Lord and Master Trilogy

by Jagger, Kait

  When he didn’t respond, she gestured toward the clothes. ‘I’m putting together a load of washing from last weekend.’ She stood aside to reveal his leather holdall, also open on the bed. ‘See? Your things too.’

  Stefan exhaled loudly and sat down on the edge of the bed, as if his legs couldn’t support him anymore.

  ‘Are you—?’ Luna stopped. ‘Did you think I was going to leave you, because of what your mother said?’

  He didn’t reply, but his ashen countenance spoke volumes.

  ‘What, do you think I’ve just been waiting for my opportunity to walk out on you again?’ she asked, feeling both insulted and injured all at once. ‘That the minute something went wrong, I’d up sticks and run?’

  But, oh, the look on his face – she couldn’t be angry with him, not when he was sitting in front of her like this, heart laid bare. Luna reached for his cheek, stroked his hair, and said reassuringly, ‘Your mother will learn to like me.’ At his dubious expression, she shrugged. ‘Or not. It really doesn’t matter. The only person whose opinion of me I care about is you. Do you understand?’

  He nodded uncertainly, and Luna stamped her foot. ‘You’re stuck with me, right? I’m not going anywhere.’

  Still he said nothing. It would need more than this, she could see that now. Lowering her hands to her sides, she balled them into fists, searching for words.

  ‘When I left you last winter, do you think I did it out of strength?’ She shook her head. ‘I did it because I was weak. All that talk about needing to come first in your life… if I’d stayed, I’d have convinced myself to live with being third. Or thirtieth. Anything, just to be with you. What Kayla said, about me putting you in a box marked “dead to me”, I could never have done that. There isn’t a box big enough to hold you.’

  She was shaking now, praying for him to say something. ‘Min älskling,’ she implored, and that was all it took. Stefan stood in a rush and dragged her toward him, his mouth colliding with hers.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Luna said to her tablet.

  It was just over two weeks since Stefan’s conversation with his mother in the garden and, in spite of everything, she was preparing to attend the soirée at Karoline’s boyfriend’s house in Essex. Stefan had been all for skipping it; having delivered a stern dressing down to his mother, he’d claimed to be nothing but relieved when she chose to decamp from Arborage the very next morning.

  Luna didn’t want to be the cause of a rift between mother and son, however, so when Karoline subsequently phoned to beg her to convince him to come to the party, she’d agreed. ‘Honestly, I’m fine with it,’ she’d assured him, joking, ‘Besides, I want to meet your mum’s stora kärlek.’

  Strange, but Karoline’s declaration in the garden appeared to have had the opposite effect to what Stefan had feared. Luna’s recent run-ins with Helen and Isabelle had reminded her of a truth she’d chosen to forget: she could live with being disliked. Indeed, if Karoline Lundgren had concluded that she was just a bit of skirt, a parvenu after her son’s money, Luna was prepared to fight fire with fire, show her how this English gold digger rolled. So she’d called in the big guns, the Essex Godfather and his East End Enforcer.

  ‘Show us what you look like in the mirror,’ came Patrice’s voice from her tablet. Luna flipped the tablet around and held it toward the standing mirror in her and Stefan’s bedroom at Arborage.

  ‘Higher,’ Kayla directed.

  The woman in the reflection was dressed in a close-fitting white chiffon dress. Featuring a heavily bejewelled Grecian neckline and a matching integral belt, it was infinitely more ‘bling’ than Patrice’s usual choices for her. It was also very, very short. ‘This is Essex, dearie,’ he’d assured her when she expressed reservations. ‘We need to dial you up to eleven.’

  As instructed, Luna lifted the tablet higher, angling it down to reveal the Swarovski-encrusted Louboutin sandals Kayla had loaned her for the occasion.

  Kayla’s verdict: ‘Shag that.’

  And if Luna suspected her friend was being kind, trying to boost her confidence, it got another lift when she broke her self-imposed no-selfie rule and sent Stefan an over-the-shoulder shot of her posterior in the mirror.

  ‘You are killing me here,’ he complained sotto voce from his office in London.

  ‘Hurry up and finish your meetings, then,’ Luna replied saucily. ‘Come give your fiancée a good seeing to.’

  Stefan groaned. ‘Stop, please. Or I’ll never get rid of this hard-on.’

  ‘Would you like me to send a photo of my knickers?’ she enquired sweetly. ‘They’re very… mmm, lacy. I could just lift up my skirt and…’

  ‘No!’ he shouted. Another groan, and a brief silence. ‘Yes.’

  The selfie rule went entirely out of the window when a chauffeured Rolls Royce Phantom arrived at the portico early that evening to transport her to Essex. Sitting in the opulent, white leather back seat, Luna surreptitiously sent a whole series of photos to the girls and even one to Mika. She was just taking one of the headlining, dotted with what appeared to be actual diamonds, when a heavily accented voice came over the intercom.

  ‘Night sky in Ural Mountains.’

  It was her driver, who she could just see through the tinted glass separating the front and back of the car. She looked back up at the ceiling and saw that the glittering stones were, indeed, arranged in a pattern of constellations. ‘Are these…’ She cleared her throat. ‘…real diamonds?’ Perhaps the driver didn’t understand her, or the intercom only worked one way, because he didn’t respond. Luna stopped taking selfies after that.

  After a long, uninspiring drive along the M25 to where it dwindled into the A282 south of Brentwood, and then out to the east past one gated property after another, the Rolls pulled onto a drive leading to what Luna could only describe as a McMansion. Built entirely of unlovely blond brick, the house mimicked English Baroque style but had none of its charm and whimsically curving details.

  What it lacked in grace, however, it made up for in sheer scale and brash, unashamed aspiration. Luna climbed out of the Rolls to be met by twin concrete statues of lions that looked like something straight out of Disney, surrounded by an assortment of potted topiary crudely shorn into various geometric shapes. And row upon row of reproduction sash windows made from uPVC – unplasticised polyvinyl chloride window frames, Roland White’s bête noir, ‘the sworn enemy of architectural aestheticism’, to use his words. Whoever Karoline’s boyfriend was, it appeared that he had more money than taste.

  Odd, though. She felt a fleeting sense of… what? Not recognition, because she’d never been here before. Luna could only suppose that it had graced the pages of some gossip magazine, or served as a backdrop for a television programme she’d watched and forgotten.

  Inside, a couple hundred guests were spread out across a large hallway floored with a mosaic of travertine, under an enormous crystal chandelier and a frescoed ceiling awash with maniacally grinning cherubs. Among the partygoers, Luna recognised a few reality TV stars and other Z-list celebrities drinking cocktails and scoffing canapés.

  In general, the party guests were young, though there was a sizable minority of older men in expensive suits standing in groups of three or four, not eating but drinking steadily. There for business, not personal reasons, Luna intuited. There were also clutches of women of a certain age, nipped and tucked and injected and sucked to within an inch of their lives, also eating nothing, but studying the food and men hungrily. And finally, numerous beefy security guards, rather more than Luna thought were needed for such a tame crowd, dressed in black and talking constantly into their earpieces.

  It all felt a little tribal to her, like an assortment of completely disparate groups with nothing in common save for their eagerness to accept free hospitality.

  Snobbery. Luna half-smiled to herself as she joined the drinks queue, having decided that alcohol was her first order of business. She was s
lightly chagrined to admit it, but much of her disapproval was down to pure snobbery. Were these people really any different than the hundreds, nay thousands, she’d seen attend events at Arborage in the past, all bent on currying favour with the Wellstone family? The only real difference was Arborage itself, its majestic beauty lending a grace to all that entered it, herself included.

  ‘Gin and tonic, please,’ she said to the woman behind the bar.

  ‘Single or double?’ the bartender enquired, sliding a slice of lime into a glass of ice.

  ‘Oh, I think you’d better make it a double,’ Luna replied. She leaned closer to the woman and asked, ‘Which one is the host?’

  The bartender scanned the room, then shook her head. ‘He was here earlier. I think he might be upstairs.’

  Drink and walk, that was what Luna was thinking as she climbed the curved staircase a few minutes later. Until Stefan arrived, she was going to occupy herself by drinking and walking around the house, which, fair play to her host, did feature an original Monet at the top of the stairs. And bloody hell, was the sculpture of a naked woman in the hallway beyond a Rodin? This place really was a puzzle, from the ridiculous to the sublime in the space of a few short feet.

  And it was a relief, really, after the past few months at Arborage, to find herself suddenly just a tourist, dropped into a social setting where she felt entirely unfettered, under no obligation to make conversation with strangers… free to drink and walk.

  Her phone buzzed and she retrieved it from her bag. A text from Stefan: Stuck in traffic. Will be late. Wondering just how much walking she could do in these heels, she texted back :-( and contemplated a return trip to the bar.

  Despite her best efforts to avoid personal interaction, she got cornered shortly thereafter by a vaguely familiar-looking man who told her he was a television presenter hired to play master of ceremonies for a treasure hunt later that evening. Trying hard not to be mesmerised by his blindingly white teeth, Luna questioned him about their host, but he appeared to know even less about him than she did.

  ‘My management company deals with these bookings,’ he said, sipping what looked like a triple whiskey. ‘I just show up and play my part.’ He watched a gaggle of scantily clad young women shimmy past, mentally licking his chops, and Luna inwardly rolled her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Karoline then, standing across the room, and made her excuses, sidling in her direction through the throng of guests on the upper landing.

  She lost sight of Stefan’s mother briefly as she skirted a group of chattering twenty-somethings, but then someone moved and Karoline came back into view, dressed in a sapphire blue cocktail dress, hair recently cut and highlighted. She was laughing at something an unseen companion was saying. Luna took another few steps toward her, stopping short when a waiter cut across her path. Karoline spotted her then, and stood on tiptoe, raising her hand.

  ‘Come, come!’ she gestured to Luna, lips parting in her trademark megawatt smile. Luna lifted her hand in return, angling sideways and raising her glass above her head as she squeezed between two groups of partygoers. She eventually stumbled through, composing her face into what she hoped was a sunbeam of party enthusiasm as she came face to face with Karoline.

  Who was standing next to Florian Wellstone, her hand resting on his shoulder.

  ‘Here she is!’ Karoline sang out. ‘Fox, this is…’ She paused and laughed. ‘But of course, you two know each other.’

  Luna looked from Karoline to Florian, the smile disappearing from her lips. And then, to her horror, Florian moved in her direction, placing his hands just above her elbows, pulling her toward him.

  ‘Luna,’ he said, kissing her first on one cheek. ‘Delightful to sssee you.’ Then the other. Luna stiffened, barely preventing herself from jerking away from him, and gaped at Karoline, who was prattling on about the party, how lovely it was that so many people had come, and where was her liten prince? Luna barely registered what she was saying, but managed to stammer, ‘Stefan is… he’s stuck in traffic.’

  ‘Your glasses are empty, ladies,’ Florian said unctuously, removing them from their hands. ‘I’ll get you a refill.’ And off he went toward the bar, leaving Luna and Karoline alone.

  Karoline’s eyes travelled the length of Luna’s outfit appraisingly. ‘Don’t you look pretty,’ she said. ‘Are you enjoying the party?’

  Feeling physically ill, Luna ignored her question and said incredulously, ‘Florian… he’s your boyfriend?’

  Karoline’s nostrils flared as if she smelled something vaguely unpleasant. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? Fox is just a friend. I’ve known him for years, since Sören and I used to visit Arborage when Stefan was small.’

  Luna’s body almost buckled with relief. ‘Florian was actually my matchmaker,’ Karoline confided girlishly, displaying no apparent discomfort to be sharing this news with her son’s gold digging girlfriend. ‘It was he who introduced me to…’ she trailed off, eyes distracted by something across the room. ‘Ah, here he is now, my pojkvän.’

  Luna turned in the direction of Karoline’s gaze. No, it wasn’t possible. Walking toward them, gliding through the room like a whale shark in the shoals, was Viktor Putinov, his pallid, almost albino face glowing, and lashless eyes moving languidly from Karoline to her.

  ‘Luna,’ he said as he reached the two women, taking her hand in his and raising it to his fleshy, colourless lips. And if Karoline was surprised to discover that Viktor already knew her son’s fiancée, she didn’t show it, instead tilting her head obligingly to receive a kiss from her pojkvän.

  Locked in the powder room a few minutes later, hands shaking so much she could hardly hold her phone, Luna phoned Stefan. She’d made a hasty excuse to Karoline about needing the loo and ran, or came close to running, without exchanging a single word with Viktor.

  Viktor Putinov, Russian thug, Florian’s lender, drug supplier and procurer of whores, was dating Stefan’s mother. He was her Freyr, her Mr Big. The tidal wave of horrendous possibilities this raised was too awful to contemplate. How in God’s name was she going to remain at this party with him and Florian, pretending she didn’t know what they really were?

  ‘Flicka,’ came Stefan’s voice, the line crackling with static.

  ‘How far away are you?’ Luna said urgently.

  ‘Eight miles, maybe.’ He said something else, but the phone cut out and she didn’t catch it.

  ‘Stefan? Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Stefan, please hurry. There’s… there’s something wrong. Your mother, this man she’s dating… I need you here.’ The phone beeped three times in her ear. She’d lost the connection. She tried ringing him back but it went straight to voicemail.

  Running warm water over her freezing, shaking hands, Luna tried to think. What to do, what to do? What she wanted to do was sit down on the floor, curl up into a ball and hide. She’d been so certain she’d seen the back of Viktor Putinov and now here she was trapped in his house, caught in some ghastly charade of Florian Wellstone’s making. For there was no doubting that his ‘matchmaking’ efforts had been to a purpose.

  And… Stefan’s mother. Karoline’s dislike of her notwithstanding, Luna couldn’t bear to think of her becoming a pawn in some dirty little game cooked up by these two men. It was that threat, at last, that put a little Swedish ice in her stomach. She turned off the tap and dried her hands, leaning close to her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Snap out of it,’ she commanded.

  Luna exited the powder room to find that all hell had broken loose, Essex-style, at the party. The highlight of the evening, compèred by the middle-aged presenter, was a scavenger hunt featuring gemstones and miniature gold bars as prizes. The result was pandemonium, with packs of crazed women and feral young men roaming the halls in search of treasure. Viktor and Karoline were nowhere to be seen, though Viktor’s omnipresent security force was much in evidence, surveying the greedy thrall with open distaste.

&nbs
p; Passing a pair of Tango-coloured women literally tearing each other’s extensions out over a ruby the size of a Cadbury’s mini-egg, Luna escaped into the garden in search of Karoline. Though what she would say to Stefan’s mother once she found her, she had no idea.

  Outside, the sun was beginning to set in the almost deserted garden. In stark contrast to the mansion’s rather sterile interior, its exterior was lush with growth. A little too lush, in Luna’s opinion, accustomed as she was to Arborage’s rigorously maintained, manicured grounds. Someone had once put a lot of effort into planting perennials and roses in this garden, but now the entire place was overgrown, with rose bushes grown to the size of small trees, bristling with thorns and humming with bees and wasps. As she passed a disused fountain choked with weeds, Luna experienced another, inexplicable sense of déjà vu. She knew she’d never been here before, so why did this place feel so familiar?

  Wandering under an arbour sagging under the weight of dense foliage, she heard partygoers spill out of the house and sighed. No respite out here.

  ‘Hello, Princesss.’

  Florian Wellstone had been waiting for this opportunity to get her alone, judging from the eager expression on his face. Luna took a step backward and he raised an appeasing hand.

  ‘Please, give me a moment. I’ve wanted to talk to you for so long now, but it’s been imposssible to get to you.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what we have to say to each other,’ Luna said, cursing the faint tremble in her voice.

  He heard it too, and smiled. ‘You know, we’re not ssso different, you and I. Both tied to Arborage, but at the mercy of forces we can’t control.’

  Luna shook her head at him. ‘We are nothing alike.’

  ‘The… unpleasantness last winter. Deeply regrettable. But surely you must sssee that it is Augusta who is to blame for it. She tricked us both.’ He stepped toward her and Luna swiftly turned away, walking as fast as possible toward the opposite end of the arbour. Why did he have such power over her? Was it purely that his attack on her in January had taught her the hard lesson that she could be broken by a man who was stronger than her?