The Parlour (VDB #1) (11 page)

“I haven’t entered it. I have been dragged in against my will,” she replied, taking the offered chair and crossing her obscenely ravishing legs. He let go of the back of it and wandered around to his own side of the desk. He lit another cigarette and offered her one.

“You can’t run very far if you smoke, so no, thank you.” A runner, obviously. Clearly that’s where the sporty frame had developed from.

“You can still run, my dear. The door is over there. I’ll even give you some money if you like. How much do you need? Hmm? You’ve intrigued me, amused me. How about one thousand of the American dollars. How far would that get you?” She looked instantly shocked, elated, and then defeated within only a few seconds.

“Not far enough,” she replied, hanging her head a little and drawing in a long breath. “I need enough to survive while I look for work, enough to pay for rent, deposits and bills. And all of this you already know, you arrogant shit.”

“Cumbersome, Neanderthal, and an arrogant shit? I must become more appealing to you by the moment.” She snorted in reply and continued looking at her fingers, now twiddling the fabric of her dress and digging her nails into her palm.”

“You enjoy that sensation, yes?”

“What?”

“The sharp stab of your nails into your skin? Then the dull ache that remains in its wake?”

“I… I don’t know about enjoy. It’s just something I do when I need to remind myself. I’ve done it ever since…”

“Since when? And of what?”

“Since nothing, and of reality I suppose, of the consistent disappointment that I feel when things are not going well. Of myself maybe.” He smirked at her hidden depths and downed his Cognac. She would be a titillating character to find, and it occurred to him that other than Alexander, he hadn’t had anything interesting to play with for quite some time. Not of an innocent nature, anyway.

“Why would you believe this is not going well for you?”

“I lost my job, my home, ran the streets avoiding death, and then ended up in a den of iniquity. Now, you’ve taken me from it, spanked me like a child, and are threatening me with all sorts of depraved activity. What’s right with any of it?”

He ran a finger over his lips and watched her eyes hold his again. She may have been fearless, but she was undeniably lost. She was a shadow of the woman she could quite certainly be if moulded and harnessed correctly. What fun he could have, fun that he was sorely missing given the antics of Alexander and Elizabeth’s relationship of late.

“I have not taken you from a den of iniquity, my dear. I have brought you to a far more perilous one. However, things are going exceedingly well for you. How much do you feel you need in order to procure freedom?” He really did need a secretary.

“Fifty thousand.” His eyes widened a little at the audacity of the woman. Beautiful she may have been, but she was also utterly insane.

“Fifty? That is an overly exuberant amount of money. And how, pray tell, will you work off your debt?” It was a lot of money for a month’s worth of work, but it would give him time to find a more suitable employee should she fail.

“However you like,” she said with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders.

“That is a rather imprudent answer, certainly where I am concerned. I thought you more intelligent.” She raised a brow and snorted out a giggle, not unlike Elizabeth’s version of hilarity. It was endearing to some degree. “Can you be trusted, Lilah James?”

“Yes.” That was immediate, and he believed it without question for some unfathomable reason.

Emmanuelle walked back into the room, distracting him from the moment, carrying a tray of silver laden teapots and china. She placed it on the desk and began her ritualistic pouring and stirring until he waved his hand at her to signal she was no longer required. She pouted and left with no other noise to distract him from Ms. Lilah James. He handed her a cup and negated the need for sugar. A runner would not have a sugar fetish. She would be far too worried about her calorie intake. He flicked his eyes over her body again; she actually looked a little underweight, slightly scrawny. He decided to help her on her way again and put a spoonful of the sweet substance into her cup and stirred it for her.

She sneered at his hand and raised a brow. “I don’t do sugar.”

“You do now.”

“I…”

“I shall use you for one month, Lilah James. You will do everything and anything I ask, including having sugar in your tea, yes? And if you fulfil your obligations, if you please me, you will get your fifty thousand American dollars.” She smiled at him in reply, nothing else, just a rather extraordinarily deviant smile that very nearly lit up the entire room. An interesting month it would be indeed. “Drink your tea, my dear,” he said, still stirring and listening to the echo of the teaspoon in the room. “And I would be careful with the tone of your smile. I am not known for being overly pleasant to my employees.”

He watched carefully as she gently took the cup from him and blinked, but nothing about her face changed. There wasn’t a hint of fear or trepidation. She simply raised a brow and took a sip of her tea. It appeared she didn’t even feel the need to express her distaste for the sugar within. She was expressionless. Beguiling.

Pokerfaced indeed.

He did say fifty, didn’t he?

He didn’t mention it again as we sat in relative silence and ate our meal. He asked the occasional pointed question – Who? Why? Where? That sort of thing – dull questions really, but he mainly just watched me. He had this permanent expression of interest, as if he were constantly scanning my body for reactions to anything that was said. It was almost like he wasn’t at all interested in what actually left my mouth, only what my body did in response to his voice. And, dear God, what a voice. Smooth and rich, and that accent. His mouth rolls around language like a connoisseur of vowels and consonants. Every word is deliberate, precise. I can sense him thinking about every single thing in his mind long before anything actually leaves his lips. He is intelligent, no doubt, and a worrying problem for me. Not only does he happen to be the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, he also appears to be one of the most disturbingly clever ones, too. One I should not be getting attached or attracted to, no matter how appealing that spanking might have been. Not that I liked the sensation that much, just the feeling of absolute power associated with it. Control. It had a serene quality about it somehow. Odd really.

He left me shortly after we’d finished eating. He told me he would be back for me later and that I should carry on tidying, and I’ve been here ever since. I’m still sorting and filing my way through lord knows how many documents and folders. I got so irritated with the chaos that I’ve moved cupboards around and changed the order of the filing system that was of no use at all. Why someone felt the need to cover over the window with that tall oak unit is also beyond me, so I moved that, and then placed a large vase of flowers on a small table in front of the window instead. Now I find myself staring around the space and trying to understand him in it. Where would he need this information? How close does he need certain things? I could move that locked filing cabinet behind his desk so he can reach it easily from where he sits. He’d just need to turn and grab things instead of having to traipse around the overly large room. Why anyone would choose to have an office this big is beyond me. I suppose it shows an element of wealth with its heavy masculine furniture and its baroque style wallpaper – a show of power, I’m sure. It’s so different to the area we walked into earlier, though, when we arrived. Ruebin, that sweet young man, walked me through the club, which was modern and chic, crisp and clean, with highly polished surfaces and chrome fixtures. It was a strange experience, and nothing like the man at all, I felt. This room is far from that, and so is his suite. They’re both filled with old school European charm. Dark, and slightly foreboding in their appearance and feel, a much more sensible representation of the man he appears to be to me. I’m positive he’s part of every gentlemen’s club in the world. The kinds of clubs women aren’t allowed in, the ones where matters of state and illegal manoeuvring takes place, filled with the sort of men who change the world after a few clinked glasses and laughs.

I push on the cabinet until it rests neatly on the back wall behind his oak, leather inlayed desk. Then, I move the next cabinet along until it finds a balance in the space. Much better. My OCD seems to be getting the better of me because before I know it, I’m lining up all the furniture and trying to rearrange the whole space. I’m plumping cushions and swiping at surfaces to remove the dust. Polish, I need some polish. Then I can scrub the stains off everything, can’t I? I can organise and clean the sin away, make it a decent job of sorts. Maybe if I can just get this room perfect then I can forget that I’m a nothing more than a whore who’s just sold herself for the princely sum of fifty thousand dollars.

Whore
.

I stop my chaotic movements and lean my head back against the bookcase, trying to pull in some kind of calming breath. What am I doing? He told me I could go, again, and I’m still here. Still here and damn near begging him to do whatever he wants to me. Does the thought that I want him make it better or worse that he’s going to pay me? If I had flirted with him any more during dinner, it would have been obscene. I tried not to. I tried to keep it professional and non-emotional, but the man just has this way about him that makes me want to open up every fissure and give it to him. How does he do that? I haven’t got a fucking hope of denying whatever this is. He’s so big. God, that’s such a rubbish way of describing him. He’s powerful, all-encompassing maybe. He only has to open his mouth and I want to fall into his hands. He moves into the room and I’m near frozen by his gait, his long, purposeful strides owning every damn thing he travels around. Vixon was right, he does nothing at all and women probably throw themselves at him. I try so hard not to stop breathing when he comes within two feet of me, and fail constantly. I need him to need me, to think me important enough to give credence to – professional credence, so that I can get my money and leave. Leave, with my whored earnings. Oh God, Daddy, I’m so sorry. I haven’t got any other choice. I have to do this. I’ll make you proud again, I promise. This is just a blip, just something I have to get through to make it back out there and build a new life again. Please forgive me. If you’re up there watching, please tell me it doesn’t matter, that you understand.

I open my eyes to look at the ceiling in hope of some sign of agreement, but there’s nothing. Not one single thing to tell me I’m doing the right thing, probably because I’m not. I’m a whore who’s opening her legs for money. My hands come to my face and I try to prise my eyes open further to stop the tears from welling. They’re of no use to anyone, and they’re not going to help me get out of this fucking disaster. I just need to remain professional. I’ll keep it clean cut and not get driven into any emotional content whatsoever. That’ll work.

“Pascal, can we... I mean, Alex needs… Oh.” My head swings to the left to see the most breath-taking vison of beauty halt in her tracks as she sees me. She’s so stunning that I find my own eyes roaming across her body without thought. Her natural long, deep red hair falls effortlessly around her exquisite features, and her endless legs, encased in black jeans and high heeled boots, make her appear well over six foot. She smiles and takes another step into the room as she holds her hand out to me. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth. Is Pascal around?”

“I’m not sure where he is, sorry,” I reply dully as I try to shake my appearance back together and look somewhere near composed in her presence.

“Oh, right. Any idea when he’ll be back? I really need some info from him about… Oh, wait, you probably don’t know. Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go on the hunt for him. Who are you, by the way?”

“Lilah James.”

“Well hi, Lilah. Has he got you organising?”

“Sort of. I... work for him, I think. Anyway, I thought the office could do with some order. And he just sacked someone, his secretary I think, so I thought I’d…” My voice trails off as she stares at me and I become lost in yet another set of consuming eyes. She moves towards me again and I can’t stop my body being drawn to her – so feminine, so relaxed, so calm, peaceful maybe.

“Lilah? Are you okay?” she says as she gets closer. Am I? I don’t know. I feel kind of strange, odd all of a sudden.

“Yes, I just…. I’m fine. I think maybe I need to sit down,” I reply as my head spins a little and I start to feel dizzy.

“You definitely do. Come on,” she says, taking hold of my arm and guiding me over to the leather sofa. She sits me down and rushes off to the bar area to get a drink of water. I take it gratefully on her return and guzzle it down. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I feel weak and slightly sick for some reason. “You look tired, Lilah. When did you last sleep? It is 11.30 after all.”

Is it? Christ, how long have I been tidying?

“I was up at six, I think, and it has been a busy day. Perhaps you’re right. I’d go to bed if I knew where it was, and if I’m allowed too.” She smiles again and tucks her hair behind her ears.

“You’re new, aren’t you? Do you want me to find him and bring him here?”

“Who?”

“Pascal, of course.”

“Can you? I don’t know if anyone’s allowed to tell him what to do.”

“Hmm. I am. You’ve just got to know how to work him, honey,” she replies with a wicked smile. “He’s not quite the vampire I once thought he was.”

“Vampire?”

“Private joke, don’t worry about it. Just stay here and I’ll go find him.” With that, she pats my hand and crosses the floor away from me. I gaze at her long legs until she exits the door and wonder who on earth she is. She certainly doesn’t seem in the least bit intimidated by him, and she’s the first I’ve seen with that type of attitude. I’m positive she won’t be doing any kneeling for him. She’s definitely someone I could learn from.

‘You’ve just got to know how to work him...’ I haven’t even kissed him and I’ve already handled him, literally. What on earth possessed me to give him a blowjob in the back of a car? Nice as it might have been, I couldn’t have announced my whoredom any more, could I? Although he could have got all that without paying me anything, I suppose. Why is he paying me? Odd really.

I sip at my water and gaze around the office again to see if there’s anything else I can do before he gets back. Maybe if he’s impressed with my organisational skills, we won’t have to do any of the other stuff associated with being here. My eyes catch sight of a stray folder I clearly forgot to put away, so I pull myself up and cross the room to get it. He could be in here any second and the last thing I need is an excuse for him to think I’m crap at secretarial things. I grab at it and turn to the bookcase, but the moment I spin, my head starts to do the same. My vision begins to swim and my legs start folding beneath me. I feel myself falling in slow motion, my body collapsing beneath me. My hands drop the folder to try to brace my fall before I hit the deck, but I find myself being held tight against something. Something very hard. My nose sucks in rapid breaths to try and bring my body back into alignment, or at least regain control of my limbs, and I’m instantly assaulted with the scent of aftershave. It’s overwhelmingly attractive as it floods my senses. It smells as much of sin as Pascal does. It’s warm, spicy and definitely something I should be backing away from right now.

“Are you alright now?” his voice asks from above me. I daren’t look up, so I simply nod my head and try to remove myself from his hands, which are firmly attached to my upper arm and backside. He’s very nearly holding me off the floor, easily, it appears. His hands slowly relax their grip on me until I’m allowed to move away from him, and I glance up to see who my British saviour actually is. “You should sit,” he says as he waves a hand at the sofa again and stares directly at my face. There’s nothing warm about his voice. It’s cold, and the moment I try to maintain eye contact with him, I find ice blue eyes staring me down, harshly, like I’m being reprimanded for my stupidity. They seem miles away, almost as if he’s not even here. Slightly evil really, dead. I flick my gaze away nervously and move toward the relative safety of the sofa.

“Thank you,” I mumble out quietly as I reach the comfort of the black leather and sink back onto it again.

“Where’s Pascal, and who are you?” he asks. I just keep staring at the floor and eventually pinch the bridge of my nose to see if I can stop my vision from blurring.

“He’ll be here soon, I think. A woman called Elizabeth has gone to find him.”

“Good. I’ll wait here then. Do you need a drink, whoever you are?” Do I? Yes, a drink might help.

“Yes please. I’m Lilah.” I hear the glasses clinking and chance another glance at him as he hands me a large whiskey. I immediately remove my eyes from his as he raises a brow at me and admonishes my stupidity again. “I’m sorry. I just felt dizzy all of a sudden, and I… Well, you caught me. Thank you, again. It was kind of you.”

“There is nothing kind about me, Lilah. I simply am, and you were falling,” he says, sitting opposite me on the other sofa. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that so I keep my eyes downcast for some unfathomable reason and stare into my drink instead. “How long have you been here?” he asks.

Oh, this is madness, Lilah. Just lift your fucking head and look at him. He’s obviously trying to be polite, regardless of his very strange announcement of his lack of kindness. I lift my face again and look across at him. He lounges there just as Pascal would, in a beautifully fitted three piece, grey suit, devoid of tie, as if he owns the place. He probably does. He might even be Pascal’s boss or something. Yet another person with an air of superiority. What is it with all these bossy people? Am I the only normal one around here?

“I came today.”

“Did you now? How, exactly?” he replies with another raised brow.

What? In a car.
Oh
. I suddenly realise what I’ve said and snicker a little at the thought.

“Actually, he drove me over here earlier today. I meant that. Not, well, the other thing.”

“It won’t be long, I’m sure,” he replies, now sipping at his drink and watching me over the rim of the glass. The clinking of the ice cubes lulls me back to his eyes again, and I feel myself being pulled into them before I know what I’m doing. They’re so blue, crisp, quite mesmerizing in a strangely creepy kind of way. They’re not like Pascal’s. There’s no naughtiness in them, no fun or suggestion of a good time. More a sense of anger or irritation, as if everything in the entire universe is beneath him, or not worth his time. If I believed in Gods and Devils I’d say he was one of them. I’m not entirely sure which one, though. “You’re staring, Lilah. Don’t play with me. You’re not ready for the outcome yet.”