The Key (2 page)

The box of stockings sat in the middle of my bed, one flap pointed slightly upwards, the other still closed tight with brown tape. In my haste to peek inside, I’d failed to lift them both, then, when I’d realised how utterly insane I’d been to buy one hundred pairs in a single transaction, I’d walked away from the carton thinking I ought to start worrying about myself. I’d gone to work—boring office job—and thought of the box all day, of the grey plastic-bag parcel containing the PVC corset, just waiting for me to get back home and try it on again. And now, here I was once more, undecided as to whether I should become Chantal Rossi after all.

“Do it,” I muttered. “Be your true self proudly.”

It was all well and good talking to my sodding self, but actually
doing
was another matter. Taking a deep breath, I lunged forward, got my trembling little hands on the box and ripped open the closed flap. Delved inside and drew out a pair of stockings, the lure of their sauciness already taking a firm hold. An enormous wave of adrenaline washed through me, and I staggered to one side a bit, overwhelmed and feeling more than a tad demented. If I didn’t know any better I’d say the stockings had cast a spell, but I
did
know better and I was buggered if I’d go down that devil of a track.

I opened the packet and withdrew the stockings, laid them on the bed while I stripped out of my Jane Smith clothes and stood naked, heart hammering, knees knocking. I could almost taste the sexiness waiting for me to embrace it. I sat on the bed, drew one stocking up my leg, and oh, there it was, that vixenish feeling. Without further ado, the second stocking was well and truly clutching my other leg, the lace band at the top nice and tight, and I felt like…like a beautiful little whore.

Like Chantal Rossi.

As though my arse were on fire, I slipped the PVC corset around me and laced it up, my hands shaking, nausea-riddled to the point of feeling faint. I paused to give myself a chance to acclimatise to this sudden change of persona. I no longer harboured any self-consciousness. Instead, I oozed confidence and believed I could tackle any Tom, Dick or Harry’s…well, tackle.

Back in the living room, I perched on the sofa arm, one leg bent, the other sprawled seductively in front of me, and leaned across to flick through the other papers. Several ads caught my attention, but one in particular had me jolting forward to peer closer.

Man seeks woman to take the role of my fair maiden. Need fun and a lady willing to try new things. Are you the key who can slide successfully into my lock?

I could have laughed. I could have thought this man ridiculous. A charmer, trying too hard to win the heart of a fair maiden—and I wasn’t fair. I had black hair that most of the time made me look like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards—very unruly—and my skin had a permanent pink blush as opposed to the blondes I envied with their perfect porcelain cheeks. Still, I couldn’t be authentically French-like without the dark tones, so if he wanted a fair maiden, he’d be sorely disappointed.

Of course, Jane Smith would have questioned whether he’d even find a dark-haired woman attractive, and whether she ought not to contact him in case he knocked her back. But Chantal Rossi was a different kettle of fish. He’d want to meet
her
. She was saucier than a bottle of Heinz.

Instead of the usual PO box as a contact, he’d bravely included a mobile phone number. How many oddball females had called him so far? Maybe some disgruntled men, too, barking at him about being a sexual deviant who fancied himself as some knight in shining bloody armour. Well, Chantal Rossi was about to be the next caller on the end of his line. I took my mobile out of my bag then jabbed his number onto my screen. Held the phone to my ear. Heard ringing, my heartbeat, the thud of my pulse. Excitement barrelled through me, and I swallowed a glut of it before it had the chance to form an uncomfortable ball and make me speak like a man once he answered.

“Hello?” he said.

Oh, he sounds lovely.

“Hello,” I said, going for a French accent.

“Are you calling about the ad?” he asked.

“Yes. I saw it in
The Stanton Mail
. Do you have any inclination to meet a sexy French woman who believes she holds zee key?”

He laughed, a wonderful throaty chuckle, and my insides seemed to turn to liquid. I inhaled deeply through my nose then exhaled from my mouth, hoping the sound came off as sexy breathing.

“I don’t see why not,” he said. “I’ve never dated a French woman before.”

“French is good. Mysterious.” I paused for effect. “Wanton.”

“Oh,” he said. “I must say, you do sound rather…forward.”

“Forward is the way ahead,” I breathed, wondering where those words had come from and just who the hell had taken possession of my mouth. “You like it, no?”

“Hmm, can’t say I’ve ever encountered a forward one before, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“There is,” I said, getting right into it. “And what is your name, may I ask?”

“You may. David Thompson. Yours?”

“Chantal Rossi,” I said, pleased with how it had rolled off my tongue. “It is sexy, yes?”

“Very.” He cleared his throat. “What do you look like?”

“I am not a fair maiden. Will that be a problem?”

“No, no, not at all. What are you wearing?”

Again, I could have laughed. I’d stumbled onto a massive pervert, I’d bet, but I couldn’t stop now. “Fishnet stockings. A PVC corset.”

“Oh, well. Um…”

“Is that kind of outfit not to your liking?”

“I, err, I just didn’t expect you to say such a thing, that’s all. I really wanted to get an idea of the type of person you are. You know, jeans, T-shirt, that kind of thing.”

“I can wear whatever you want…or nothing at all,” I said, thinking of Jane Smith’s jeans and boring outfits, imagining they’d maybe be more his cup of Darjeeling.

“I’m sure you would. Well, um, when would you like to meet?”

“Now,” I said. “No time like the present.”

He didn’t answer. Had I pushed for too much too soon? I opened my mouth to fill the void with more sultry words.

“Seven o’clock at The Plough,” he said. “That be okay?”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me, pretending that he could. “That is perfect. How will I know you, gallant knight?”
Oh, God…

“I’ll be wearing a black suit and red tie.”

“Ah, a red tie like a long, lapping tongue.”
Oh, heck, stop it now…

Thankfully, he laughed and it sounded genuine.

“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” he said. “So, The Plough, then. How will I know you? I take it you won’t be wearing your stockings and corset.”

“You will have to wait and see,” I purred. Oh, Lord, I was good at this. “But I shall definitely wear a long raincoat, beige, like a secret detective.”

“Uh, right…”

“Until then, David.” My mouth had gone suddenly dry. My wine was wailing for me to pick it up and drink it. The bottle, not that little bit in the glass.

“Until then, Chantal.”

Chapter Two

I stood outside The Plough so I could nose through the window. You know, get a good look at him before he could do the same to me. An unfair advantage, maybe, but I was already late—a woman’s prerogative—and another couple of minutes wouldn’t hurt.

It was an old-fashioned place built with sandy-coloured stone, windows twelve panes apiece. Like a cottage, it was still stuck back in the day where horse brasses adorned the black wooden mantel and a fire roared in the grate—real, not one of those TV screen type efforts with a looped video of flames. I imagined I could hear it crackling and likened it to the sound my nerves might make if they were audible. Although I was Chantal Rossi, a little bit of Jane Smith remained. I’d have to fix that, make sure JS stayed firmly in the background each time I donned my super-sexy outfit. I’d kept the stockings on, and the heels, and had slid on a knee-length skirt and a short black jacket. The PVC corset looked like a top those younger ladies wore these days. Okay, I’d wondered if I was mutton dressed up as lamb, but had soon got over it once the raincoat covered the ensemble. I was seriously groovy, no doubt about it, up with the trends.

A few men sat on high stools at the bar, gas-bagging—probably about the farm on the outskirts of Stanton if their clothes were anything to go by. Mud-encrusted green wellingtons, dirt-spattered jeans and checked shirts that were more suited to American cowboys than British farmers. Still, they weren’t my concern. I was looking for a man in a black suit with a tie like a tongue, and unless he’d gone to visit the toilet, he wasn’t there. All the tables were empty.

I frowned. Had he even bothered to turn up, or was he one of those men who enjoyed women ringing him, but didn’t have the slightest intention of actually meeting those who’d called? I supposed I had a lot to learn playing this game. I’d be let down more often than not in the near future and couldn’t expect to meet Mr Right on my first jaunt out.

“Ah, the raincoat.”

I spun round at the unexpected sound of his voice, my focus immediately drawn to the bottom end of that red tie, then up the torso that filled the suit jacket and white shirt, to stare at his face. Oh, balls. He was absolutely delicious—something I hadn’t expected—and JS flung herself back into my body with tremendous force.

He’s not going to be interested in you, Miss Plain Jane.

“Oh,” I said, forgetting to be French. “It’s you.”

“Yes. And you’re you.”

He stared at me while I took him in, but not at any part of me except my face. I’d give him extra points for that. Dark-haired, his unruly mop very similar to mine but much shorter, he appeared, despite his snappy, well-pressed suit, to have just tumbled out of bed. His eyes—dreamy and light blue—were partially closed, as though he were assessing me and needed to concentrate. Or perhaps he was frowning, asking himself what the heck he was doing here with a cracked-up French woman who’d spoken of secret detectives and wearing anything he fancied?

I blushed at the reminder of my earlier behaviour and resisted flapping my hand in front of my face to cool it down. That wouldn’t be very elegant or sultry, and that wasn’t the kind of thing he’d be expecting off the back of our phone conversation. A lady in control, who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to get it.

Reminding myself that I was meant to be from the land of frogs’ legs, onions joined together by string, and black-and-white-striped T-shirts, I said, “Shall we go inside?”

He nodded, some of his curls bouncing, and treated me to a brief smile that all but sent me boneless.

“That would be the idea.” He smiled again, walking to the pub door, then pushed it open, holding it there so I could go in first.

I slid past him—I say slid, because that’s what it had felt like—and waited in the centre of a well-worn red Oriental rug for him to join me. He closed the door, came abreast of me, and I caught a whiff of his aftershave. Well, that was a nice smell, one that went straight to my saucy area. I quietly cleared my throat and willed Chantal Rossi to come back to the fore. However, this was hardly the place for two people dressed as though they should really be in a trendy wine bar, and we stood out like two white cotton puffs in an otherwise grey-bellied cloudy sky.

At the bar, I pressed my side into him, just enough to let him know I meant business but that the movement could be brushed off as an accident if it seemed he didn’t like it. He didn’t step away or appear to mind, and stared down at me with an expression of amusement. I hoped he wasn’t taking the piss out of me inside his head. Would I think me odd if I wasn’t me? Well, I wasn’t, not really, and decided that no, I quite liked the new person I had become.

“What would you like to drink, Chantal?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows in such an endearing way that I had the urge to reach up and smooth my fingertip across one of them.

That was far too intimate a gesture, but should I act on instinct anyway? Damn it, yes. I lifted my hand and stroked his eyebrow, gaining another amused look. Was he humouring me, or did he find me so different from the norm that it was making him happy?

“Such soft eyebrows,” I said quietly, totally French and slutty. “I love a man with eyebrows that are nice and tidy. None of those wayward hairs or those ones that meet in the middle as though they cannot bear to be apart.”

“A monobrow,” he supplied.

“Yes, a monobrow. Shockingly disturbing to me, those one-liners across the forehead. Yes, I am pleased you do not have one.”

I was making a prat of myself, I was sure of it, but I couldn’t seem to get my brain to let me know what I was going to say before I said it. I told myself to smile seductively, lick my bottom lip the same as a character in a romance novel would, and hoped for the best.

“I’m pleased I don’t have one too,” he said. “So, drink?”

“Oh, yes, how very rude of me not to have answered about that.” I lowered my hand and clasped both together in front of me. “Wine would be good, no?”

He nodded. “Wine it is, then.”

An elderly barman ambled over, polishing a pint glass with a rather grubby-looking tea towel, which made me glad I wasn’t one of those ladettes who liked to swill lager.

“What’ll it be, then?” he asked, placing the glass down with the towel squashed inside it.

“Wine, please,” David said, then to me, “Red or white?”

“Red, thank you,” I said, which had come out as redzankoo.

The barman looked at me oddly, and I had to take a minute to think whether I’d been here before as my English self. I hadn’t, I was sure of it, but it might be prudent to keep my mouth shut until he left us alone again. He busied himself uncorking a bottle, and with absolutely nothing to say, I watched him, all the while imagining that David would drink quickly, leave early and never ask to see me again.

I had to make sure that didn’t happen. He’d obviously been attracted to my forwardness on the phone, so I ought to continue in that vein in order to ensnare him and secure another date.