Sexy as Hell Box Set (72 page)

“But as you know,
my aversion to submission changed,” I said. “Once I met you.”

“Other things can change,” he said. “If you were able to let me master you—surely you can see that was a bold step, a good step. If I’d have known how brave you were being back then… I can see why you’re as you are, why you act the way you do. I should have known something was wrong instead of just thinking you were wired differently, that you enjoyed being mean and treating people like shit.”

“I didn’t enjoy it. But it was a case of survival. It became a way of life, who I was.” And that was so true. In order to get through every day, I’d had to become someone else. I’d just happened to get used to Zara the Domme, the woman who wouldn’t take crap from anyone.

I
sighed. I might be grateful to Geoffrey for those coping mechanisms but I wasn’t grateful to the bastards who’d breezed into my life and fucked me up. I hated them, especially now, because here I sat beside a man who adored me, despite me being so cruel at times, and I couldn’t bring myself to take the next step. Couldn’t bring myself to love him properly. I wanted to, more than anything else, but the way I was…it was too much to expect him to handle.

“There’s more,” I said, “but for now that’s about all I can manage.” I looked at him then, steeled myself not to cry at the sad expression on his face, the compassion in his eyes.

“May I hold you now?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

I couldn’t deny him. I nodded, leant across and settled against him, heard the thud of his dodgy heart and recalled the time when he’d scared me out of my wits. His heart playing him up like that had been the reason I knew I really had to get him out of my life. The terror that had rushed through me at the thought of him dying had proved that I cared for him a little too much. I’d decided to send him packing, to get rid of him and continue my life as it had been before he’d swept into it. Picking men up and fucking them, discarding them once I’d got bored.

I could admit a truth now; I’d only thrown them away because I’d been afraid to let anyone get close.

My Victor had changed all that.

Too bad I’d soon be discarding him all over again.

The moment I got off the train
, Victor close at my heels, I knew there was something different about Venice. It was the air. Although cool there was a softness to it that stroked over the back of my throat, and it was sweet, too, lacing my tongue with sugary notes.

As Victor pressed his hand into the small of my back and steered me out of the station into the evening sunshine, I noticed the horizon held an amber hue, as if everything here—the mashed together buildings, the arched bridges and the watery roads—had been dusted with matt gold glitter, blurring the edges into soft lines and whispering away sharp angles.

I couldn’t help a little sigh as I looked around. It was busy, but not, it seemed, with tourists; it was the wrong time of year, just ordinary Venetians going about their business. Stylish women in patent boots and immaculately made up faces, men in suits, some in more casual gear but still smart.

“We’ll get a taxi to the hotel,” Victor said, taking my case and wheeling it over a stone bridge that was so steep I had to lean forward to follow him up to the pinnacle.

I looked for a taxi rank, wondering if it was far. I couldn’t see any cars. A row of gondolas bobbed on the water, tethered to poles. A group of men wearing blue-and-white striped tops and straw boater hats sat on a wall nearby, nearly all of them smoking.

“
Baglioni,” Victor said in the men’s general direction, propping my case onto its little feet.

“
Si
, sir.” A young bloke, who’d been sitting at the end of the wall jumped up and began to unloop the rope holding one of the gondolas secure—an emerald green one with plush scarlet seating. “
Si,
sir.” He pointed at the step down to the water.

“Are we going on one of these?” I asked, watching it sway from side to side as ripples from a larger, passing boat knocked into it.

“Yes, this is a taxi,” Victor said, turning to me. His face softened; he smiled. “Time for your first trip on a gondola.”

I frowned. “Well, as long as he doesn’t sink the thing.”

“Passengers hardly ever getting a dunking, so I heard.” Victor took my hand as the driver of the gondola stowed our baggage, then he helped me step onboard.

It wobbled underfoot, and I gripped him tighter, hoping he wouldn’t let me go until I was safely seated. He didn’t; in fact, even when he sat next to me, he kept our hands joined.

Our young driver leapt onto the boat and dipped a long wooden pole into the water. He pushed, throwing his entire body weight into the action, and we graced away from the shore.

Victor grinned at me, creases darting from the corners of his eyes towards his temples. “What do you think?”

“I feel low down.” I emphasised my words by looking up at the underside of the bridge we’d just crossed on foot. It was shadowed and dank with little patches of dull green moss.

“You’ll get a beautiful first view of Venice from here.” Victor gestured ahead. “The same view that visitors have enjoyed for centuries. History is all around us.”

I rested back on the cushions, studied the way the buildings on the shoreline rose from the water, the gentle waves lapping at their stonework. Many had small wooden piers with striped poles, presumably for tethering their floating transport to. Balconies with stumpy pillars appeared popular, as if the crush had popped rooms outwards. A large boat, like a bus, passed us and we pitched left to right. Victor crossed his long legs, sat back with me and tucked his arm around my shoulder as though keeping me secure.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s not what I expected.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“Well, I knew it was full of water, of course, but this…” I pointed around me. “It’s so messy, higgledy piggeldy, but somehow, it just works.”

“I know what you mean.” He stroked his thumb across my shoulder. “It’s almost like it was thrown together. No house the same as the next, the roofs and windows like they’ve just been slung on, nothing quite straight. As an architect it should abhor me, but actually,
I’m completely in love with the place.”

“You’re slinging that word around a lot today, Victor.” I didn’t say it to be nasty, just as an observation.

“I reckon there are worse words to be throwing about.”

I shrugged, just a little.

“This is the Rialto Bridge coming up,” he said, pointing. “You must have heard of that.”

“Of course. I might be a fuck-up, but I’m not completely uncultured.”

He ignored my terse reply. Typical Victor, he just accepted my dart of irritation, my pinch of meanness.

“It’s the oldest bridge in the city,” he went on, tipping his head to look up at it as we got closer.

I did the same. It was a silvery white and held a structure of arches, the centre one towering upwards. Its shadow engulfed us as we slipped silently beneath it.

“It was built by Antonio de Ponte in fifteen ninety-one,” Victor said, his voice echoing.

“Aren’t you a fountain of knowledge.” As I’d finished saying it I bit my lip. What was the matter with me?

“Only when it comes to architecture.” He leant closer, his body warm against mine, and spoke into my ear. “There are many other things I still need to learn, Zara, especially about you.”

I supressed a small shiver as his breath feathered over my skin and up through my hair, tickling my scalp. It was a combination of desire, fear, the need to run, the need to stay. But I’d said I would stay, for this weekend at least, here with Victor, in Venice.

Ten minutes later I stood and stared, slack-mouthed, around the foyer of The Baglioni. I’d thought The Savoy was pretty swanky when Geoffrey then Victor had taken me there, but this, this was the bees bloody knees.

Like outside, there seemed to be a certain something in the air that gave everything a soft glow. The hard floor was exquisitely decorated with ornate diamond-shaped tiles, black and gold. The furniture appeared antique, but unlike some old pieces, these seemed happy with their lot, comfortable and unpretentious
—if they were elderly people they’d be content to be retired here.

Chandeliers dripped down from intricate ceiling roses, their light casting
a warm glow over the dark wooden reception desk and the marble urns bursting with orange, yellow and red blooms. Like flames, the flowers shot upwards in a brilliant explosion.

As Victor booked us in, I studied a couple sitting next to a floor-to-ceiling window, each nursing a drink and her exuding an elegance I would never achieve. She wore a long
shimmering silver dress, figure-hugging but classy—her feet just peeked from the bottom—and matching silver, closed-toe shoes with a spiked heel. She had expensive-looking jewellery on too—a long necklace, swaying over her neat, tightly packed breasts and lengthy earrings that brushed her shoulders. Her hair was piled high, in a complex twist that must have taken hours to perfect. She glanced at me, caught my eye, smiled and nodded.

Dumbly I continued to stare. I hadn’t expected a stranger to smile so readily at me. It wasn’t what I was used to. Normally men would grin or leer, but not women. Women, unless they
knew about my dark side and thought I could give them a Domme scene, usually saw me as someone to steer clear of at best or at worst a threat. I was an unknown entity, and I liked it that way. Complex layers protected me. Could I peel them back? For anyone?

“Zara,” Victor said, offering me the crook of his elbow. “Our bags have been taken up to the room. Shall we follow or do you want to stay down here, get a drink?”

I managed the briefest hint of a smile at the pretty woman watching us. It felt stiff, odd, but not altogether unpleasant. “No, let’s go up,” I said, slipping my hand through Victor’s arm and turning away. “I’m knackered.”

The
Bagloini smelt of flowers and perfume. Our room also held a hint of geranium, and I discovered a bowl of petals heavy with the scent on the dresser.

“I hope you’re okay with four-poster beds
complete with canopies,” Victor said, shutting the door.

“Well, I’ve never…”

“Only some people find them claustrophobic.” He led the way into the room, and I followed.

There was nothing claustrophobic about the bed. It was enormous, the draped roof high, the heavy cream curtains
held to the posts with tasselled rope. The cushions looked a little stiff, but there were plenty of them, and I’d be bound to find one that would suit.

“I think it will be fine,” I said.

This was too posh for me. Really it was. Everywhere I looked style and finery seemed to eye me suspiciously. Didn’t Victor know that I wasn’t worth all of this money being spent on me? It was crazy. He was crazy.

What the hell was I doing? I wasn’t like the woman in
the long dress down there who could blend into her surroundings as if she were a work of art or a celebrated piece of sculpture. This was me, dirty, broken Zara Watson from a non-descript northern English town.

I stepped backwards, a sense of recoil in my guts. Victor didn’t
really
want me here. How could he?

“Hey.” He reached out, caught my arm. “What’s the matter? You’ve gone pale.”

“Nothing, I just don’t think…”

“You don’t think what?” He frowned, slipped his arms around my waist and tugged me close.

“I don’t think I should be here.”

He raised his eyebrows, and I swear his lips twitched, as if he were holding back a smile.

“It doesn’t matter what you think about being here,” he said, tightening his grip on me. “You said you’d give me a weekend and that’s what I’m going to take. It might be all I get, so there’s not a chance that I’d let you back out of that door now, step away from our deal.”

He lowered his head so our lips were a hair’s-breadth apart.

I breathed deep, taking the air from his lungs into mine, and stared into his blue eyes, as usual wanting to dive right into them, dive right into him.

“Victor,” I whispered. “But you don’t really—”

“Don’t really know what I want. Is that what you were about to say? Come on, Zara, you and I aren’t playing games anymore, we both know what I want and it’s you, so stop being all defensive and self-depreciating and join me in the bath.”

A huff of amusement popped up from my throat. “A bath?”

“Yeah, you’re trying on romance, remember, and what can be more romantic…” He paused to press his lips to mine, a soft, tender kiss that tasted of Victor so perfectly. “Than sharing a hot, deep bath with your lover after a long day.”

I gripped his shoulders,
bunching his cotton shirt. This new Victor was tugging me every which way. Telling me what to do, ensuring I stuck to the deal I’d made, offering me sweet experiences.

“Okay,” I said when he stepped away, towards a closed door. “But only because I
’m a woman of my word.”