessary impetus to complete the job. From the bathroom, she moved on to the bedroom, sorting through her closet, bagging up a load of old clothes to be donated to Goodwill, and putting aside some shoes destined for the elderly Armenian who worked so diligently and at such modest cost on rejuvenating her favourite footwear.
By that time, two more hours had passed. The telephone rang again. It went to voice mail as well. No message was left and she assumed it was Jack. Almost immediately, her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number in caller ID but was sure it was Jack. A message was left but she didn’t bother getting it. She pretty much knew what he’d say.
She showered, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a vibrant earthenware-coloured cashmere sweater and brewed a pot of Earl Grey. Although not especially hungry, she made a tuna sandwich, sharing the remainder of the tin with Heathcliff who gratefully demolished it with a purring intensity that teased only the second smile of the day to her lips.
The deep soft cushions of the sofa, a warm woollen throw and the final chapters of the 2005 translation of Teresa Guiccioli’s Lord Byron’s Life In Italy awaited. The tea was warm and fragrant but she hardly tasted it. The sandwich didn’t interest her. She lasted barely a page of her book before she cast it aside and stared at the opposite wall.
Heathcliff sat on the coffee table and regarded her with a detached curiosity. He was doing his furry statue impression and Sandrine soon wilted under the attention.
“What? Think you know everything?” It had always amazed her how well this wonderful tortoiseshell-patterned creature could sense her moods, almost as if he could read minds. When she needed affection, he was there with a welcome snuggle and a purr that melted her heart. When she needed space, he was nowhere to be found. He leapt nimbly across the space between table and sofa and settled into her lap, twisting into a position that offered up the soft down of his belly.
“OK, I admit it,” she said soothingly. “Maybe I have been a little harsh.”
The little voice inside her had been eating away at her normally indomitable resilience all afternoon but she’d made herself too busy to pay much attention. The fury had subsided, the shame and embarrassment ebbed to a minor irritation and, when she reached inside and asked herself how she really felt, she was surprised by the answer.
She felt fine. In fact, she felt wonderful. Slightly giddy, if anything, and it was a realisation that made her extremely uncomfortable. The shock of the previous evening and the way she had so quickly given herself over to the wantonness, the unapologetic eroticism, frightened her. It had propelled her into a state of high drama where she could forgive no-one, especially not herself. This was so unlike her, she reasoned, she’d never done anything like this before.
She’d panicked but now, as she took the time to search her emotions, she’d had to admit that she’d enjoyed it. There was a line that had been crossed, into some unexplored darker aspect of her personality; she had flung aside her usually careful nature and the thrill of it, the sheer uncharacteristic abandon to which she’d capitulated, was confronting.
As she sat quietly on the sofa, there was an awareness of her body, its warmth and softness, a dawning of tension in her stomach, that she certainly didn’t want to dwell on. Her mind, with all the immutable logic that she so prided herself on, was in danger of being betrayed by her body. The physical was over-riding the mental.
No, no, no. I don’t want to feel like this.
Unfortunately, the more she thought about it, fought it, tried to find excuses for the chaos that enveloped her, the more it became plain that she not only welcomed this change, she actively sought it.
Had she been too careful all her life? Too concerned with propriety, with being a good girl that she’d neglected her emotions? That could explain her choice in partners, in always picking men who met her intellectual ideals without ever quite exciting her physically. She grimaced when the thought hit her that, while she loved sex, she’d only ever orgasmed when she masturbated. She much preferred to give herself absolute, toe-curling, heart-stopping pleasure when she was alone rather than share it with a lover. No man had ever made her come so violently as Jack. And it had been not during the traditional course of a relationship, when friendship had moved slowly and carefully into love. It had been lust, a completely physical attraction that disobeyed every rule she’d set herself in her life.
The sex, with its underlying theme of dominance and submission, had almost – no, strike that, not almost at all, it had very much been – dirty. Depraved, even. No wonder she had such trouble intellectualising it.
There was a certain shame, then, in admitting that her body was letting her know what it needed. As she reflected on the previous evening, reliving the way Jack had bypassed her reserves and unlocked her needs with such finesse, her breathing turned shallow and her heart raced. The temperature steadily rose and she felt that warming feeling like molten caramel in her stomach.
Against the softness of her cashmere sweater, her nipples hardened cruelly and she knew that she was wet again. He didn’t even need to be in the room. The thought of his hard, lean body, the way she had been blindfolded and in complete darkness yet with her senses heightened to his touch, and the heat of his soft moist lips as they closed around her intensely sensitive clit and brought her to such a screaming climax, was ramping up the desire.
Instead of shame, she felt oddly exhilarated. Give in, her body was saying. You loved it. He worshipped your body, gave it the pleasure you craved. Don’t be afraid. Let him in.
She wanted to discover more, about herself, about Jack’s potential
as a lover, about all they were capable of together.
It’s your choice. Don’t be scared. You’re in control.
Sandrine reached for the telephone and he answered on the second ring.
“I was getting worried,” the familiar deeply masculine voice said.
“Sorry. I was caught up.”
“I was just about to come over and break down your door. You seemed pretty upset when you left.”
“I’m fine now. I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed last night.”
“Me too. Let’s do it again.”
“Yes, I’d like that.” It was true. She’d more than liked it. She wanted it and needed it with an increasing urgency that pulsated deep inside her. There had been a certain one-sidedness to the previous evening. Jack had been quite the gentleman and, while she wouldn’t call it an obligation, she had an intense need to show him how appreciative she could be.
She unfastened her jeans and slid her hand inside. He has such an effect on me, she thought, as her finger dipped into the steamy silky wetness and brushed her achingly erect clit. She gasped slightly as she traced a slow tight circle on this most sensitive area.
“And soon,” she continued, her voice dipping with a slight huskiness. “And this time, it’s my turn to do the entertaining.”
Chapter Eleven
Monday morning. Bright and clear and distinctly chilly. The cold weather was predicted to last for some weeks but, at least as far as the calendars were concerned, spring was on the way and Sandrine was looking forward to packing away her heavy winter coats. She did have a preference for European seasons, definitely disliked hot weather, but she’d lived through enough winters to know that snow, while it appeared romantic on Christmas cards, could turn dirty and sludgy so easily and ruined good shoes. Ever the practical one.
Before she left for the store, she checked her emails and found one from Marcus Buckingham, an unusual occurrence as he generally sent emails directly to work. It was short and relatively brief of news aside from saying he would be back in a few days and that he’d sent a couple of portfolios of art prints and some especially noteworthy books via an international courier company. He urged that, upon arrival, they be immediately stored in the large walk-in safe installed in the rear storeroom.
It was a leisurely fifteen minute walk from her apartment to the shop. Along the way, she picked up coffee and a cherry danish. Juggling the morning’s newspapers and her handbag, the windy conditions made for careful progress and she barely noticed the large late model Mercedes with dark windows that was parked illegally outside the store; she gave it little thought as she busied herself with turning on the heat and lights, booting up the computer and readying for any early customers. The weather being as unwelcoming as it was, it was likely that any browsers would be light on the ground until at least lunchtime.
She was only mid-way through the first section of the newspaper when the bell above the front door tinkled. Looking up, her initial curiosity gave way to a surprised alertness.
The three men who entered certainly did not look like book lovers. They had identical builds and colouring, being tall and solidly built with pale hair cut short. They were dressed in dark overcoats over dark suits with no hats or scarves. It was difficult to tell them apart aside from very minor physical characteristics. Sandrine noted that they could be professional football players or weightlifters.
They peered around the shop with bored, slightly puzzled expressions, as if suspicious of seeing so many books in one place. One broke away from the group and advanced to the counter. He wore a square silver ring on the little finger of his right hand. With little else to tell him apart from the others, Sandrine labelled him Pinky Ring.
“Good morning,” he said with a harsh, thick accent. Sandrine guessed Eastern European or Russian. “I am looking for Marcus Buckingham.”
It’s possible he was in the store on business. Marcus’ dealings led him to some unusual quarters but these visitors were definitely out of character.
“I’m afraid he’s currently away on business and won’t be returning for a few weeks. Perhaps I can help. I’m the manager.”
Another of the men wandered off, deep into the shop. The other stood silently by the door, scowling slightly, his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. Sandrine dubbed him Smiley.
If Pinky Ring was disappointed with the answer, he didn’t show it.
“I need to speak with him most urgently. How may I contact him?”
“Mr Buckingham is out of contact. He is with a client in Europe.”
Pinky Ring pursed his lips in frustration.
Sandrine smiled her brightest apologetic yet stonewalling smile.
“He doesn’t have a cell phone, he’s the old-fashioned sort. I have no way of reaching him but if you’d like to leave a contact, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”
The big man seemed to loom larger on the other side of the counter. He was not used to being refused. His brow furrowed and something shifted behind his bright blue eyes, like a cloud crossing the sun. His big head nodded once.
“I’m sure he will want to talk to me,” he said. “It could be worth a great deal of money for him. I’m looking for a book.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” If Sandrine had made a joke, Pinky Ring hadn’t noticed.
He took a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sandrine, who didn’t look at it or open it, just placed it carefully in front of her, maintaining a vacant smile and quiet composure. She wasn’t sure she wanted to take her eyes off him for a moment. Smiley watched them intently. The other man was nowhere to be seen.
“Of course. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
Pinky Ring stood quiet and still. A minute passed. What do I do now?
“It is most urgent.”
“I understand.”
He nodded once more.
“I am sorry. I have been abrupt. My name is Sergei.” He pronounced it Sir-gay. “It was not my wish to intimidate you.”
That was an understatement. He and his friends were huge. They almost blocked out the light and she barely came up to their chests. They were intimidating in ways she’d never encountered before. It also didn’t help that she was all alone in the shop. Even Marcella would be useful; while she may look like a little old lady, she was fearless and feisty and would have dealt with all three in short order.
Smiley said something in a language she couldn’t understand. It was similar but different to the dialect of a Czech friend from college and she immediately sensed the guttural syllables were Slavic; her initial impression, judging by their appearance, was that they could be either Russian or Scandinavian.
Sergei replied in a clipped, unfriendly tone and nodded. A thought instantly jumped into her head. They’re regular Bobbleheads, and Sandrine almost snorted with laughter.
The third man appeared from around the corner of the bookcases and stood at the side of the counter, uncomfortably close to her. He had a pale, twisting scar above his left eye that left a void through his eyebrow. Scar Face, Sandrine thought.
At that moment, the shop’s door exploded open, pushed by the wind as a delivery man in a khaki uniform wrestled an enormous bunch of red roses in a glass vase through the doorway. Sandrine jumped, taken completely by surprise. In one instant, blink-of-an-eye moment, Scar Face had swept his overcoat open and was reaching inside when Sergei barked an order. Scar Face stopped immediately, looking from Sandrine to the delivery man who stood just inside the door, his progress blocked by Smiley.
“My apologies for the interruption. Please ask Mr Buckingham to call me as soon as possible.” Sergei turned and left, followed closely by Smiley. Scar Face was momentarily confused, his face burning with anger or embarrassment, then he buttoned his coat and walked past the delivery man and out to the street.
“Delivery for Ms Chalmeaux.” The two dozen long-stemmed roses were beautiful. With the tall vase, which was wrapped in clear cellophane
and a thick red ribbon, they dominated the counter, towering above her.
“You’ll need to top up the water,” the courier said helpfully as she signed the screen of a handheld monitor and left, closing the door on the way out. In the street outside, standing by the Mercedes, Sergei was nose-to-nose with Scar Face, his face contorted with rage, poking him repeatedly in the chest. Scar Face was taking it without a word of protest, although his features were dark with suppressed rage. They could be close to coming to blows and Sandrine wondered who would come off the worst. After a few minutes, they climbed into the car and it drove off.
“What was that about?” Sandrine said quietly to herself. Some days are definitely stranger than others. The closeness of the encounter made her uneasy. Adrenalin started to pump through her, raising her heart rate. It was at times like this that she realised how small and fragile she was. The newspapers were full of stories of lives turned suddenly upside down, of instances of violence against seemingly innocent people, and she’d always marvelled at how random existence could be. She hadn’t felt threatened at the time but, on reflection, anything was possible. If these men wanted to rob her or take something from the store, what could she do about it? She was careful and normally quite alert. She didn’t take unnecessary chances. That was what living in the big city was all about. But there was still a helplessness, even a hopelessness, about things that left her feeling uneasy.
A shiver ran through her. Don’t be silly, she told herself. They asked for Marcus by name. They were here on business. It didn’t help that they were built like brick walls and had manners to match. You were merely intimidated by their physicality.
She walked back to the storeroom to get water. The door was slightly ajar. She hesitated, knowing it was always locked. Inside seemed fine. Nothing was missing or had been disturbed. The door to the safe remained closed. She hadn’t opened it in weeks. There was nothing there she’d needed.
