by Marian Tee
The elevator doors open before me, and I use it as an excuse to shut my know-it-all inner voice off. I half run towards the revolving doors, just plain eager to put as much distance between everything that can remind me of Mr. Rochester and myself.
But the moment I step out to the street, the first thing I see is a familiar-looking limousine parked by the curb, and standing next to it is an equally familiar-looking chauffeur.
Shit.
I quietly and stealthily try to turn around and take another path, but the old man chooses that moment to glance my way and his expression brightens.
Shit.
He walks quickly towards me, saying, “Ms. Reed, good afternoon.” He tips his cap in a gesture of greeting. “I’m Sam, by the way. I was asked to wait for you.”
I gape. “You have?” And as I hear a couple of gasps from behind, I realize I’m not the only one surprised and that other people working for Mr. Rochester have overheard the chauffeur’s words.
And judging by their expressions, I think gloomily, they know exactly who had asked Sam to wait for me.
Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.
I take a step back. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m not---”
Sam scratches his head with a frown. “Ms. Mary Jane Reed?”
Shit. My heart falls to my stomach, but I still try to avoid the inevitable, stammering, “Maybe there’s another Mary Jane---”
“Who was with him last night?”
Sam’s perplexed expression tells me he doesn’t mean anything by it, but I still want to strangle him. Behind me, surprise and shock have once again turned into resentment and envy---
Sam opens the door. “Shall we go, Ms. Reed?”
“Sure, why not?” I answer dourly. At this rate, everyone’s already thinking the worst about me and I don’t see any way I can convince people otherwise.
As soon as the limousine gets moving, Sam tells me that we’re heading back to my place.
I perk up. “Really?” So maybe this is just a free ride---
“Mr. Rochester asks that you pack only an overnight bag, Ms. Reed. I’ll personally take care of moving the rest of your belongings to Mr. Rochester’s home.”
Riiiiight. I study Sam calculatingly through the rearview mirror. “What if I tell you I’m being forced to move in with him?”
“I don’t think I quite heard you properly, Ms. Reed.” Sam studiously avoids my gaze as he answers, and a moment later the glass partition separating the driver’s section from the passenger area slides into place.
I guess I have my answer.
When we make it to my place, it only takes me half an hour to pack, but with every minute of it spent asking myself just one question. Why? Why am I letting Mr. Rochester get away with this?
Sam knocks on my front door, and I call out, “Come in.”
The chauffeur opens the door and pokes his head in, saying hesitantly, “Ms. Reed?”
“Yeah?”
“Is there anything I can help you with? I’m afraid Mr. Rochester is feeling a bit impatient and wishes that---”
“Sam?”
“Yes, Ms. Reed?”
“Could you tell your boss something for me?”
“Yes, Ms. Reed.”
“Tell him,” I say sweetly, “to drop dead.”
Sam pales. “I’ll, ah, just wait outside the door, Ms. Reed.”
“Tell him that,” I insist even as the door closes behind him.
“I don’t quite hear you, Ms. Reed.”
And because I can’t help being perverse, I decide impulsively to make myself dinner and force Sam to join me under the threat of causing him more trouble. When I glimpse the older man’s tortured expression, I shake my head in exasperation.
“Relax, Sam. He knows he won’t blame you.”
Sam doesn’t look convinced.
I sigh. “Okay, look at it this way. Your boss has this huge crush on me so trust me when I say I’ll keep him from getting mad at you.” I try not to laugh when I see Sam visibly mulling my words over.
And then the old man starts to smile. “You’re right, Ms. Reed.”
I was, huh?
As Sam dives into his food, he shares with me how there’s this guy who accidentally bumped into his boss at a hotel lobby---
“And Mr. Rochester got him fired an hour later,” Sam exclaims after finishing his second plate of pasta. “That man begged Mr. Rochester for his job back, got down on his knees and all, but the boss was like stone.” Sam shakes his head at the memory. “That’s why I know you’re right---” And he turns to me with a grin. “You’re special, Ms. Reed.” He reaches for the ladle and serves himself another bowl of pumpkin soup. “This is good, by the way.”
I manage a smile. “Have at it.” Good thing he’s got his appetite back, I think numbly, since I just lost mine.
A guy bumps into Mr. Rochester by accident and he gets fired.
So what happens to me, considering I’ve sidelined him with a serious hand injury?
Mr. Rochester’s place is a sprawling three-story manor hidden behind tall walls. Made entirely of natural stone, the imposing structure has a rather distinctly Tudor feel, and I can’t help but notice how it’s very much a facsimile of Thornfield Hall---
But you’re not going to tell him that or make any kind of Jane Eyre joke, I remind myself swiftly. No point adding fuel to the fire, especially since I now know for a fact Mr. Rochester is indeed a moody son of a bitch---
And petty as hell.
I suspected as much from the start, but even so having it confirmed makes me feel oddly…sad.
The main doors of Mr. Rochester’s home are quite the statement piece, made of heavy oak with quarter-sawn panels. They kind of remind me of dungeon doors, only prettier, and when they finally open, I feel like I’m about to enter my own cage.
“Good evening, Ms. Reed.” The housekeeper lets us in with a warm smile, and as Sam brings in my luggage, which he insists on carrying himself, the beaming middle-aged woman introduces herself as Consuelo.
Her uniform reminds me of those worn by higher-ranking servants in the Victorian age – a white no-frills apron over a dark, high-necked dress – and I blurt out, “Is that your uniform?”
Consuelo’s beaming smile widens. “Si,” she answers eagerly.
I knew it. Mr. Rochester isn’t just petty. He’s also vain as hell. Housekeeping uniforms are just so archaic, not to mention discriminating.
“Do you like it?” Consuelo asks.
Fuck no, I think. Uniforms are just another device rich people use to pander to their own egos, wanting a visible reminder of the class division---
Or at least that’s what I want to say. But for once I manage not to be a bitch and say nicely enough, “It looks the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Gracias,” Consuelo exclaims happily.
Sam bids us goodbye then and Consuelo takes over as she gives me a quick tour of the house.
The interior of Mr. Rochester’s home is dark and heavy, a reflection of sorts of its owner. The mood, however somber, is also made beautiful by the elegant mix of wood and leather. Its open layout from foyer to living room also adds a certain sense of illustriousness to the home, making it feel like the kind of place you need to mind your Ps and Qs.
Which is just like Mr. Rochester, too, I think, being the tyrannical, manipulative bastard he is.
“Now, I shall take you to your room,” Consuelo says.
And so we go up to the second floor and the room Consuelo takes me is as luxurious as the rest of the home and more spacious than I expect it to be.
“I’m really supposed to stay here?” I ask warily.
“Si, Ms. Reed. I have given it a proper cleaning just this morning, as Mr. Rochester has requested.” Consuelo glances at my luggage. “Do you need my help to unpack---”
“Oh, no, I’m cool.” I manage not to wrinkle my nose at the idea that Mr. Rochester’s habits may have made the housekeeper expect h
er boss’ guests to be similarly helpless. God. I must have been out of mind to be attracted to someone like him.
“Are you sure, Ms. Reed?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I shall leave now and let you rest. You must still be tired, after last night’s incident.”
What I’m feeling right now runs more along the lines of wishing her boss to perdition. But since I don’t think she’d want to hear something like it, I say diplomatically, “Something like that.”
When Consuelo leaves, I don’t unpack right away and instead sit at the edge of the bed---
My bed, I correct myself and the realization gives me pause.
Am I really going to stay here – knowing what kind of man Mr. Rochester is?
He may be the hottest-looking man alive, but the time I’ve spent in Sam and Consuelo’s company also tells me he’s the moodiest son of a bitch, petty as hell, vain and tyrannical---
I’m red-faced and fuming by the end of my mental tirade, and before I can think twice of what I’m about to do I’ve already snatched my phone out of my purse.
I press Call on the screen.
Mr. Rochester’s phone starts to ring.
My eyebrows shoot up.
What the hell?
I take the phone away from my ear but I still hear his phone ringing---
I turn towards the direction the sound is coming from, and that’s when my gaze falls on another door. I had assumed earlier it would lead directly to the bathroom but now I realize it’s the doorway to hell.
My God, he’s put us in connecting suites? Marching towards the door, I try the knob, find it locked, and my teeth gnashes. The gall of him, to have the lock on his side! Does he think he’s in danger of being raped?
I start banging on the door.
“Hang on a minute,” I hear Mr. Rochester’s very British voice call out a moment later.
“No,” I yell furiously, “I won’t wait---”
“Very well then.”
The door opens.
And Mr. Rochester is naked---
I let out a shriek. “What the hell?”
Okay, Mr. Rochester isn’t actually completely naked. He has the tiniest towel riding low around his hips, and it does an appalling job at covering his body. I know I should tear my gaze away, like right this very second, but I can’t.
It’s impossible.
Mr. Rochester is just…hard. So ridiculously hard, all over. I mean, how’s that possible? What kind of workout does this man do that every inch is just strewn with muscles?
I try to make my vocal chords work, but they refuse to cooperate. My throat feels so dry and the rest of my body has turned into something I don’t recognize. It’s become feverishly hot and trembling, and the longer I stare at Mr. Rochester, the weaker I feel, made worse by this weird fluttery feeling in my stomach.
“You’re welcome to do more than stare, Ms. Reed.”
The lazily spoken words work like a bucket of cold water and I finally manage to stop ogling him. “Thanks, but no thanks.” It’s such a lame comeback, made even lamer by the croaking sound of my voice. Gah. I want to kill myself right now.
He opens the door wider. “Come in, please.”
I shake my head, saying once more, “No thanks---”
Mr. Rochester smiles. “I insist.” His voice is gently commanding, and although it pisses me off, it also arouses me like no other, and I feel a shameful gush of moisture between my legs.
“Ms. Reed?”
“W-Whatever.” I march ungraciously inside his room. The sound of the door closing behind us almost makes me stumble.
Dear God, I’m alone in Mr. Rochester’s room.
My pulse leaps and my imagination runs wild. I feel like I’ve just stepped into another cage…but instead of feeling terrified, I feel more moisture soaking my panties.
Shit.
I press my legs closer together while looking around me, desperate for a distraction. Mr. Rochester’s room is only a little bigger than my suite but every inch here screams ‘master of the house’. The walls are an alternating pattern of natural stone and quarter-sawn panels, complemented by coffered ceilings and umber-colored velvet curtains.
It suits him, I think vaguely.
Mr. Rochester walks back into my line of view. “How do you find it?”
Heavy on tradition without being oppressive, I answer silently. I like it a lot actually, but I’d rather die than give him any kind of compliment so I just shrug, saying, “It’s okay.”
Mr. Rochester only smirks, and the way he looks at me seems to suggest he knows I’m just being contrary.
Shit.
When he starts coming closer, I force myself to stay still, not wanting him to see how much his proximity is rattling me. In such an enclosed space, the fact that Mr. Rochester is so much taller and larger than I am is inescapable, and the knowledge is excruciating to my senses. I can’t stop thinking of the way Mr. Rochester can easily overpower me if he wants to---
My gaze involuntarily slides to the oversized bed behind him. Even if he’s injured, I know Mr. Rochester’s strength is still enough to throw me on that bed if he wants to. I know he can keep me trapped, his hard body over mine---
“Can you tell me why that is?”
Mr. Rochester snaps me back to the present, and I’m aghast to realize that I had been so lost in a haze of lust I didn’t hear a single word he’s said. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Err, what’s that again?” Forced to look at him as I speak, I’m once again confronted by his near-naked form and I blurt out, “Don’t you want to change into something?”
“Not really,” Mr. Rochester answers, “since I sleep in the nude.”
Oh. Okay. Did he really have to tell me that?
I bite my lip hard.
And how the hell am I going to forget that now?
“Ms. Reed?”
“Uhh yeah?” Nude. He sleeps in the nude. Nude!
“Did my chauffeur tell you I wanted you here as soon as possible?”
Oh. So that’s what he wants to talk about. “He did tell me,” I confirm quickly, “but I told him I couldn’t be rushed.”
He raises a brow. “Is that so?”
I shrug. “I was hungry.”
“As expected,” Mr. Rochester murmurs, “which was why I had Consuelo prepare dinner for us here.”
Oh.
“I waited a good hour for you, Ms. Reed.”
I blinked in surprise, thinking that was awfully nice of him…until I remember how Sam seemed afraid of him and how he made Consuelo wear that awful uniform all year round---
Don’t let yourself fall under his spell, Reed. He’s evil! Evil!
Lifting my chin, I said deridingly, “No one asked you to do so.”
His eyes narrowed. “Somehow, I have a feeling this isn’t you just acting out.”
I clapped my hands, saying sarcastically, “Bravo. You guessed it right!”
Sapphire eyes glinted as he warned softly, “Careful, Ms. Reed.”
“Or what?” I demand even as my heart suffers a curious little twinge of sadness. “You’re going to make some petty threat---”
“If I were truly as petty as you seem to think I am,” Mr. Rochester counters, “you wouldn’t even have a job to go back to---”
“Don’t worry,” I snapped. “I won’t be surprised if you do fire me, just like you did with that poor guy at the hotel lobby---” I manage my mouth shut before I can say more, but it’s too late.
Mr. Rochester’s gaze narrows. “So that’s what this is about.”
“I---”
“And I’m guessing someone’s been telling tale,” Mr. Rochester murmurs silkily. “Sam perhaps?”
“No!” But as soon as I cry the word out, I realize belatedly that I’m just giving myself away.
Shit.
“Maybe it’s time to fire him,” Mr. Rochester says pensively.
I gasp. “You wouldn’t dare!” Or would he?
“Since he
can’t keep his mouth shut, it’s worth considering.”
My teeth gnash at the musing tone of his voice. Doesn’t he realize that he’s talking about an old man’s livelihood here?
“And then there’s the fact he’s explicitly gone against my wishes, allowing you to delay your arrival---”
“You know that’s not his fault,” I hiss.
“All I know is that I asked him to do something,” he counters simply, “and he didn’t do it.”
Aaaargh. I can feel my entire body shaking with rage at how cold and unreasonable he’s acting, and I have to clench my fists tightly so I won’t accidentally slap his face. But even so I can’t help whispering furiously, “You’re unbelievable.”
Mr. Rochester only responds with a low laugh, and I grit my teeth, hating the way the taunting sound ripples down my spine like a caress.
And of course the bastard knows it.
It’s all in those sapphire eyes of his---
“Bastard.” I just need to say it.
Instead of answering, Mr. Rochester only turns his back to me.
I watch him walk towards the bed, and when he takes a seat on the edge, the tiny towel dips lower and starts to part.
I quickly force my gaze up, not wanting to see what it can further reveal.
“Come here, Ms. Reed.” All at once the mood in the room changes, and the fury coursing through my blood turns into something else. Equally hot, equally passionate, but one of a different flavor---
Lust.
“Why?” I hear myself ask.
“Why else, Ms. Reed?” Mr. Rochester’s voice is a dark, tempting purr. “You’ve been a naughty little thing, don’t you think?” Sapphire eyes glitter at me, and I dig my nails into my palms as I feel my body responding to his look. “And with naughty little things, something must be done.”
His gaze devours my body, promising me all sorts of wicked things, and I bite back an involuntary moan.
Oh. OH. Oooooooooooh.
“Tell me,” Mr. Rochester invites softly, “what I must do to a naughty little girl like you.”
I shake my head.
“Tell me.”
“I c-can’t.”
“Tell me, Ms. Reed. Tell me or I won’t do it.”
Ah. God.
