Private Research: An Erotic Novella (5 page)

I was certainly still a bit overwhelmed but definitely not unequal. For good or for bad.

All the food at Ziva seemed designed to act as aphrodisiacs, and between the intensity of the flavors, the potency of the wine, and every glance Sebastian sent my way, I was more than ready to go back to his place.

Clearly, Sebastian felt the same way because the instant we entered his flat, before the door even fully shut closed, he was on me.

Dinner and the car ride home, all of that, was foreplay. There, against the wall of the entry hall, he pushed up my dress, pulled off my thong, slid a condom on, and then was inside me. With my legs wrapped around his hips, I met his open mouth with my own, loving the way each thrust slammed me back, the way his desire overpowered me completely.

There was something about this, about being taken so uninhibitedly, that turned me on more than anything else. I came in a shuddering, mewling rush, squeezing him with my thighs and my hands.

“That’s it,” he muttered, and then groaned, pushing up into me hard and relentlessly with his own orgasm. We stood there for a moment, intertwined and gasping, sticky with exertion where we were joined.

Taking deep breaths, he pulled out, let me slide down to stand on my feet. His hair was messy and his face flushed, but he grinned down at me, and I grinned back with an answering sense of mischievous pleasure. “There, we took the edge off,” he said. “Now let’s get into the bedroom and do it properly.”

M
ORNING CAME ALL
too soon. Between the alarm he had set for work and the one I had set on my phone, the bedroom was a ringing mess of irritation. His bed was warm and comfortable. Even better, he was in it, and his naked body, which had brought me pleasure until the wee hours of the morning, was wrapped around mine.

He slipped out of bed first. I made a sound of protest even though I knew it was time to go. But it was a bit harder than it had been Sunday morning. I’d been spoiling my body, and the thought of not sleeping with him again was slightly upsetting, an empty, anxious feeling, like when an ice-cream store is out of the one flavor you crossed town to get.

That feeling made me even more anxious, propelling me back into doubt about my actions.

But I didn’t have time for those sorts of thoughts. I needed to get to work.

“After I shower and dress, I’ll drive you back to your flat.”

I flipped the covers off me, hoping the cool air would clear my mind and encourage me to actually leave the bed. Of course, the way he looked at me as I stretched my naked body gave me exactly the opposite idea.

“I’ll take the Tube back,” I said dismissively out of some latent sense of self-preservation. It was ridiculously stupid how easily he could affect me with just his eyes.

He picked up my dress from the floor and looked at it, then me, with one brow raised in question. “Are you certain?”

The walk of shame. Done many a time by students across the world, myself included. Oh God, how many times I’d done it in the past two years. The thought sickened me slightly. I shook my head to clear my mind. Did it really matter who stared at me as I navigated the steep staircases and escalators of the underground in my three-inch heels?

“You don’t drive to work every day, do you?” After all these months, I knew a little about London. Generally speaking, like Boston, where I’d spent my undergrad years, if you could take public transportation somewhere, you did.

“No,” he said, climbing back on the bed and looming over me. “But I also don’t have a beautiful woman in my bed every day.”

I laughed, partly because I knew if he didn’t, he surely could, partly because he’d called me beautiful and partly because he could be such a gentleman. I moved my legs apart and his hips fell between, his hardening penis pressed against me. He made a small sound of pleasure and then lowered his head to lick my neck.

“If we had even thirty more minutes to spare, I know exactly what I’d do with this body of yours.”

Show me,
I wanted to say, despite the fact that I had a 10
A.M.
appointment an hour outside London. That I still needed to get back to my apartment, change, and grab my backpack.

“Even five more minutes,” he said, his voice almost a growl against my ear and his body pressed so firmly against mine that with just the slightest movement he’d be inside me. Which I wanted with sudden desperation.

It was a good thing we didn’t have five more minutes. I was losing my sanity. Becoming completely obsessed with sex. Sex with Sebastian.

“But I’ll just have to wait for tonight.”

“Tonight?” The very word sounded dangerous.

“After I take you out for your celebratory dinner. After you find your missing link.” With his optimistic words echoing how I felt, his suggestion seemed like a wonderful idea. Was there really anything wrong with extending a one-night stand into a three-night stand?

Yes.
The answer was instant and weighty, but I pushed that doubt away. Leapt forward. Or maybe I was leaping to the side, far off track.

“All right,” I said, despite my more dire thoughts, wrapping my legs around him riskily, considering he wasn’t wearing the all-important barrier of a condom. “But I want you to know I have very high standards. I expect absolute pleasure.”

Chapter Five

B
RUCE
M
ALLA
RD LIVED
out in Luton, or rather in Leagrave, which apparently had once been its own village before becoming a suburb. It was about an hour from King’s Cross by train. Of course, even passing through the King’s Cross Station made me think of Sebastian and his apartment nearby, which would be empty at this hour since it was the workweek. After a good fifteen minutes daydreaming about sex, I forced myself to open my laptop and at least pretend to scan the notes I had about Anne’s life.

I arrived at the Leagrave station just after ten in the morning and found a cab to drive me out to his house.

While I knew he didn’t live in some Gracechurch ancestral home, as Anne had grown up in central Bedfordshire some distance away, I still didn’t expect the little one-story midtwentieth-century bungalow that stood unprepossessingly in the middle of an unattractive residential neighborhood.

Bruce Mallard, however, was exactly what I had imagined the eighty-eight-year-old to be. Pale skin with rosy cheeks, thinning cotton-candy-like white hair. Hardy and in apparently good health but content with aging.

He shook my hand and welcomed me in, asking me instantly if I wanted any tea. He added that his wife had gone to visit their grandchildren down the road but would be home soon.

Even though I was antsy to see his stash, I sat down in the front parlor while he put tea on. Photographs and memorabilia decorated the room.

I stood up to look closer at one of the photographs that I thought must have been of Mallard when he was in his twenties.

“That was just after the war,” he said, and I turned to see him crossing toward me. He pointed to another photograph. “That’s my Sally.”

I peered at the black-and-white image of a woman in a dress that had molded against her hip and leg in the wind, her dark hair smoothly coiffed despite that wind. So different from my ponytail and jeans.

“It’s a lovely photograph.”

“Yes.” He paused a moment. “Sit. Tell me about this project.” He referred to my dissertation as if it were some elementary-school assignment, as if maybe I’d be making a diorama or something.

“Your ancestor, Anne Gracechurch, was a fairly popular author during her time. But like many popular female authors of the day, and unlike the Brontës or Shelley, she faded into obscurity.” I filled him in on what I had learned so far, about her friends and her life, clarifying the story for myself once more as I did. I could talk about this subject for hours, but of course, what I could learn from him was more relevant.

He stopped me briefly so he could get the tea: simple English Breakfast in little premade bags.

“So I’m hoping that you might have some items that belonged to her. I’ve been contacting all the other branches of her descendants.” I mentioned Roberta Small and, whereas he hadn’t been quite as interested in the older history, Mallard’s eyes brightened at hearing about his distant relatives. He wanted to know at exactly what fork in the tree they diverged and determined to make contact with her.

We finished tea and, finally, he led me to a little addition in the rear of the property that was used as a storage room and at first glance appeared to be a treasure trove of antiques and family history. For a moment I felt like I was on one of the television shows in which an antiques dealer tells the homeowner what everything is worth. Then I focused. As cool as all of this old stuff was, vases, sideboards, silver plate, and other furnishings would not enlighten me as to anything about Anne Gracechurch. But even my untrained eye spotted the neoclassical chair with its frayed and rotting seat cushion. Maybe he
had
kept papers and correspondence from the first half of the nineteenth century.

“Why do you keep it all?” I asked, navigating my way through narrow and sometimes nonexistent aisles. “Clearly most of this furniture is of no use to you.”

He shrugged. “Sally wanted everything new but, maybe someday one of the kids wants a bit of our history. When I die, they can decide what they want to do with it all.” He led me to a trunk in the corner. “You might want to start here.” He unearthed two chairs that were in relatively good shape and sat down. I knelt on the floor at first as I opened the trunk, which itself, judging from the Art Nouveau motifs etched into the cracked leather, was at least a hundred years old.

Excitement thrummed through me as I pushed the lid up. The stacks of loose papers and leather-bound books nearly had me doing cartwheels (which I can’t actually do very well). Something of value would be in here, surely.

Two hours later, after a brief break to meet Sally, and after Bruce had long since decided he didn’t need to watch over me, I’d made it through two-thirds of the first trunk, which was filled with ledgers and correspondence, none of which were older than 1914.

Four hours after that, with one more brief break to eat the very lovely and generous luncheon Sally prepared, I’d made it through two more trunks, one of which was crammed with moth-eaten linens and another with more ledgers and correspondence, and I was elbows deep in a third. Already, I’d set aside one promising book of household accounts and a packet of letters that actually were addressed to Anne. By the date on the first, I had hopes that it was the same Anne. Currently fascinating me were photo albums that went back in time to the nineteenth century. So far, the oldest I’d found dated from 1886, twenty-five years after Anne Gracechurch had passed away, but there were still three more inches of depth to riffle through.

Which were mostly filled with a random assortment of color photographs from the late twentieth century. Whoever had last packed away this box had not attempted to do so chronologically.

Another layer down, wrapped in tissue, I found what I was pretty sure was a daguerreotype. And on the back, it said Reginald and Anne 1857. I flipped it around to stare at the semidecomposed image of what I thought to be a husband and wife. Not just any husband and wife.

I took out my phone, quickly snapped several photos of the front and back, and e-mailed them off to my advisor. Regardless of anything else,
this
was a definite find. I’d never before seen so much as a portrait of Anne, and in front of me was an image of the woman in whose life I’d become immersed.

She looked matronly and stern in the picture. In fact, they both looked overly serious, but I knew that was likely due to having to stand still for a longer period of time than necessary for our modern instant snapshots. She would also have been about sixty-one when it was taken. I tried to imagine her daily life based on this photo and the letters of hers I had already read. Her voice had always been humorously observant.

My chest ached as I gently wrapped the photograph back in its tissue paper. I didn’t know much about preservation, but I’d have to find out immediately.

I riffled through the rest of the trunk quickly and, finding nothing else of immediate interest, placed everything but the daguerreotype back.

Then, all of the trunks in the addition having been sorted through, I turned my attention to the packet of letters that I had previously set aside, and untied the twine that bound them. The first letter was from a Mrs. Howell. I opened my backpack and pulled out my laptop. Luckily, there was still some charge. I clicked on the “character” list I had created for Anne’s life, searched for “Howell,” and found the name of a second cousin. Interesting, but how close a confidante was this Mrs. Howell?

I turned my attention back to the letter. I’d grown comfortable decoding the slanted script of many nineteenth-century correspondents and within two lines realized this was a dull recitation of domestic life. Like, what little Henry was up to and how Mr. Howell’s ague fared. Mrs. Howell did not have nearly the way with words of her cousin. I scanned the rest of the letter quickly, looking for anything that jumped out as interesting. A reference to Anne’s visit six months earlier required a notation in my files, but other than that, nothing.

Three more letters from Sarah Howell, with more about her son and her husband. Then a letter from another cousin, Gordon Albany (Albany being Anne’s maiden name). There, at least, was a reference to her novels—although somewhat scathing—with a lecture on why she should refrain from putting any more into print. I took a photograph of the letter and then typed the pertinent text into my notes. It gave interesting context for Anne’s life and the reception of her work yet still provided no connection between Anne and James Mead.

Nor did any of the other letters, which continued in the same vein: all from family members, some mentioning her books, some only domestic matters, and some both. I was very curious as to how Anne had responded to these, but simply thinking about the task of attempting to track down possibly already discarded letters overwhelmed me.

I placed the stack of letters next to the daguerreotype with the intention of getting them copied or scanned at some point, and picked up the Gracechurch household accounts from the year 1856. Why had this particular volume been saved when so many others appeared to have been discarded? Or if not discarded, kept elsewhere?

I flipped open to the first page. Studied it. Tried to get a sense of its rhythm. I wasn’t entirely certain what I was looking for, maybe a notation of income earned from the publisher or anything of that nature. After all, she had published her second to last novel in 1855. Instead, what greeted me were grocery items, butcher bills, coal for heating, and more of the day-to-day expenses necessary for keeping a midnineteenth-century home. I kept turning pages, one after the other, until finally I reached the last.

While certainly Anne had earned money from her books, and supposedly that was her original impetus for writing, she didn’t appear to keep track of that income here.

I left the Mallards’ home with smiles, thanking them for their time and generosity and with the promise to return in a week with the items I was borrowing. I was half-amazed they actually let me leave with them. With everything carefully packed away in my backpack, I slid into a taxi and headed for the station.

But the minute the taxi pulled away, my smile was gone. If my goal were only to learn more about Anne Gracechurch and her life, then the day was a success. But my intention was not to be simply her biographer or historian but to extend my discussion of her work with a critical analysis of her choice to adopt an alter ego.

This had been a true treasure trove, yet I’d found nothing! How likely was it that I’d find another such stash of previously undisturbed artifacts? Not very likely at all.

Especially with only ten more days left in England.

I tried to put the disappointment from my mind and focus on the positives, but I heard that ticktock of the figurative clock clearly in my mind.

Ten more days.

I boarded the train back to London and pulled out my spiral notebook. Even though I had numerous such lists already, I started writing down all the leads that were left to me and any that the day’s jaunt might have opened up. There was a desperate comfort in the process. Methodical. A list to check off.

Halfway back to London I remembered my “celebratory” date with Sebastian. I fished out my phone to call him, then stared at it, the time glaring back at me. Just after seven. He’d said he’d call as soon as he was off from work, which meant he wasn’t off yet. Which meant I had time to think.

I wanted to cancel. By no means did I feel celebratory. Yet, why cancel? Every way I looked, I was finding dead ends. In the next ten days, it was unlikely anything spectacular would turn up. Why shouldn’t I at least have some hot sex?

I refused to answer my own question. There were too many reasons why I should call him and cancel. But I was deliberately not thinking.

Forty minutes later, in the cramped little bathroom of my shared flat, I stood under the tepid water, with its intermediate short bursts of hot and then freezing-cold water. What was it about water that made the tears come so easily? I reached a hand out against the tile and bent my head down.

I thought I was so in control, so able to handle everything, and yet, here I was, failing.

But it was stupid to be crying and self-pitying. Nothing ever got done that way. I took a deep breath and finished washing the conditioner out of my hair. By the time I stepped out of the shower, it was 8:30
P.M.
and he still hadn’t called. He’d said sometimes he worked long hours, but now I was getting antsy. And hungry. The very least he could do was call to let me know about what time it would be. Or he could cancel.

Finally, I picked up my phone. Then nearly dropped it as it rang loudly. Okay, then.

“It’s Seb.”

“I know,” I said with a laugh. “I was about to call you.”

“I’m sorry about how late it is. Have you eaten yet?” He sounded exhausted, which didn’t bode well for a night of decadent, take-my-mind-off-my-problems sex.

“No.” But what I really needed to say was,
Don’t bother coming. It’s been fun, but it’s over.

Yet I couldn’t. I
wanted
to see him.

“I know I promised you a celebratory meal”—I winced—”but how do you feel about takeaway? There’s good Vietnamese just around the corner from my office.”

“Actually, that’s fine.”

“Great. I’ll be there in thirty.”

The short, abrupt conversation left me feeling even more unsettled and despondent. While I hadn’t felt particularly celebratory, somehow we’d gone from Sebastian wining and dining me at the fanciest of restaurants to eating takeout in my apartment. With my flatmates watching television in the living room.

Not particularly conducive to romance. Or to sex.

Somewhat irritated, I grabbed my laptop and moved to the small, round dining table that bordered the living room.

“She’s alive,” Neil said in a stage whisper to Jens. He gave me a big wink.

“Not only am I alive, but I have company coming over in half an hour,” I said. I’d never had brothers, but I’d gotten used to Neil’s teasing in the last few months.