The Parlour (VDB #1) (25 page)

Picking up my coffee, I wander over to the window in the lounge and stare out at the park again. There’s not much to see anymore apart from darkened skies and glowing streetlamps, but it’s still stunning. Who knew how lovely it would look from these buildings? Buildings I never dared to dream I’d ever get inside. My mind wanders back to a more relaxed mode as I stretch my fingers around the cup and flex them out. I’ve not done this much typing for a long while, although the ability to type without looking clearly never leaves. It must be over twelve months since I’ve used a laptop. The streets of New York don’t need information gatherers; they just need survivors, people who are able to get themselves through the night and tough it out through the day, something I managed, somehow. Shivering at the thought, I pull my battered backpack over and dig into the lining to find the picture of my dad and me. It’s a bit crumpled, but brushing it over, I smile at the image of him. He was such a proud man, honest, decent. His hair is ruffled about because of the hike he’d just made me go on, and we’re sitting at the bottom of Snowdon in the sunshine. Well, he’s sitting… I’m mostly collapsed beside him as he hugs me into him and makes me smile up for one of his stupid selfies.
Daddy
. At least he’d be proud of what I’m doing now, or I think he would. I don’t have to open my legs anymore, do I? And I’m in a nice apartment. I look up at the sky outside and hope he’s smiling down on me. I also hope he wasn’t watching when I had Pascal’s fingers inside of me. Or my mouth around his…

Coughing to myself, I snicker at the thought and gently place the photo on the table to stare at it some more. He would have liked Pascal, in a strange sort of way. My daddy the joker, always one for mystery games, and hide and seek. I’m positive that’s why I decided to go into the legal system. He always made me pretend to be a detective when we played hide and seek. He’d leave me clues dotted around the house and then give me a time limit to solve the game. The time limit got shorter every year. By the time I was twelve, I could find him easily, no matter how tough or cryptic the clues.

“Lilah, you should join the police force,”
he’d say.
“You could find a needle in a haystack, girly.”

Needle in a haystack. That’s me, always on the search for that one tiny piece of information that will change the direction of everything. Everyone has a weak spot, a place that they don’t want found, or a scrawl on the bottom of paper that they’ve forgotten about. And if there’s a fragile point in their history, I can find a piece of law to compound it further. I’m like a Rottweiler with a bone when it comes to solving the issue, making it useful and finding a path through to clarity. The fact is that when you let emotion enter the fray, you can’t see clearly or logically. Without emotion, there is simplicity, and with simplicity and fact comes results. Daddy taught me that long ago. I used to be scared that I was on my own when we first started playing hide and seek. You know, as six-year-olds are. I remember being scared about what would happen if I didn’t find Daddy, or if I couldn’t figure out the clues. He’d just say, “
Don’t worry about where I am or if I’m okay, because you can’t do anything about that until you find me, Lilah, can you? Just use your head and find me.”

Why I didn’t join the police force I do not know. I didn’t like the uniform much at the time. Lawyers always looked better with their business suits and beautiful briefcases. I probably just wanted that –
Prada
suits and heels.

Flicking on the television, I sit still for a while listening to
CNN
and gaze out of the window again. My mind is immediately drawn back to those green eyes, so much so that I tuck my legs beneath me to try to remove the need to feel his lips on mine again. What is it that he has that makes me so intrigued? Apart from the obvious smoking hot body and intelligent, mouth-watering vocabulary, that is.

It randomly dawns on me that he said the important information was in Rome, and that no one could get at it without his irises. Presumably, they use eye recognition software, not surprising with the amount of wealth he’s acquired. But what’s in that safe? Is the information that Mr. White has given me enough? What if Roxanne has stuff no one knows about? I can’t do this without more knowledge of what Roxanne knows and doesn’t know. While these files are great and give me a good layout of the general basics, all these underhand businesses that aren’t legitimate need organising so I can contain them. I look at the phone and wonder if I should call him again. Will he know what’s in that safe in Rome?  If he does, and thought it was relevant, surely he would have let me know about it already?

I suck in another breath and heave myself up to get some food together. Maybe an omelette, anything really. I’ve found I don’t care that much for food lately. I suppose that happens when you’ve barely eaten for twelve months or so. I was too busy trying to survive. At least I’ve got food now, and he did tell me – or ordered me – to eat. So, flicking on the stove, I stare at the flames and drag a bowl out to beat the eggs, which instantly reminds me of being spanked. Yet again, Mr. Van der Braack hovers in my mind.

Without much other thought, I realise I miss him. After only a few days and nights, I miss him in my life. Everything about him.

After about an hour of hovering around the apartment in a silk robe trying to work out whether I should do more work or not, I eventually just stare blankly at the television while scrolling through my phone. Mr. White or White Industries. Quite the business man. He has as many businesses as Pascal, if not more, but most of them appear to be linked into one company. Legitimately. I snort out a laugh at the thought of him appearing the gentleman as I flick my eyes over a clip of him with Elizabeth at some charity function. He’s fully tuxed up and clearly in charming mode. His smile and twinkling eyes seem to drown everyone else out of the picture as he stands there and answers a reporter’s question.

“What’s the next best option for the Addison Foundation’s funds, Mr. White? And is marriage on the cards at any point?”

Elizabeth shrinks behind him as he wraps an arm around her protectively and charms his way out of answering the second question. He simply deflects and turns the conversation until the female reporter is stumbling over her words while he smirks and winks. It’s impressive to watch. It seems he’s quite the master of manipulation, which I already had an inkling of from my limited interaction with him. This charming façade is new to me, though. He normally appears cold, even when he’s trying to be nice or humorous. My thoughts go back to that wink this morning, the one that caused me to go slightly weak at the knees and look at the floor. That was obviously him operating in charming mode. God help any woman who finds herself on the other end of it, frankly. It’s very clearly a front for a monster of sorts. Although, why would a true monster pump so much money into something like the Addison’s Foundation, let alone be the chair of it?

Not my problem.

Throwing the phone down on the sofa beside me, I find myself staring out of the window again, watching the light snow still filtering its way down onto the park’s barren branches. The streetlights send a lovely orange hue over the tops of them, casting a romantic feeling across the space. My heart clenches at the thought of aimlessly wandering again. Snowballs, voices. Oh good God, I’m thinking about him again. This has to stop. I snatch up my plates and head back to the sink to wash up. Fucking man. I cannot allow this to continue. I mean, I now know more about him than just about anyone, I should think. I am also one of only a few people who know he may have a child, and that really isn’t helping me to dismiss my emotions. I can’t think like this. Not only is he absolutely not right for me, but I have been ordered by my boss to not get involved. Unfortunately, I find myself smashing plates around in the water as I uselessly try not to think about those hypnotising green eyes, and fingers that could get up to all sorts of enthralling adventures.

Ridiculous.

Three knocks ring out through the apartment, and I swing my head around to the door. No one knows I’m here, other than Mr. White and Elizabeth. I stare at it, trying to work out whether to answer or not. I would have thought that Mr. White or Elizabeth would have called to tell me they were coming over. Paranoia creeps up my spine as I continue to gaze at the door and fight the need to check the deadbolts again. They’re firmly in place. I know that because I triple checked all of them earlier. Another three knocks her my nerves firmly on edge.

“Yes?” I call out nervously.

“Open the door, my dear. Am I to stand here uninvited all evening?” I narrow my eyes at his voice and calculate the risk involved in letting him in. How he even knows I’m here is confounding enough. Did I put the folders in the safe? Yes. Still, he’ll question me about things I have no answers for at the moment.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I respond with my head held high. If I keep him out there then he’s away from me and there’s no emotional attachment to deal with. My phone chirps at me so I cross the room to swipe at it.

-
         
It is his child. Find out as much as you can and I will meet you at the coffee shop you were in today. Tomorrow at 10 am.

How the hell does he know what coffee shop I was in today?

I’m not the slightest bit surprised that he thinks the child is Pascal’s. This is yet another reason for me to not open the door. How on earth would I be able to sit with him and not tell him?

“Lilah, if I must, I will break in. It would be preferable not to have to sully my clothing, though.” My eyes shoot back to the door again. He couldn’t, could he? I flick my gaze over the locks again and sigh. Master thief I am not. I wouldn’t know if they can be broken or not.

“Go ahead and try,” I call back as I type a response to Mr. White saying, agreeing to meet him, and telling him that I’ll try to find some more information. Not that I’ve found anything so far. Roxanne – or Lucinda Reynard – has very little public information listed about her, let alone anything regarding a child. No birth records, no hospital admissions, and no hidden bank accounts other than the legitimate business ones. Nothing. Perhaps Pascal knows something. I narrow my eyes at the possibility of questioning him without him knowing what I am up to. I could try. I can’t see how I’m going to miraculously find a non-existent document on the internet to help solve the mystery. Can I manage him without getting involved? It would be helpful to get the information straight from the horse’s mouth.

My fingers are opening the door before my brain has caught up with the idea. The sudden blinding image of him is breath-taking. He’s wearing some sort of regal attire – a black coat, grey shirt, black trousers and long riding boots, as if he’s stepped out of the regency period. I freeze my body’s response to him as sharply as I can and lazily roll my eyes across his frame. It’s delicious, as always. Dressed like this he reminds me of something out of Jane Austen, Mr Darcy perhaps. I eventually reach his face and stare hopelessly into it. I didn’t think it possible that he could be any more devastating, but as he twitches the corner of his mouth and pulls me towards those eyes, I feel my insides coil tighter. He engulfs everything. There is nothing else in this moment but green eyes and a very wicked set of lips, which happen to have a tongue laving across them. My insides clench, and my knickers seem to acquire a will of their own, apparently determined to fly at him. If I weren’t so consumed by his fucking eyes again, I might well drop to the floor and beg him to fuck me.

He abruptly moves and steers himself past me towards the window.

“It would be my pleasure, and all in good time, my dear. However, I need to know why you are here. What does he have you delving into that is so clandestine?”

“Hello,” I spit in irritation at my own response to him. I must control it. Sucking in a long breath, I reach for the kettle out of politeness. “Would you like some coffee?”

“My dear, it is 9pm. Do I seem the sort who dabbles in coffee in the evening? Where is your alcohol?”

“There isn’t any. How did you know I was here? Did Mr. White tell you? And what are you wearing?”

He gently places his cane on the table and moves back towards me slowly. My feet begin a backwards trail before I manage to halt myself and tilt my head up again.
Be strong, Lilah. Tie your legal head on so tight he can’t get past it.
He smirks again at my attempt at control and glances across my exposed legs, instantly making me tighten my thighs in the hope that he can’t open them again. Why am I dressed in a robe? It’s not helpful.

“You are dangerously attired, my dear.”

“I am relaxing.”

“You are exquisite, and quite disruptive to my sanity, and my pocket.”

“Your pocket?”

“Mmhmm. It has cost me a small fortune to hunt you down, my dear,” he says, moving a step toward me and running his finger under the collar of the robe to expose my shoulder. “This vision is worth the expense, though. Take the robe off.”

My breath slips in a moan as his finger continues to trail across my collarbone. Why is my body shaking? I do the only thing I can think of to alleviate my need to drag him to the bedroom. Not that he’d need dragging, I’m sure. I quickly turn from his sparkling emerald eyes and start to make some coffee anyway.

“I’m not interested in sex, Pascal. Did you have some business to discuss?”

“Oh, but you are, my dear. Do you not feel that pulse throbbing inside your veins, your cunt gasping for attention? Hmm?” I swing around to him with my teaspoon hovering in the air like a weapon. He simply backs away and sits, lounging gracefully in the chair without a care in the world as I narrow my eyes at his language. Must stay in control.

“My cunt, as you so graciously put it, is debating the merits of fucking you and just getting it over with. Then it will not have to fuck you again. I would rather not use such words, but as you seem to only understand language of that nature, we’ll go with it, shall we? Coffee?”

“Why are you wielding a teaspoon at me?” he asks with a condescending smirk, which instantly ratchets the level of heat between my thighs up another ten degrees. Control, control.

“It’s defensive.”

“I can assure you, Lilah, a teaspoon is of no use to your defence. Quite the opposite, in fact. I have many uses for such an implement,” he counters, slipping his hand out of a leather glove slowly, teasing me with images of what they can do, and then casually crossing his legs. My thighs clench again, so I turn back and shake my head in frustration.

“Why are you here, Pascal? I have work to do.”

“Ah yes, work. What work? This is the purpose of my visit, amongst other things.”

As I gaze longingly at his lips, it occurs to me that if I did fuck him, I could take his mind off the work thing, and the fact that he has a child he knows nothing about. That could work, best of both worlds. It may also make him more amenable to questions in the aftermath. I feel my brow furrowing at the thought of him being a father. Is he the type of father any child should have? Unlikely. Stirring the coffees, I wander over and place a cup in front of him then gaze back out to the park again. The man who kissed me out there was worthy of being a father. He was a real man, not this version that, although overwhelmingly attractive and decadent, is not the definition of a good and decent man. He is a sex trafficker, a deviant by nature, and more than likely involved in all kinds of criminal activities. He is not an honest man who is prepared to do the right thing by his child, like my dad. Yet, the man in the park – he was different. Maybe he could be. Why does he hide that man?

“Are you a good man, Pascal?”

“Define good,” he replies from the chair in a bored tone, as if he expected the random question and can’t be bothered with answering. I turn and perch on the back of the sofa to face him.

“Good, decent, morally trustworthy.”

“Absolutely not. However, your definition, my dear, is determined by you pre-conceived notion of the customary world within which you reside. These characterisations mean little in my idea of conscience, simply because they do not exist within my current position.”

It takes me a minute to think about the answer.

“Well, if that’s the case, why do you choose not to abide by the laws society deems appropriate?” He snorts and unbuttons his jacket, reaches for his grey silk cravat and rips it away from his neck.

“And therein lies the issue at hand. Whose definition of appropriate is the correct one, my dear? Hmm? You choose your decent life, yet you are desperate for me to defile you with my cane? Hmm? Have you considered why you ache for me to hurt you yet? Why, contrary to your hesitance, you are desperate to kneel for me? You are already panting beneath your skin. I can smell it. You know exactly what I wish to do to you, and your normal vanilla existence should detest the very thought. However, it does not. It calls for the lashing you require.”

“I…” he picks up his coffee and raises a brow, daring me to counter. I have nothing to counter with. His argument is concise, thorough, and unfortunately, completely on point. Apart from the kneeling bit… I’m still not comfortable with the thought of kneeling beneath him. Or begging. Only under absolute duress, which he’s obviously capable of.

“You should neither be ashamed nor scared of that proposition, Lilah. You should welcome it and be free to decipher its meaning to you,” he says quietly, a hint of that other man coming through his tone as his body visibly tenses. “You ask if I am a morally decent man. The answer very much depends on which position you are asking from.”

“You traffic slaves for a living.”

“Mmm. Yes, indeed. However, as you are aware, nobody is forced to do anything they do not fully comprehend the meaning of before they sign their contracts.” That’s hardly the point. The very notion is unethical, and it doesn’t matter how many times they say,
‘You know where the exit is’,
these people have little choice in the matter. They have nothing else.

“You hoodwink people into it.” He laughs out loud. It’s rich, velvety, and resonates in all kinds of awkward places, causing yet more clenching.

“Hoodwink? My dear, come now, were you hoodwinked into sucking my cock? Or allowing me to spank your ass? Your fought neither. Do not demean yourself with irrelevant garbage and vanilla choices. Tell me you did not enjoy both. Then tell me you did not enjoy the brutality of my hold on you.”

“I enjoyed the kissing more,” I mumble out before I can stop my damn mouth moving.