by Harlem Dae
He narrowed his eyes, and I got the sense that I ought to be scared or at least rattled from what he was implying. I wasn’t, though—one of my downfalls, that, not thinking I had anything to worry about. Went with the territory when you’d grown up with a silver spoon neatly lodged in your mouth. I’d give him a chance to explain, though, and if he didn’t give me a compelling enough reason, or evidence, to watch my back, I’d move on. To America, maybe. There were plenty of flowers there for me to waste a few months sourcing.
“Go on,” I said and moved forward so that our faces were only a couple of inches apart. No sense in wasting an opportunity to reel him in.
“Since Paris, a man has been following you,” he said.
I held back a snort but kept unwavering eye contact, acting as though I could see straight into the depths of his soul.
“And,” he added, “he put something in your handbag.”
A wave of discomfort rippled through me. This did sound compelling, but I was convinced he was talking about himself so I wasn’t going to take him seriously. “Okay, what did he put in my bag?” I waggled my eyebrows as if joining in with his game, a fellow conspirator.
Indulge him then get to the more exciting business.
He appeared relieved that I might believe what he’d said. His face loosened, the creases around his eyes relaxing, as though tension was seeping out of him. I had to feel sorry for the man, really. He was just doing his job—just doing whatever Father told him to do.
God only knows how he’s ended up in such a dead-end job, following a little nympho rich girl around the world.
“I can only assume,” he said, “that it was a tracking device.”
He’d said it so ominously that again, I wanted to laugh.
“Oh right,” I said. “Interesting little James Bond fantasy you have going on here, spies and gadgets abound.” I licked my lips. Shifted even closer. “Let’s get one thing straight before we go any further. I must have honesty from you; otherwise, how am I meant to believe you? So answer this: Did my father employ you to follow me?”
He closed his eyes tightly for a second then opened them. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you’re protected.”
Protected?
I widened my eyes. That had shocked me. I’d thought he was following me so my father could…well, I don’t know, gain evidence that he could use to hold over me, perhaps, to threaten me that if I didn’t behave myself he’d disinherit me. It hadn’t occurred to me in the slightest that it could be because he cared.
Because he doesn’t care.
“Oh.” I schooled my features to hide my emotions. “And what do I need protecting from? The men I fuck? Does Father think one of them will tie me to the bed, rape me and murder me? Is that what he’s worried about? Well, you can tell him something: I’ve been tied to plenty of beds in plenty of cities around the world.” I held out my palms. “Still here. Still breathing.”
He winced. “One man—the man in Paris, the same man in Rome, and now, the same man here—and if you do end up fucking him, which I’m guessing you will…” He shrugged. “It will be much easier for him to do his job if you’re in his bed, even more so if you go as far as being tied to it.”
“Do I detect a hint of disgust there?” I placed my hand on his knee then slid it up his thigh just a little way. “Do you have strong morals regarding sex? Any aversion to being tied up or strapping your lover down?”
“What I think about sex isn’t the issue. What I think about you isn’t the issue. What is, and my job as it happens, is to be aware that someone’s following you and I don’t think I’m enough to watch you all the time. I can’t be with you all the time.”
“I should bloody well hope not!” I smiled. “Because that would be a tad awkward, don’t you think? Unless, of course, you’re into voyeurism.” I pretended to think about it, rolling my eyes upwards and biting on my bottom lip. “Actually, I’m not opposed to being watched, it can spice up the situation considerably if the mood is right. Is that what you’re really asking me? If you can watch?”
“Please stop this. Take me seriously. Take your own safety seriously.”
“I don’t take anything seriously. You should know that if my father briefed you properly. My main role in life is to look pretty, marry well, and not do anything to embarrass the precious Montague-Fostrop name while I pop out a couple of heirs.” I cackled. “Thing is, I’m not really managing to do any of those things. Oh, maybe the pretty.” I pouted at him.
“I mean it, you need to be careful.” He pulled back, face flushed—from anger? “Be serious for one bloody minute of your life, would you?”
Had I got to him? Would I be able to get this man to fuck me? It was a challenge I’d already set myself from the second I’d spotted him in Paris. A challenge I wasn’t about to give up on. He must have some chinks in his armour, everyone did. And oh, right now, there was a little spark of something in his eyes, too. Frustration? Desire? I wasn’t sure which.
“Oh, come on.” I let out a gentle laugh. “This really does sound like a movie now. Subterfuge, things being slipped into bags. A terrible man with terrible things in mind who will do those things to me if he manages to get me alone. Really? Is that the best you and my father can do to make me behave?” I sighed and inched forward again, intending to whisper so he had to move towards me, too. “Tell me, do you like your work?”
“Pardon?” He did as I wanted and came closer. “Could you repeat that?”
“I said, do you like your work?”
“Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it.”
“So, if someone told you the little story you’ve just told me, would you give up your work?”
“Probably not.”
“So why,” I said, positioning my mouth as near to his as I dared, so close, in fact, that I could feel a few whispers of his beard against my bottom lip, “do you expect me to give up my work?”
“Work?” His breath danced on my lips, laced with the scent of blue cocktail. “Fucking is work?”
“It is to some degree, yes, but I’m not talking about that kind of work. My flowers. My search for beauty that I can sell in my shop. That work. That’s why I’m travelling. Should I do it the boring way and return to Chelsea, look up flowers on the Internet, then order them in? Should I deny myself the pleasure?”
“Stop it with the innuendoes.”
“Excuse me? I was talking about the pleasure of seeing the flowers for myself before I buy them. I am on a botanical journey, a Darwin-like, precision-driven search for the perfect blooms. The ones that oligarchs and sheiks will want to buy their wives and mistresses at Christmas, birthdays, and Valentine’s Day. What on earth did you think I meant?”
“I know what you meant. You know what you meant. This isn’t a game, Claudine.”
Oh, he’d used my real name. So few people did. He’d rolled it around his tongue so nicely, too, stretching out the ‘deene’ sound at the end.
Which meant it was about time I knew his.
“If we’re getting pally,” I said, “tell me your name. It’s only fair.”
“Sutton.”
I wasn’t sure if that was his first or surname but didn’t care. It suited him.
“Right then, Sutton. Life is a game. You either play it well or you lose. You throw your own dice, and even if you only get a one, you still move forward. Unless you’re playing Snakes and Ladders—and believe me, I never play that. I only climb ladders, I do not slide down snakes. Unless we’re talking about the ones in trousers.” I giggled.
He huffed in a huge breath then let it out, glancing at the balconies as though he couldn’t bear to look at me anymore. If I wanted to, I could kiss his cheek, but for once I didn’t think it appropriate. I was frustrating him—one way or the other—and enjoyed his discomfort. I stared at his crotch. Shame that I wasn’t frustrating him in that department, but give me time.
“Claudine, I’m going to need to ask your fa
ther to send more men to help me if you insist on working abroad for longer and not heeding my advice.”
“Advice?” Was he really trying to tell me what to do?
“Yes, stop this business with the random men, it’s not safe. Keep yourself in plain sight for me to watch out for you.”
As if.
“Fine. Get more helpers, then.” I leaned in close again and spoke breathily, “Go running to my father.”
I stuck my tongue out. The tip connected with his cheek, just above his beard, and he jolted away then turned his head to stare at me, aghast.
“I wish you would stop being so…rude,” he said.
“Ha! Rude? A little bit of tongue is rude? You haven’t lived, mister.”
“I’ve lived enough.”
“Oh, you’re an Ice King. How wonderfully exciting.”
Or inexperienced, and my God, I so want to teach you the ins and outs…
“I’m here to keep you safe, nothing more.”
He clenched his jaw. Very manly. And I wasn’t sure if it was exasperation or determination that flashed over his eyes.
“Okay, then. What about this? You could shadow me to the point that I only ask you to leave me alone when I want to shag someone. We’ll have adjoining rooms. I can knock on the wall, rattle the headboard, if anyone breaks in to do whatever it is you think they want to do. How about that?”
“I agree.”
I could have clapped in happiness. Things were going along easier than I thought they would.
“So,” I said, “run along to reception and see if the room on the other side of mine is free. As you well know, Nathan is in the other.”
Sutton’s expression implied he didn’t want to leave me.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said. “Alberto here will take care of me until you get back. Then me and you can go to my room and have a nose through my bag. Try to find whatever this so-called man put in it. All right?”
Sutton nodded and left quickly, jogging past the pool and to the hotel.
I turned my back on him to find Alberto standing right there.
“He won’t break for you, no?” He grinned.
“Oh, he will.”
“I would not be so sure.” Alberto nodded absently. “Some men, they have control.”
“This one,” I smiled, “will succumb.”
“Send me a postcard from your next destination if he does.” He laughed. “Just write si or no, I’ll understand what it means.”
“I’ll do that.”
“This other man, the one following. What does he want with you?” Alberto asked. “I had to serve someone, so I didn’t catch…”
“You were listening? Oh, you naughty boy.”
“A perk of the job.” He grinned.
“I have no idea what he wants with me—if he even exists.”
But I intended to find out. If it meant getting Sutton between my legs, God yes, I intended to find out. The man was only run-of-the-mill handsome, but his control as Alberto had put it made him incredibly appealing to me. More than appealing. I found myself attracted to him.
Chapter Four
It was about five minutes after Sutton had headed into the hotel to organise the room change that I knew, for sure, that I had the wicked-impulsive gene, the same one as my father. Because an idea came to me, so suddenly and vividly, it made me cackle like one of Macbeth’s witches; I even stirred my mango cocktail as if it were a cauldron, scraping the straw around the base in a slow, rhythmic motion and watching the clockwise rotation of liquid.
And I acted on it, this shocking idea, in a heartbeat.
I guzzled then slurped the last of the thick concentrate from the bottom of my bowl-shaped glass. Next I headed for my lounger. Alberto was busy flirting with two milky-skinned new arrivals, Manchester judging by their accents, and I was pleased to shake his attention.
I needed to be alone.
I’d left a bag under my towel. It was that kind of place, everyone so rich they wouldn’t steal a few personal belongings. A few million from a bank vault or a dodgy arms deal, maybe, but not a tattered paperback, a Gucci purse with several credit cards and dollars in it, and a Donna Karan sarong.
After slipping into my bikini top, I wrapped lilac material around my body, giving the appearance that I was wearing a long dress with a knotted detail at the front. I wriggled my feet into matching flip-flops and shook out a sandy-coloured sun hat that I’d folded into my bag. I plonked the hat on my head, glad of its wide-brimmed protection, then pulled my bag onto my shoulder.
It was time to shake my tail, get rid of my shadow, throw Sutton off his game and let him know what he’d said didn’t scare me.
Was it mean of me to slip away? Yes. So what?
I was going out of the complex, and no one could stop me—not Father’s servant-boy or a mythical man out to get me.
I’d hit the local market. Sometimes, I’d discovered, it was just the place to find something unusual for displays. If not a fancy or rare flower, an artifact to decorate a bouquet with, or to give me inspiration for a centerpiece. I wasn’t a traditional type of florist, I went for much edgier designs. I adored spiky leaves, garish colours, black fronds, anything that was out of the ordinary.
I supposed that suited me—I wasn’t exactly ordinary.
Sauntering back past the pool bar, I tipped my chin, not bothering to catch Alberto’s attention. He was busy. So was I.
I’d put money on the fact that Nathan was watching me leave, though, from his balcony. Likely with his hand back down his shorts, working his shaft, hoping for more oral fun with me later.
Well it was tough, he’d had his turn.
Didn’t he know there were other fish in the sea? In the vast ocean of sexual conquests that lay before me, like one big shimmering orgasm just waiting to be claimed, I had many more laps to swim.
A black security man stood by a locked gate that led from the hotel grounds. He wore a peaked cap, smart navy shorts, and a matching shirt.
“Which way is the market?” I asked as he unlocked the wrought-iron gate.
“That way.” He pointed to the left. “About a ten-minute walk. If you hurry it will still be in full swing, but they start to pack up early evening.”
“Okay, thank you.” I smiled at him.
His skin was as dark as a lump of coal, and his lips appeared soft and pliant, the thick inner rim pink. I imagined they’d latch onto a nipple quite exquisitely. I glanced at his hand holding the gate.
A gold band sat around his ring finger.
Off limits.
I didn’t obey many rules, but I respected the don’t-fuck-married-men rule.
If another woman, Miriam-bloody-Pennington, had stuck to that rule twenty years ago, then maybe I wouldn’t be here today. Perhaps my father would have gone home with a stiffy from the office and screwed my mother instead of having the bloody affair of the century. Gossip about them going at it on the mahogany conference table had swirled around the social circuit for months. You’d think a man who’d had CCTV installed into his company office block would have control over who saw the footage.
Miriam-bloody-Pennington.
She had been the reason my mother had left and never came back. She just couldn’t face the scandal. The looks of pity from Juniper Hall staff, to the ladies she lunched with at the golf club were simply too heavy a load to bear. I got birthday cards from her and a present every Christmas. The gifts were predictable, always a Faberge egg. The last one had been emerald with golden lace and stood on tiny diamanté feet. When opened it revealed a tiny pink bunch of flowers. It was pretty—they were all pretty, my expensive collection. But they didn’t make up for her not being there. For her putting me in the same damn basket as my father and leaving us both.
The gate clicked shut behind me, and I sauntered down the dusty path. The road next to it was pot-holed and quiet, not a vehicle in sight.
I sighed and stared out to sea. It was a beautiful, rich blue, and small
white-tipped waves flurried on the surface like tiny galloping horses. Back home the weather would be grey and miserable. Lights on at four p.m., and the sort of evening the lampposts wore halos of mist around their amber lights.
It was good to be here, away from all of that dreariness.
Pulling in a deep breath, I set my shoulders back and enjoyed the sense of freedom. No Sutton—it was good to finally have a name for him—trotting behind me.
I smirked as a man wearing only shorts and tattered sandals went past me on a rattling bike. Not that I was smirking at him, and I hoped he didn’t think that, but I was imagining Sutton’s face when he came back to the pool bar and I was gone.
Then he’d see my bag had also vanished.
He’d likely quiz Alberto, who would be none the wiser, his head too full of his next conquest, his next bit of arse. Sutton would scratch his beard, over his chin, the way I’d seen him do on several occasions. I might not be a P.I. like him but I was pretty good at spotting this kind of stuff.
A light, briny breeze tugged at my hat, and I pressed my palm over my crown. I could see the market now. It really wasn’t very far. I was pleased about that. Inland now, on my right, was a cluster of single-storey houses, shanty-style. Several gritty alleys led into their bowels, the view hindered by flapping clothing on lines and jumbled piles of junk. The roofs were corrugated iron, rusting and sharp-edged. A trickle of smoke spiralled upwards before dissipating in the sea air. It was the kind of place in St Lucia Father had warned me off venturing into, and the bark of several dogs told me that was, for once, advice I should take.
Bright, citrus-coloured canopies spread like a large picnic blanket over a bustling patch of shade. The clang of metal drums being played, a party beat, filtered towards me, and I was aware of a smile stretching my lips. I adored the jolly sound of steel drums, always had done whenever I’d visited this part of the world.
Once, I’d had the pleasure of getting up close and personal with a man who was particularly talented at playing them. I’d met him on a trip to some waterfalls in Barbados several years ago. I had been just legal, only recently introduced to this sex-thing by Aaron. Not that my father knew that, he was just happy to see me head off on an organised trip to experience culture while he sat at the bar on his bloody phone. The drum player had been the local guide, employed by the hotel, and at the end of the trip he’d invited me back to his house—or should I say hut—and had shown me his tunes, and, after that, his cock. I’d still wager it was the biggest damn dick I’d ever seen. Luckily, he was gentle and played my clit with his tongue the same way he’d got a melodic tune out of those drums.
