Am I imposing on Ida by staying here so long? I start wondering whether I may have outstayed my welcome. She’s been wonderful, giving me a home and a job that at least makes me feel useful when I’m not dropping and breaking pots, and her wonderful upbeat company. But I know she’s used to living on her own. A shiver runs through me at the thought of having to find somewhere else to go. I haven’t got the guts to come straight out and ask her. I don’t know what I’d do if she turns me out. Not wanting to prolong the discussion, I give an exaggerated sigh, and say ‘goodnight’ going to bed with a heavy heart, worrying I might shortly be on the lookout for a new sanctuary.
****
“Hey, Claire!” Glancing up, I see Ida’s back from doing her shopping in town. She goes and does her weekly shop at Tesco once a week on Tuesdays.
“Ida!” I greet her, “Did you get everything you wanted?” I wait for it, trying to hide my grin, knowing how this is going to play out. She always forgets something and spends the rest of the day moaning about it. She blames it on her age, but I know she’s as sharp as a tack and her memory’s probably better than mine.
“Everything except for the one bloody thing I went there for. Tea bags! Would you believe I forgot to get the goddamn tea?”
She walks towards me and though her response is as expected, her customary smile is missing, making me wonder what’s wrong. Her hand, usually as steady as a rock, is shaking as she holds out a sheet of paper, and I watch her approach in consternation, something warning me I don’t want to reach out and take it. When she’s close enough, she passes it to me without speaking. Glancing at her face, I see her lips are pursed, her brow pulled down in a frown. Dreading what it could be, but unable to put it off any longer, I look down at the freshly printed flyer she’s given me. It’s got my face on it, and the wording asks if anyone’s seen this person, and, in big letters, a sum doubling the last reward for information. I’m now worth five hundred thousand pounds. Half a million frigging pounds!
An incredulous laugh bursts out of me, but any amusement quickly flees as I realise Ethan’s nowhere close to giving up. “Where…?”
“Post office in Ludlow,” she tells me, answering before I finish my question.
Shit! That’s far too close for comfort. Does that mean his net’s closing in? How the hell did he trace me here?
Ida’s face is full of sympathy; she knows my fears without me having to express them, “He could just be widening his search; it could be a coincidence.”
“But it might not.” I feel tears pricking behind my eyes. My haven doesn’t feel safe anymore. Cursing under my breath, I start to think. We haven’t advertised the fact I’m here, and I’d put good money on Ida keeping it close to her chest. I don’t work in the shop, but it is possible someone’s seen me working out back. It is a glasshouse after all.
“Come.” She puts her arm around my shoulders and leads me into the house adjoining the nursery, “I’ve got enough tea bags left to make you a cuppa, and you look like you could do with one.”
I could do with something stronger, but it’s not even lunchtime yet so I can’t make that suggestion. Instead, I go with her and sit at her small kitchen table as she fiddles about putting the kettle on and rinsing out then warming the old fashioned teapot. No just dipping bags in a mug for Ida, she has to go through the whole darn ritual. But watching her going about her task is settling, and allows me to start thinking about things rationally instead of in blind panic.
“There’s that job in Amahad,” Ida states knowing my objections to it as she carefully pours boiling water into the pot. A couple of weeks ago she’d found a position advertised online. It was right up my street; a job that combined both parts of my landscaping and architecture degree. A fantastic opportunity to renovate an exotic sounding building and gardens. And the best part of it? It was more than three thousand miles away in an entirely different part of the world. Ignoring my concerns about the practicalities, Ida had gone ahead and had applied on my behalf. When she’d told me what she’d done I hadn’t been worried; I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d land it, there’d probably be hundreds of more experienced people applying.
But to my astonishment, last week there had been a phone call to the shop’s landline. Ida had summoned me in, and before I could protest I’d found myself speaking to a woman named Cara Kassis who was responding to my application. With a sigh I started to tell her I had to withdraw as it would be impossible for me to take the position, but she was speaking over me with such enthusiasm about the project I was soon hooked.
As Cara continued to describe my ideal job, I quickly found myself drawn in and responding in kind. After half an hour we were getting on like a house on fire, my suggestions on the approach to the works tallying exactly with what she had in mind, and we were soon both discussing something close to our hearts. I got carried away, believing it was something within my reach, until at last she remembered herself with a laugh and said she better get down to the formalities. It was then I had to let her down, admitting I had no passport, and would be unable to get one. However well matched, I wouldn’t be able to take the job in any event. She asked, of course, but I didn’t tell her why I couldn’t get documentation. I couldn’t trust anyone with the truth, however friendly they might seem. It was an awkward end to the call, and I never expected to hear from her again.
As my heart speeds up, I realise things have changed now and are forcing my hand, whether I want to or not, it seems I need to get on the move. I can’t take the chance that leaflet in the post office window wasn’t just coincidence. What if Ethan has he traced me to the area where I’m hiding? Or worse, knows exactly where I am? I shudder as I look at the steaming cup that Ida’s placed in front of me, perched on the saucer she insists on using, not sure if I can drink it, my stomach in knots.
Ida waits patiently for my response. It would be the obvious answer, yes, but it’s impossible. “I can’t go to Amahad. You know why.”
“That email last night didn’t suggest it would be a problem.” She raises her eyebrows.
The email she’s talking about came out of the blue. It was from Cara Kassis and asked me to attend an interview with Kadar Kassis at the Amahadian Embassy in London on Thursday, two days from now. It had a strange message at the bottom.
Don’t worry about the passport; there are ways around it. Be certain to tell Kadar ‘Cara said so’”
I didn’t understand the footnote. I may not be well travelled, but even I know that you need to show your identity papers before leaving any airport in the UK, and before entering any foreign country. So I’d dismissed it out of hand. It wasn’t worth the danger of the risk of exposure travelling down to the capital, just to be told what I already knew. But were things different now? Should I give it more consideration? Could this Kadar person possibly do anything for me? Would it be legal? But what the hell do I care if it isn’t? If the threat of staying here has increased significantly, perhaps I should take the chance?
What if even now Ethan has plans in motion to take me back? Just the very thought makes me shudder and glance nervously at the door, half expecting to see his car pull up outside.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, Ida touches my arm then taps the paper I’d forgotten was still in my hand. “Half a million pounds for information on where you are, Claire. I wish I could, but I can’t promise you’re safe here any longer. That’s one heck of a lot of money.” Leaning forwards, she places a gentle, motherly kiss on my forehead, “I’ll miss you, but I think it’s time for you to move on. I don’t know if anyone has noticed you’re here, we’ve tried to keep you well hidden. But, well, people who work in glass houses shouldn’t assume they’re invisible.”
“You think someone’s seen me?” I appreciate Ida’s take on the proverb.
“I don’t think we can take the chance that they haven’t,” she insists, concerned.
With a sinking feeling, I know she’s right. But I still have doubts.
&
nbsp; “It’s an interview, Ida. I can’t even prove who I am. You’re supposed to take proof of qualifications as well as identity, and I’ve got nothing! I can’t even use my real name! I can’t prove my relevant experience, and I’ve got no references.” I grow angry, realising once again how much Ethan has ruined everything for me. I have the opportunity not only to escape but a chance at the job of a lifetime; one I would have jumped at even if I didn’t have other reasons to flee the country.
“I don’t know why, but I’ve got a good feeling about it. I think you clicked with this Cara person, Claire. I believe the interview will simply be a formality.” She pauses for a moment, “It’s time to take hold of your life again, and if that has to be thousands of miles away then so be it. I will miss you, though. I’ve enjoyed having you here.” The kindly old woman puts her arms around me, and I lean into her embrace, thanking her without using words. Perhaps she’s right.
So despite my apprehension of the risk, I’ll be taking, my mind starts working out practicalities of traveling down to London. I made it up here without being detected; I’ll simply have to be just as careful and reverse the process on the way back down. More cautious, even, as almost the whole country is on the look-out for me. Half a million pounds! Shit!
Just the thought of being so far away and out of his clutches sounds so attractive, I owe it to myself to try. As I am, hiding out here with Ida, I’m only existing, not living. I can’t let Ethan steal the rest of my life as well as the time he already has. The knowledge that his search might be homing in on my whereabouts is the push I need to pull me out of the stupor I’d descended into. It’s clear I can’t wait here and stagnate any longer. Ida is right; I can’t let Ethan continue to dictate my life. Pulling away from her arms, I let a smile come to my face. “I think I’ve got call to make.”
A knowing grin slowly spreads over Ida’s face as she pats me on the back in approval.
Standing, I turn and start walking away but then pause as the perennial woman’s problem suddenly hits me. “Ida, I’ve got nothing to wear! I can’t turn up to an embassy in a cheap pair of jeans!” I swing back around to face her.
She just laughs. “Isn’t that what next day delivery’s for?”
I gape at her, then chuckle. Of course, it is. Feeling more positive for the first time in months I take a step towards Ida’s office and also towards my future. A future, hopefully, not overshadowed by the threat of Ethan. Taking out the untraceable phone Josh gave me all those weeks ago I ring the embassy and leave a message saying I’ll attend the interview. Next I have fashion websites to browse through.
I’ve gone from rock bottom when I saw the leaflet Ida brought with her back from town to feeling a light-heartedness I haven’t felt for a very long time. It might come to nothing, but for the first time in almost two years, I feel I’m taking charge of my destiny.
.
Chapter 10
Kadar
Sitting at my office in the Amahadian Embassy in London I glance out of the window. It’s early spring in England, when snowdrops are just past their best and daffodils and crocuses begin taking over from their little white friends. I have to admire the lushness of this country, coming as I do from the land of sand, where gardens are few and far between; the cost of keeping plants and flowers alive―sacrificing our most precious resource to keep them irrigated and watered―often too high to pay. Even the rain that’s slanting down from the murky grey London skies doesn’t bother me; the sight now such a rarity that I relish it.
In many ways, England is my second home, but it’s my brother Jasim, the middle child of the three Kassis brothers, who has made it his first, hardly returning to Amahad at all now. The strictness of my father, both in his parental duties and his rule, drove him away. He now works on our behalf as an unofficial ambassador, and plays an important role, being in charge of exploiting our newly found extensive oil reserves. I can’t resent him for emigrating, given the significant and valuable burden Jasim shoulders for us. Having a close member of the family in such an important position means I have someone I can trust at my back.
And now I watch as he comes forward to greet me, dressed in his stereotypical tailored suit, probably coming from Saville Row; costing more than an average person’s monthly salary. His hair has grown, I notice, just touching his shoulders, but perfectly coiffured, of course. Even in the breeze, it falls back to its styled position with just a flick of his hand over his forelock. He moves with the grace and stealth of a panther, and I can see from rippling of his muscles under his jacket that, like me, he’s kept up his fitness regime. I hold back my sigh of envy. Jasim is the only one of us who has any choice as to how he lives his life, and who he spends it with—something currently very close to my heart as I’m about to be shackled to a wife for nothing other than political reasons. But despite my jealousy of his freedoms, he has so far remained a bachelor.
“Kadar! It’s good to see you!” He holds out his hand, takes mine then hugs me towards him with his other arm. We’ve not always got on, in fact, we very nearly fell out completely when I involved him in our plans to bring Cara to Amahad and force her to marry Nijad, but we’ve settled into an easy enough relationship again since. Now, releasing me he pulls back, his eyes narrowing, “You look like shit, brother.”
Trust Jasim to give it to me straight. “Nice to see you too,” I reply dryly, but I’m unable to deny the stresses I’ve inherited are visibly wearing me down.
His dark eyes examine me carefully. “You need to release some of that tension.” As I cock my eyebrow at him, his face splits into a wide grin, and I’m not surprised when he continues, “I know the best way to do that. Come to the club tonight.”
I laugh in response; it was a predictable offer for my brother to make. Jasim is part-owner of an exclusive BDSM club in London; the cost of membership so astronomically high as to make it extremely elite, and safe enough for people such as myself to be assured of anonymity when playing. I’ve been there many times before, usually managing a visit whenever I’ve been able to come to the UK, and admire the excellent setup. I hadn’t considered a visit this trip with everything else I’ve got to do, but all at once it occurs to me Jasim just might be on to something. An opportunity to relax and unwind sounds very attractive; I haven’t allowed myself any release except for one that’s been self-administered for a very long time. The chance to wipe my mind free of all problems Amahadian, even for just a short while, is extremely tempting. It doesn’t take me more than a couple of seconds to mentally run through the meetings I’ll have to shift before deciding to take him up on it.
So, that’s how I find myself, after a good catch-up dinner with my sibling, entering Club Tiacapan, located in a mansion on the outskirts of a park to the south-west of London. As always, I’m impressed by the décor and facilities as well as the size of the place, which, while already large, Jasim’s told me, is still insufficient. Preparations for an extension are underway as there are always more applications for membership than space to accommodate the number of people who want to join. Even the sky-high fees don’t negate the desire for a safe, clean, and well-managed place to play.
As ruler I’m tied to Amahad, so nowadays it’s rare I can afford the luxury of coming here, but I still retain a locker where my clothing and well-stocked toy bag is kept for those odd occasions when I can. Feeling much like I’m coming home, I go into the changing room, emerging after a few minutes dressed in tight leather trousers and a leather vest. I feel I’ve shrugged off my persona along with my outer clothes; I’m no longer emir, but a Dom.
Proceeding through the impressive atrium and out into the main room, my tension drifts away as I begin exchanging nods with people I recognise as I make my way to the bar, briefly greeting a member of the British parliament and then a well-renowned judge, calling them by their assumed names. Here, I have no fear of exposure, any one of us would risk too much by revealing the proclivities of the other. Then, when I see another familiar face mixing
drinks, a grin spreads across my face at the welcome sight.
“Master Ralph! You still here?”
“Where else would I be?” The man in his forties who seems to be a permanent fixture behind the gleaming mahogany bar answers in his deep voice, his barked laugh immediately making me feel back among friends. “Getting a bit hot in your part of the world, isn’t it, Master K?”
Knowing how he keeps up with current affairs, I realise he’s not referring to the weather. “We’re trying to lower the temperature.” I respond, obliquely. He doesn’t press me further; Club Tiacapan is a place to forget the outside world.
Without asking he passes me a whisky; a top shelf single malt, straight up without ice as nature intended, knowing full well how I like to indulge when outside of my home territory. There’s no question or censure; here it doesn’t matter who I am or what I do as long as I obey the club rules which are simple enough. No exchange of bodily fluids in the main room—private rooms are available for that—and strict adherence to the principles of safe, sane, and consensual, or in some circumstances where all parties are aware and agree on Risk Aware Consensual Kink. The use of the traffic light system for safewords is obligatory.
Taking a sip of the excellent whisky I let the atmosphere of the room flow over me, the heavy rock music playing at a volume that allows Doms and subs still to communicate, but loud enough for the beat to provide a useful accompanying rhythm for those using canes and floggers.
I hear a whip whistle through the air, and as I cock my head to one side, Master Ralph answers my unspoken query, “Master Jonathan is playing tonight.”
I turn to see. A large area has been cleared to allow room for the eight-foot single tail to be used safely without endangering the onlookers. Jon’s skill and expertise are widely admired, so it doesn’t surprise me a small crowd has gathered to watch. Another crack, and from my viewpoint I can see the tip kiss across his sub and wife, Mia’s back. What I can’t see, but would expect, is the slightest red mark which will feel like a small sting despite the loud sound which I know increases the anticipation of the strike and expectation of pain. I wouldn’t be a good Dom had I not been at some time on the receiving end of the experiences I put my subs through. Picking up on the way Mia relaxes into the St. Andrews Cross I hope that she will be able to let her emotions go tonight.
Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3) Page 11
