The Contract (Nightlong #1) (2 page)

Shutting myself inside the en suite, I stepped behind the screen and under the spray. As water hit my pebbled nipples and rove down my body in rivers, I lifted a foot to the edge of the bath and slowly sank a rampant rabbit inside myself.

Beginning with short thrusts, I sped up the settings gradually, enjoying myself leisurely.

This was the one joy I had, after all.

The tip inside me began to swirl and I felt the walls of my sex begin to clamp and knead. When I pressed the little nodes to my clit just that bit harder, I cried out loudly. Every ounce of strength I had dragged a flood of blood to my belly. Every inch of me shook as my core reacted violently to the various points of stimulation a sex toy could provide.

Smiling to myself for a little while afterwards, it wasn’t long before reality slapped me in the face again in the kitchen, as I ate my cereal and drank my coffee, scowling at the contract staring at me from across the breakfast bar. I was
Cleo Patrick, Kept Woman
. More like desperate woman.

EVERY other morning of my life was spent at a hairdressers in Covent Garden, getting my usual blow dry. My hair was another thing customised by Sinclair: long enough to touch my bottom. Washing and drying it was a challenge I happily gave up to my hairdresser, Solange. Sinclair’s driver always collected me from home at ten o’clock and picked me up afterwards at noon from the café round the corner. Sinclair hated me frequenting cafés but it wasn’t in the rules that I couldn’t. Besides, sitting in cafés gave me time to think. 

Some mornings I’d sit in the salon alongside a rocker like Ronnie Wood or a breakfast TV presenter and I’d absorb their conversations like water to a dry riverbed, because I hardly got any other conversation. No doubt people looked at me and made their assumptions, or maybe they looked right through me. Solange was accustomed to the way I answered questions with short answers, the way I sometimes nodded and blushed when she remarked how pretty I looked. I was just a humble Irish girl, not used to the compliments of London women cheering each other on hourly. I’d never known such gregariousness.

Solange knew I didn’t like talking chitchat but I appreciated her handiwork, so a lot of our time was spent exchanging polite smiles and quietly laughing as we both eavesdropped on other people’s conversations. I might have used my hairdresser as a confidante – but how did I know I could trust her to keep my secrets? I didn’t know who else Sinclair had on his payroll (such as someone sent to spy on me). It was obvious he would hear about it if I used a hairdresser as my outlet for bitching about him. He knew everything.

Sinclair owned a clothing giant so he was desperate to avoid any bad press (like people finding out he was kinky as shit) and I sure as hell didn’t want my picture ending up in a tabloid. One of the things about the contract I couldn’t have been more in agreement on was Clause 7:
Do not contact any family members
. As far as I knew, Ma and Da didn’t know where I languished and I wanted it to stay that way. Living this life had its upsides and not having to run back home to Ireland with my tail between my legs was one of them.

So instead of spinning webs of lies and setting myself up for a fall through one of the holes I’d forgotten to sew up, I decided instead to make no friends, nor enemies. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake and several white lies combined could end up uncovering the black one. It was why I was so alone. I didn’t have the memory to be a good liar and I didn’t like lying, either.

No doubt some people thought I was a kept woman, keeping such a low profile but always having my hair done at a celebrity salon. Every other day. In Covent Garden. Honestly, didn’t they know I had nothing better to do?
Lucky you and your freedom!
I wanted to scream.

Anyway I was still suffering from the two bottles of wine I’d had the night before and Solange noticed.

“Heavy night?”

“Yep, don’t ask.”

She was finishing up straightening the feathered pieces of hair framing my face when we overheard two guys beside us. One was the salon director, while the other guy looked like one of those football pundits you occasionally see on the telly.

“Yeah mate, rumour is he’s about to sign the deal of the century. You can’t imagine how much money he’ll make per second, let alone per week. No wonder his private parties are becoming legendary.”

I looked at Solange through the mirror in front of us and her eyebrows raised in curiosity. It was funny how she and I knew one another so well, without words. Six years of not speaking had made us masters of reading each other’s physiognomy.

“Don’t you think it’s ridiculous? How can they justify these sorts of salaries?” The pundit’s hairdresser said.

“Mate, I don’t know, I just know… he’s pucker, this Roman Cornish. We gotta keep him in the country. He’s an asset to the game if ever there were one.”

“I don’t think people will continue to pay astronomical ticket prices if Chelsea keeps losing!”

“Guess we’ll see. Jury’s out anyway… a pal told me the lad can’t keep it in his pants. If you ask me, he needs a real woman to pin him down and sort him out. A guy like him will need a woman to help steer him through this world. He’d better sort out his priorities or Chelsea won’t sign the deal and the country will lose the greatest winger of all time.”

It amused me that the guy obviously understood we could hear their conversation and yet talked so candidly anyway. Maybe Solange and myself were invisible, or maybe the pundit bloke didn’t expect a girl like me to be eavesdropping on a conversation about some barely post-pubescent footballer still obsessed with his willy. My only other conjecture was that the heady, potent combination of bleach and hair products had made Mr Pundit’s tongue loose.

“How’s that?” Solange asked, holding a mirror behind my head so I could see the full effect.

“Amazing, thank you. What would I do without you?”

She raised one eyebrow, a quirk of hers. “You’d still have fabulous hair, but without the Solange touch.”

I brandished my plastic bearing the name Cleo Patrick to pay the woman at reception and as I walked to the café, I couldn’t help but think about Roman Cornish.

Sat with a mug of chai latte, I took out my phone and searched for him online. Google brought up several articles about him renewing his contract with Chelsea and potentially breaking records with his new salary. Him and his bosses were yet to put their ink to the contract, but it was as good as a done deal already.

Wikipedia told me he was only twenty-three, pretty close to my own age. He trained with Arsenal’s youth team, being a native Londoner, before being snapped up by Chelsea after demonstrating his skills as a goal scorer in his first match playing for England at seventeen.

I stared at his picture but his visage didn’t evoke any feelings in me. Roman was dark and ruddy, but no way handsome. I saw an easy target, someone I could tempt with all my powers of seduction. A young man with all the world at his feet… all I had to do was seduce him, then latch onto him strong enough to make him propose. I’d never thought of it before but it could work. I could escape this way. Why didn’t I think of this before? Cornish was bound to be gullible enough to fall for my charms… and loaded enough to break the hold Sinclair had over me!

Maybe I’d always thought that one day, Dante Sinclair would change. Maybe I had imagined that deep down, he was as lonely as me, aching for love. Six years on however, I knew he was never going to change and the longer I waited, the more chance there was of me actually taking a blunt object to his head and running like hell away from London.

Dante was older than me and at first, I’d judged the lines in his face as cruel and ugly. As time had gone on, I’d realised something traumatic had made him old before his time and whatever had happened to make him the way he was, he was never going to tell me about it.

Six years ago, I didn’t realise some men don’t change.

My phone rang and it was
him
. I wanted to ignore his call, but I couldn’t. “Yes, Sinclair.”

“Are you okay? Just checking in.” I detected a slight edge of worry to his tone, but ignored it.

“Enjoying my chai as usual. And you?”

“I was thinking about Paris this weekend… and I remembered some of my… items, got a little tatty last time we were there. Sexton will take you, so would you mind picking up some new things for me?”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”
Because you are paying me to.

“Thank you, sweet pea.”

I hated when he called me that.
“Bye.”

The next notification on my phone was from the driver, Sexton, letting me know he’d pick me up in five. I spent those next five finding out what else I could about Roman Cornish. If he was like other footballers, he’d surely stay in a hotel prior to home games. A hotel I could bump into him inside. Hey presto, he sees me in skin-tight cloth with my rack on show and my legs waxed, my lips painted bright red… and he’s gushing already. All I needed was an insider to tell me where he was at all times. A friend of his, perhaps? If the partying rumours were anything to go by, he’d surely pick hotels with large suites or maybe he even had a favourite haunt – a hotel he always stayed in. I searched all the hotels local to Stamford Bridge and as a wildcard, a few of the more exclusive ones that were another mile outside the near perimeter, too.

If Cornish was the partying wild man everyone suggested he was, he was looking for a fantasy lover, wasn’t he? It was lucky for him I knew exactly how to play the fantasy. Pity I was going to steal all his money and use it to sneak away from Sinclair. Maybe I wouldn’t see the con out, maybe I was insane and latching onto anything that might help me get free, but I could have fun trying to escape… surely?

BEING A LADY OF LEISURE meant I had a lot of free time but since Sinclair always insisted on Sexton driving me everywhere, I didn’t feel as free as I ought to have felt. The contract said I could have sex with other men but it felt like I couldn’t, not really. In a way he’d be observing because he always knew where I was, every hour of the day. Even if I wanted sex with some random stranger, I would want it to happen with nobody’s knowledge so in a way, I was sex starved and crazy because he had me over a barrel there, too. I could have sex with another man – but not without him knowing. The thought of him knowing about it gave me the creeps.

I spent most of my spare time reading or watching films and I had stacks of notebooks in my bedroom, filled with ideas for stories. I had so many ideas but none of them stuck. I could’ve written thirty novels by now, being trapped in his house, but not one idea had stuck for long enough that I could produce even a short story. My mind was too scattered all the time, with no real direction. I couldn’t describe the feeling except I imagined being in limbo felt pretty similar. Sort of yearning for escape but at the same time, knowing you can’t leave. My whole life was in limbo. If I wrote a novel, would it even get published? Would he let me release it?

I hated Sinclair.

I couldn’t walk freely around London like I wanted to. Sure, Sexton would take me to galleries and museums but I’d always be badgered by him on my phone, making sure I got back to the car at the designated, agreed time. I’d left the small Irish village I grew up in not only to escape an unloving family, but also to immerse myself in culture and hopefully, find love.

All I’d found was a cage.

Cohésion was the BDSM haunt we often frequented in Paris but other than there, our time together was mostly spent at the place he’d put me up in. In Paris he took me to restaurants and sat, quiet and thoughtful, across the table from me. In London, he didn’t take me anywhere. We were never seen together in London. I had to explore the city all alone. It didn’t feel like I imagined it would. You know, like in the movies where people run down streets together, over cobbles and round corners. Stealing kisses in doorways. Instead everything just felt dour and grey.

It was true he didn’t require much more of me other than to basically not have a life – but six years of this had gradually gnawed away at me. I was a strong girl. I’d coped before in traumatic circumstances, but surely Sinclair couldn’t expect me to live like this forever?

My duties included procuring BDSM clothing and apparatus. I judged what we did together as largely my job, because none of it really worked for me. Leather and latex weren’t really my thing, they were his. I knew I wasn’t kinky, but he was. If anyone at the late-night kink stores made chitchat with me, I always said I was shopping for my boss because I wanted people to know I didn’t share Dante’s tastes. I always purchased online if it was an item I didn’t need to get in the right size.

Most evenings, Dante came over to the Knightsbridge house he’d put me up in, but it was never for more than an hour or two. I was his dirty secret and he kept me at arm’s length and for only short periods because he couldn’t be seen to be staying the night, which would upset his real-life girlfriend.

THE day after my trip to the salon, the resounding news online was, ‘Cornish Signs Billion-Dollar Deal’. How things could change overnight!

I had a few days free before having to be in Paris so I spent what free time I had thinking about how I could get an introduction. Having seen pictures of him looking easy bait, I began scouring the internet for details.

I realised the scope of hotels he frequented was enormous and unless I got some insider information, I could be trailing around for months trying to catch him in passing. I needed real information otherwise I could get arrested for stalking. For all I knew, he could use one hotel as a dummy, and another as his real place – booking under a pseudonym, even. If the guy was anything like Sinclair, he’d take his privacy very seriously. Those with money always did.

I had to find out which hotel Roman favoured before I even set out my plan of action. Sinclair would be onto me if I started making friends with Mr Pundit or someone else like him – just to gain insider information. Sexton no doubt spied on me and whenever I walked out of the house, he was always there with the car, so I was never allowed to walk anywhere without their say-so.

Could I even do this?
I screamed inside my head. I was seriously mentally deranged, wasn’t I? My head spinning with the possibility of me going from one hotel to another, with little chance of ever coming across the elusive footballer, I knew all this was a long shot and a stupid idea in theory. How would I swing it with Sexton? Claim I was trying out different hotel facilities, or meeting fake friends for lunch inside them?

How could a footballer save me? For Christ’s sakes, I wasn’t a stupid girl and even I couldn’t save me.

But… and this was a big BUT, I had too much free time to think.

So… using my free time, I began studying pap shots of Roman and noticed something similar about all of them. There was always some wonderful topiary in the background as he was papped leaving his hotel before or after a game.

The grounds of said hotel reminded me of the Four Seasons on Park Lane. He could have been there for afternoon tea for all I knew, or lunch. Maybe it was his favourite place to take his mother? However, there were more shots of him leaving that hotel than any other – and the variety of women following three steps behind him made me realise he definitely used hotels as knock-in shops.

It had only been hours since the idea had begun kindling in my mind and already, I was possessed with figuring out how to get an introduction with my possible way out.

When the phone rang, I answered it quickly. “Yes?”

“Did you make some purchases?” His voice breathy over the phone, I knew just hearing about latex would probably make him hard.

“I picked up a new set of chaps for you because you ruined your others crawling around the floor beside me, not picking your knees up, you naughty boy. I also spotted a nice new collar which has green studs to match your eyes. I couldn’t resist.”

He purred down the phone, totally blind to my utter disgust. “Wonderful.”

“I have some new things for me but they’re a surprise, darling.”

“You continually exceed my expectations, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

“I’ll meet you at the Paris apartment, as usual?”

“Of course,” I assured him, “as always.”

“Until then… I think I’ll give you a couple of nights off. You’ve seemed tired lately. Get some rest so that you can really enjoy the weekend.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Au revoir.”

“Ciao.”

He hung up and it was like a sign for me to scope out Roman while I had two, whole nights free!

***

THERE was just a small snag – the tracker in my arm. I could see it under my skin and knew that to get it out, I’d have to cut it out myself. Even if I successfully ensnared Roman Cornish and got inside the circle of his many millions and all the protection that offered, Sinclair could still track me and Roman would have to leave the bed at some point, wouldn’t he? To train and play the games he was paid millions for.

These football clubs would do anything to ensure the safety of their players and families though, surely? All I needed to do was make it out of the house without Sinclair knowing where I was going.

I was due to take the Eurostar on Saturday morning which meant I had to try and find the football player before then… and Friday night was a big possibility for bumping into him if Cornish was in the city the night before a home game.

So on Thursday evening I sat at the kitchen table with a scalpel, some bandages and a large bottle of vodka which I’d already largely depleted. I looked at the skin and decided I could do it. All I had to do was cut into myself and take my tracker out… yeah, that was all…

I was about to do it when there was a bang on the front door.

Sinclair never knocked because he had a key…

So, who was this?

Leaving the paraphernalia lying around, I jumped down the stairs to the front door and peered through the hole to see Sexton.

Opening up, I gasped, “This is a surprise! What’s up?”

“He needs you.”

“What?” I sounded shocked, because this sort of disruption wasn’t protocol. They always rang before collecting me… and neither of them ever turned up without prior warning. What was going on?

“I don’t have time to explain. He told me he needs you.”

“What do I… what do I need to bring?” I frowned, because I didn’t want to disappoint Sinclair.

“He said to wear a dress and shoes. Cocktail casual, he called it.”

Sexton looked pissed off and awkward. In all the six years I’d been employed by Sinclair, my boss had never struck me or anything of the sort, but I could tell Sexton didn’t approve of our dynamic. Maybe he thought it was perverted.

“I’ll be a few minutes.”

“I’ll wait in the car,” he said.

Upstairs I picked out a simple black cocktail dress which skimmed my breasts and flattered rather than enhanced. I dug my toes into some low heels and wore some of the jewels he’d given me over the years, including an emerald necklace and matching bracelet. I rarely wore earrings because of my hair getting caught in them; besides you couldn’t see earrings beyond the masses of my ebony locks. I kept my make-up minimal aside from a generous amount of red lipstick, and I applied a few squirts of my Jimmy Choo perfume.

Before setting the house alarm, I also remembered to stuff the scalpel and other equipment into a drawer, just in case Dante came back with me later on.

Sexton held the car door open when I emerged from the house fifteen minutes later. “Very nice, Cleo.”

“Thanks.”

Living on Eaton Square, it wasn’t ten minutes before we reached our destination.

To my shock, we arrived at the Four Seasons.

“What is this, Sexton?” I growled, chewing my lip.

“He has a friend he wants you to meet. I don’t know… but you can step out here,” Sexton said, pulling into the loading and unloading area.

I made a mental note never to trust Sexton; it felt like I was being stitched up.

I climbed out feeling wary, moreover worried. Trying not to chew a nail, my legs felt like jelly as I walked from the car to the hotel entrance.

“Evening madam. Anything I can help you with?” A hotel worker greeted me, obviously reading my look of fear and trepidation.

“I’m here to see Mr Sinclair. Have you seen him?”

A nerve twitched in the man’s eye and he fake-smiled. “You won’t miss them. Follow the signs to the Amaranto bar.”

I clicked along polished granite floors in my humble heels and wished I’d worn the spikes to make him sweat. He loved the spiked heels, the spikier the better.

I walked into the Amaranto bar, dominated by red walls and floor-to-ceiling glass cases housing bottles upon bottles of expensive wine. The atmosphere in the room was sedate except for raucous laughter peeling from Dante and one other man.

As I walked towards their table, Dante stood and kissed my cheeks. I could barely contain my rage when I glanced at his eyes and saw amusement. The other man had his back to me but I already knew who it was.

“Darling, this is Roman Cornish, man of the moment and a friend of mine.”

I must have looked shocked but like a pro, I held out my hand and plastered on a grin. “Wow, I’m a big fan.”

“Drink, darling?” Dante asked, patting the red velvet chair beside his.

“I’ll have a drop of their finest red, if they’ve got some spare.”

Dante clicked his fingers and I seethed with anger as the barman came running.

“What can I get you?”

“Miss Patrick will have your finest bottle of Barolo.”

“A bottle, sir?”

“Yes, yes, she can drink. It’s the Irish in her.”

I must have blazed a fierce rouge myself because Cornish moved awkwardly in his chair, suggesting, “I should leave you both to it.”

“Perhaps you should,” I agreed.

My plan was already blown out of the water.

“Oh, are you sure?” Sinclair stood and extended his hand at the same time as the footballer did.

“I’ll only risk the contract if I don’t keep curfew,” Cornish smiled, glancing at me but with no lust whatsoever.

Well, at least I know it would have been a waste of time.
My gaydar was never wrong. Men always looked at my lips, being so big and juicy, but Cornish couldn’t see past Dante.

Unless… Cornish didn’t dare show interest in one of Sinclair’s women.

I told myself
nah
, Cornish had definitely spread rumours about him being a ladies’ man to hide the fact he was actually a man’s man.