Sexy as Hell Box Set (10 page)

I swanned up to the counter, my mind a muddle. He was doing that possessive thing, where he thought I was his property and he had the right to know the ins and outs of my life. Well, he didn’t, and the sooner he realised that the better. I watched him from the corner of my eye. He was sitting there, making no move to leave, staring across at me, that frown still in place, his mouth still an upside down smile. I shrugged it off and ordered a refill and selected the biggest Danish in the glass cake cabinet. Purchases made, I returned to the table and acted as though he wasn’t there—after all, he wasn’t supposed to be. He’d said he was leaving.

After a couple of minutes with me adding sugar to my drink and making a big deal of stirring it, of me biting into my Danish well aware he watched my every move, I was just about ready to ask him if he wanted to take a picture.

“Are you ignoring me?” he asked, his tone gentle.

“Oh!” I said, swiping a stray flake of pastry from my lip. “I thought you said you were getting your coffee to go.”

“I was. I mean, I am.” He made a move to stand but remained in place.

“Off you trot then. You must have drawings to draw, clients to impress. Think of all the time you’re wasting sitting here with me.” I bit into my pastry again, not enjoying the taste one bit. It was somehow sour, clogging my throat as I swallowed.

“What are you… Have you got a nice day planned?” he asked.

“I haven’t thought about it. I may stay in here all day.” I zeroed my gaze in on one of the men I’d spotted earlier and widened my eyes as if he floated my boat. I was being cruel, I knew that, but Victor had to learn the hard way. Zara Watson was beholden to no man. She was a free spirit, unable to be tethered or bossed around. I returned my attention to him and smiled.

“All day?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, and why not? It’s warm, I have nothing better to do but people watch.”

“Man watch,” he murmured.

“What was that?” I asked, frowning a bit so he got the impression I really hadn’t heard him.

“I need a Scotch,” he said. “Think I might go to the wine bar along the way a bit at one o’clock for a pasta lunch, and yes, that Scotch.”

“You do that,” I said. “And enjoy it.” I leant back, waiting for him to leave, yet oddly, I didn’t want him to go. I was enjoying our banter now, the oddness of the way our relationship—no, our time together—was progressing. He was showing me that he had the tendency to be jealous. His man-watch quip had been proof of that.

Mmm
, that little nugget of information might prove fun to mess around with.

He rose, left his cup on the table and backed away, watching me all the while.

I looked down at my coffee, stirred it again, and when I glanced back up I saw the door closing and him on the other side, waiting on the kerb to cross the street. He stared back at me over his shoulder, and I gave him a little wave.

He raised his hand and returned the gesture, and just before he turned away again, I caught a look of such pain on his face that it jolted the smugness out of me.

Had what I’d said and how I’d acted hurt him
that
much?

Damn it. I should have asked Zara to join me for lunch. Offered the invitation and said what I wanted loud and clear. Wasn’t that what I usually did? I was an assertive kind of bloke. I could have just thrown the sentence out there—it would have been the normal, sensible thing to do.

But then, what was normal with regards to Zara?

Nothing.

She probably would have said no, because how could she have been hungry after the huge Danish she’d munched at the coffee shop? I thought women worried about calories? Clearly Zara didn’t, not that she needed to. She had a sleek, streamlined figure, almost like a catwalk model but with bigger tits. Perky tits that I reckoned would fit in my palms just right.

I twirled my fork in the pasta and imagined myself in bed with her. Kissing her, making love, fucking, whatever the hell it was she wanted. I could imagine her taste, rich and spiced, like dark, bitter chocolate melting on my tongue. There was nothing sweet about Zara. She was the opposite to Helen, who’d been demure, a little shy and had tasted of sun-warmed strawberries and sugary treats.

Helen had liked to make love with the lights way down low. She’d been a bit bashful of me seeing her naked. She didn’t completely oppose it, just avoided it. I’d never really understood why. She had a cracking body, soft and curved, and it had fitted so well with mine. It was a damn shame her dream job happened to be in South Africa. Sure, she’d asked me to pack up and head halfway around the world with her, but that was never going to happen. Partridge and Partners was my baby, and Partridge and Partners was in London. There had been no decision to make, and she’d known that in her heart of hearts.

We’d said goodbye. There had been tears.

Soon I’d have to say goodbye to Zara too. It was becoming a bit of a damn habit.

I munched on my spaghetti, then swallowed, took a sip of water. I’d decided not to go for the Scotch. My heart had been fluttering since the coffee shop, and I didn’t think the alcohol would help. I should have remembered to take one of my tablets this morning, but with everything else swirling around my head I’d forgotten—again.

My mobile buzzed in my breast pocket and I retrieved it. I was expecting a call from a client who’d changed his mind about the direction of the staircase in the barn he was having converted. It wasn’t a call I wanted to have on the first lunch break I remembered taking this year.

My stomach clenched when I saw it wasn’t a client at all, but a text from Zara.

You’ve got me thinking about pasta. Cook for me tonight. I’ll come to yours at ten. What’s the address? X

Bloody cheek.
Cook
for me. What was I, her slave or something?

I lay the phone on the white linen tablecloth and stared at her words. Sharply written, I could hear her saying them, demanding to be obeyed.

My cock stirred.

What was it about her voice? The way she spoke? It was so authoritative. She oozed confidence, a confidence that came from being obeyed over and over.

Who obeyed her? Was it just Carlos or was it all of her lovers? Friends, too, maybe. Was that what she wanted of me? Absolute obedience?

Well, she wasn’t going to get it. I’d do what I wanted when I wanted to do it, not because she told me to. I was a man, a man in charge of my own actions and destiny. Bossy Zara would not have me wrapped around her little finger. It might be Carlos’ thing, but it wasn’t mine. He liked being on his knees, submissive, taking whatever she doled out and hankering after any small bit of attention. Surely a bloke with his physical power could do better than that. He should man-up a bit.

I waited until I’d finished my meal before texting back.

See you at ten. Don’t be late.

I’d added don’t be late, just to show her that I, too, could be demanding. I also didn’t add an X as she had. This was an arrangement, not a romance. She was teaching me stuff, in theory, and I was sticking to my word and sitting through all of her crazy lessons.

Damn, my address. Quickly, I fired off another text.

As I paid the bill, waited for the machine to connect to the bank and approve my PIN, I realised why she was coming at ten. She was working first.

Later on, while I was preparing her meal, she’d be on stage, legs akimbo, pleasuring herself and being
wank-fodder for a group of dirty old men.

I shoved my wallet away and left the restaurant, banging the door a bit too hard behind myself. The wind was bitter, and I ducked my head and strode back to the office, the soles of my shoes slapping on the frozen path, my mind full of thoughts of Zara in my home, my personal space. Seeing my stuff.

I’d have to stop off at Marks & Spencer. Buy some food for dinner, some nice wine too. Red or white?

Ten hours later my apartment held the scent of garlic and tarragon. I’d made chicken pasta in a creamy herb sauce for our main course along with a salmon mousse for starter and chocolate pudding for dessert.

The chocolate pudding was a bit of speciality of mine. Whipped cream and melted
Lindt, a dash of vanilla essence and a layer of blueberries at the base. Served in fat wine glasses so you could see the layers and with a sprinkle of icing sugar on the top.

I’d set the table—well, the two seats at the end nearest the floor-to-ceiling window. The table could comfortably fit twelve around it, not that it ever had. I thought Zara would like the window end with its views over Tower Bridge. The majestic turrets were lit to a golden hue, the traffic a constant stream. I could make out a large Christmas tree on the opposite bank of the Thames, blue lights twinkling as the wind shivered through the branches.

Christmas. Soon it would be that time of year again.

I did a quick calculation. Zara would be gone from my life by then; it was five weeks away. Who the hell knew what I’d do for the festive season this year? It would be my second without Helen.

After lighting the candles on the table, I brought the fire to life in the hearth with a click of a switch and then flicked the TV to a music channel. I found some Einaudi and left it on; his flowing piano music always calmed my nerves.

Heading back to the kitchen, I paused at the mirror. Checked my hair. I’d had it trimmed earlier. The girl had done a good job, it was neater. It had been starting to get a bit wild and the mad professor appearance didn’t suit me.

I stroked the wisps of grey at my temples, wondered if I should invest in a brown hair dye. What had Zara said?
Guys his age.
What did my age have to do with anything? Perhaps if I looked younger she’d stop treating me like I was an old fart. But then if I looked younger, she’d be even worse with the whole virgin thing.

After straightening the soft collar on my navy Tommy polo shirt, I went into the kitchen area. The pasta was just coming to the boil so I lifted it off, not wanting it to overcook.

Where was she?

I remembered my pill, knocked one back with a mouthful of water then checked my watch again. Ten.

The doorbell rang.

A tremble of anticipation steamed through me as I raced to the hallway. Once there I paused. She’d kept me waiting a whole five minutes when I’d picked her up last night.

I counted to five. Slowly. Five long seconds. Then opened the door.

“Wow, swanky address, you’ve even got a butler.” Zara stepped in without being invited.

“He’s not a butler, he’s a doorman. He keeps an eye on who’s coming and going in the tower.”

“He’s cute.”

“He’s eighty-one.”

She shrugged. “He’s cute and he was nice to me. Told me where to go.”

I should have told you where to go the minute I saw you.

“It’s his job to be nice to my guests and make sure they don’t get lost.”

She seemed bored of the conversation, turned her back to me and slipped her furry animal coat down her arms. “Nice place.” She let out a low whistle.

I caught her coat, hung it on a hook and let my gaze slide down the short black dress she was wearing. It hugged her tits perfectly and stopped at the very top of her thighs. “Thanks, please, go through.”

“You design this?”

“Yes, eight years ago. It was one of my first super-sized projects.”

“And you gave yourself the best apartment?”

“
Bought
myself one of the best apartments.”

“One of the best?”

“Yes, there are eight penthouses.”

She stepped out of her skyscraper-height red stilettos and wandered through the living area. Ignoring the fire and the antiques, she went straight to the window. “But you’ve got the best view.”

I followed her, my attention shamelessly on her arse. I spotted a flash of black; she had black lace knickers on, proper ones, not a thong. I wondered if the gusset was damp.

A rush of interest invaded my groin. “Probably, if you like the bridge, that is.”

She flattened her palms on the glass and leant forwards until her nose touched it too. “I love the bridge, and fuck, it’s high, isn’t it?”

“Tends to go with the territory when you have a penthouse.”

“Mmm, I suppose.” She turned, lifted her chin and twitched her nose. “Something smells good.”

“Yes, it’s nearly done. Please, take a seat. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starved. I’ve been busy.”

I didn’t let myself dwell on what she’d been busy doing and hurried to the kitchen. I retrieved the salmon mousse from the fridge and reached for the white wine, a nice Chablis that had won awards. When I swivelled to face her, Zara was standing directly behind me, examining the tiny bottle of vanilla essence I’d added to the dessert.

Of course she’d followed me. She wouldn’t ever do as I asked, even if it was just taking a damn seat.

“White or red?” I asked.

She set down the ingredient, a small smile tugging the corner of her mouth. “White’s good.” She pulled open a drawer next to the fridge. The contents rattled and she laid her hand straight on a corkscrew.