Close Up and Personal (12 page)

The doorbell sounds, and he pads over in his bare feet and jeans to answer it. I can’t hear the exchange, but he returns with two beautiful wicker hampers tied with cloth and ribbon.

“I thought we might enjoy a little urban picnic,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

“So
unds like a great idea,” I say, feeling suddenly hungry.

With the views across the Thames and the lights of London
, I can hardly think of a more romantic evening.

Carefully
, James unpacks the hampers and lays out plates of food.

There is fresh bread, cheeses, a whole chicken, hand-made pasta, smoked salmon and caviar.

“That’s a lot of food,” I say, as he removes a tiny jar filled with oil.

“Have you had white truffles before?” he asks.

“No.”

“They’re not to everyone’s taste, but I think you are sophisticated enough to enjoy them,” he says. He’s grinning
, so I have to assume he’s joking.

“Here
.” He uncorks the jar and a delicious aroma fills the air. “Can you smell that?”

He holds the jar towards me and I nod.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s incredible,” I say.

“Sexy isn’t it?” he says, grinning, and I grin back at him. It’s true, it is a sexy kind of smell. Powerful and intense.

James prepares a plate with the fresh pasta and shaves truffle over the top. Then he carves up the chicken and adds that to the plate.

“Wine,” he decides, getting to his feet again and returning to his vast kitchen space. He selects a bottle from outside the fridge this time and returns with two large crystal wine glasses.

“White is usually the choice for pasta, but the intensity of this can take a red,” he says, uncorking and pouring. “And besides, I have this bottle I wanted to share with you, so we may cheat a little on wine etiquette.”

I take a forkful of pasta and the truffle explodes in my mouth.

“Try it with some wine,” he says, smiling appreciatively at my enjoyment. I try a sip and the combination is mind-blowing.

“This is so good,” I say, closing my eyes as the heavenly flavours combine.

I gaze out over the river.

“Is this your standard seduction technique?” I tease.

To my surprise
, he looks thoughtful.

“I’ve never made a woman a picni
c in my apartment, no,” he says, almost regretfully.

“But you’ve had plenty women back here, I imagine,” I say, pushing another forkful of pasta into my mouth. The taste is just amazing.

He shakes his head. “The women that I’ve been involved with would have to pass certain tests of obedience before they would be allowed in here.”

I almost choke on a mouthful of pasta. I stare at him, trying to work out if he’s serious.

“Isabella, do you know why I didn’t have sex with you just now, in my bedroom?” he asks.

I shake my head, a forkful of food halfway to my mouth, trying to work out where this is headed.

He sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair.

“I didn’t have sex with you because you don’t have a great deal of experience,” he says.

I try not to look offended.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he adds. “It’s just very different to what I’m used to.”

He is staring steadily into my eyes.

“I have never wanted to fuck anyone as much as I want to fuck you,” he says.

I swallow.
Oh
.

“But in my relationships
, I am the man and the woman is the woman.”

Ok. So he’s some old-fashioned guy. But I knew that. Didn’t I?

“That means that I also wield the power to exercise discipline.”

Discipline?
I think back to the rumours about him on set. The controlling nature. Dictating who his actresses date.

“Is this related to how you work?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “This is something different entirely. Which is why I do not form relationships with my actresses.”

He takes a sip of wine. Something in his eyes has changed. As though he is assessing me.

“Do you remember when you first acted Juliet for me?” he says.

I nod, taking a sip of wine. I need it.

“That is how I would have you in our relationship,” he says.

My eyes widen. “You want me to plead with you? To beg you?”

“There would be times when you would need to beg me, yes,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I more refer to the wider context of that relationship. Juliet is submissive to Lord Capulet’s will. She is his to do what he wants with.”

What
?

“But Juliet doesn’t do exactly what Lord Capulet wants,” I counter, feeling all at sea in the conversation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “She pleads with him, but she’s also contradicting his will.”

“Very well-observed,” says James. “In our relationship, you would be mine to do what I will with. And if you defied me, I would punish you. Discipline you.”

Discipline me?

“What do you mean by discipline?” I whisper. My mouth is dry and my heart is beating fast.
What is he suggesting?

“Physically discipline you,” he says. “In a manner in which I see fit.”

“What if I don’t want to be disciplined?” I say.

“Then you have every right to refuse,” says James. His voice sounds casual
, as though he’s scheduling an office meeting. “But I think a relationship between us might be difficult.”

He looks apologetic for a moment. Then he sighs.

“Something in you, Isabella, makes me gentle. Gentler than I have ever been. But I think it is too late to change the man I am. I don’t deny that I want you. But it must be on my terms.”

“What do you mean by physical discipline?” I ask, wondering how deranged this conversation can get.

“A manner in which I see fit,” he repeats.

“
Explain to me an example,” I demand flatly.

His eyes flick to mine, assessing, testing.

“Your lateness,” he says.

“Yes.” I’m not sure I like how this is going.

“Lateness is a sign of disobedience,” he says. “That first time I had come to collect you in the car. I was exercising courtesy. You were late. That was discourteous.”

“I
… I’m sorry,” I say, uncertainly. It’s true that lateness is a bad habit of mine. I’d never thought of it as impolite.

“Do you know how much I wanted to pull down your panties and give you a good spanking in that car?” he says.

Oh.

I flush crimson. But there’s another feeling too. I can’t deny it. His words arouse me.

“That,” he says, “is what I mean by discipline.” And he places a forkful of food in his mouth.

I find myself standing up. I feel dizzy, confused. It’s all coming to me at once.
I like this guy. More than I’ve ever liked anyone. And he wants to turn me into some medieval female stereotype.

“I wouldn’t share this with you,” adds James, “if I did not see something in you which wants to comply to my wishes.”

Something in me? Sure I’m quiet and I let people boss me around. But do I want to be spanked for showing up a few minutes late?
It’s all so confusing.

“I… I need to think,” I say, not wanting to admit how tantalising the prospect of spending more time with him is.

“Sit down, Isabella,” he says, “and finish your wine.”

The tone in his voice has an almost physical effect on my knee joints, and I buckle, sitting back down on the floor.

This confuses me even more. Do I want this? This man telling me what to do?

“I have never felt the way about anyone that I feel about you,” he says softly. “And if you decide you can’t have a relationship with me, then I understand. I will still cast you and do my best to
bring out the best in you. Although,” he adds, his green eyes darkening, “it will take all my physical control to see you through that camera and not take you on the studio floor once we finish filming.”

I flush and force myself to stand, still holding the wine glass. I need to retain some semblance of control.

“I need to think things over,” I say, taking a nervous sip.

“That’s exactly what I want you to do,” he says, eyeing me from his position on the floor. Something about his stance reminds me of a tiger about to pounce.

I let my eyes roam around the flat, anxious for some distraction from the intensity of our conversation.

Was it
the English boarding school which did this to him?
I wonder. It’s common knowledge that the masters still cane the boys at school.

“I need to know more,” I decide. “I need to know more about why you want this from me.”

His face takes on a troubled look.

“Was it your school?” I press, “
Were you beaten as a boy?”

“I was beaten as a boy,” he says, “but that is nothing to do with why I want your obedience. Almost the opposite, in fact,” he adds, more to himself than to me.

“What do you mean?”

His eyes lock with mine. “Isabella, my past is my business, and if you continue to press me then I really will put you o
ver my knee and give you a spanking, whether you’ve agreed to it or not.”

I flush.

“Have all your other girlfriends agreed to this?” I ask.

“Only one,” he says.

Only one?

“After her
, there were no other girlfriends,” he adds, “only sexual liaisons.”

Oh. So he’s telling me there was some great love of his life, and she let him beat her.

“Why did you split up?” I say, hoping this doesn’t count as the kind of enquiry which merits physical discipline.

“We didn’t,” he says shortly. “She died. Of a drug overdose.”

The look of pain in his face is so acute that I can’t stand it.

I move back over to where he’s sitting and seat myself beside him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, taking his hand. “I truly am.”

He looks at me distractedly. Suddenly
, I catch a glimpse of something. Is this demand for obedience his way of salving some great pain deep inside?

Can I agree to it? Could I be helping him?

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and I see relief light his features. “But you have to do something for me.”

“What?”

“You say you are gentler around me.”

His features soften. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you could try and find out what it is that makes you gentler, so you can practise it more.”

He nods, looking down at the floor with a little smile. Then he meets my eyes.

“I’m going to let you go now, Isabella, so you can think things over. And believe me, nothing is quite so exquisitely painful as watching you leave.”

He pauses for a moment and I realise he must have felt this on another occasion. Maybe even more than one. Was it as painful for him to leave me at the restaurant earlier than it was for me? Certainly he looked hurt when I left him in his suite last night.

“But you must grant me permission to take you out tomorrow night, so that I might persuade you to my way of thinking.”

I’m not sure
how I feel about being persuaded.

“You don’t need to be anxious,” he adds
. “I am not taking you anywhere that you couldn’t tell your mother about.”

My mother. Right. Like I would tell her I’m on a date with a man who wants to spank me for showing up late.

“But it is a surprise. That is part of the deal. I am in charge.” He gives a devilish grin.

I sigh. Can I accept this?

“Somewhere I can tell me mother about?” I venture.

“Yes.”

That doesn’t sound too bad.

“Ok,” I accept warily.

“Good. The car will collect you at 8pm. Make sure you’ve had something to eat.”

Not dinner then. I mentally cross that option off the list. Then what?

He stands up, pulling me up with him by the hands.

“Now,” he says,
“before you go, I am going to give you something to remember me by.”

He sweeps me into his arms, and his mouth is like fire, his tongue moving sensually, and his lips bringing alive every sense in my body.

Wow
.

Then he reaches his hand down and strikes my behind in a sharp little spank.
I gasp as a surge of desire runs through me.

“Now go, and think about what I said,” h
e whispers as he releases me. And I realise with a sense of foreboding that I don’t know how I will be able to resist this dangerous man doing anything he wants with me.