Authors: Laura Carter
“Wow. It’ll be strange to see her in a different house.”
A phone rings through the speakers in the car. Leaning forward I see the caller is
Boss
.
“Sorry, Scarlett, I need to take this,” Jackson says as the privacy partition slowly draws to the ceiling.
I try not to allow myself to be irritated again.
“That was Gregory?” I ask, already knowing the answer, when Jackson opens my door.
“Scarlett, I need you to do something for me, okay?”
“It depends what that thing is.”
“I need to you go straight up to the apartment and stay in. I have to head back to the office and I’ll bring Gregory home in a couple of hours. Can you do that?”
Rolling my eyes, I head up to the apartment that smells of cleaning products and is as spotless as ever, thanks to Amy. I change out of my dress and into skinny jeans and a cream cashmere jumper. I attempt to switch on the television in the lounge but this damned latest technology is not Scarlett Heath friendly. I make a coffee and sip it at the breakfast bar. As boredom sets in, I start to I feel peckish. The fridge is full of health conscious snacks but there’s nothing to make a meal.
This is ridiculous, I’m a grown woman.
Throwing a tan leather bag over my shoulder I resolve to make something tasty for dinner. I have about an hour and a half until Gregory will be home; I can shop and get some good food underway in that time.
I send Sandy a text message and she suggests that broccoli and stilton soup is easy enough to make if you have a blender and that it’s difficult to go wrong with steak, the worst-case scenario being overcooking it, but at least you can still put a meal on the table.
I fill my basket at the store and pop in a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
The concierge is unusually away from his desk when I get back to the Shard. I have a strange feeling, one that I can’t describe, like someone or something is watching me as I wait for the lift. I walk backwards into the lift, looking around the ground floor but there’s nothing to see.
Still, I slam the apartment door behind me and quickly lock it.
After working out how to use Gregory’s super-techy sound system, I manage to get the tunes from my iPhone playing in the kitchen and lounge. My hips swing and my head bobs along to Ed Sheeran
.
By my reckoning, I have around forty minutes before Gregory’s home. Under Sandy’s instruction, I boil the broccoli and make a saucy concoction of cream, stilton, corn flour and some less important bits of seasoning. Whilst those things are cooking, I cut some potatoes into chunky chip size and put them into the oven with oil.
“Okay, we’re under control,” I tell myself between singing along to Ed.
Gregory should be just minutes away by the time I drain the broccoli and pour it with the sauce into the blender. I’m about to place the lid on the blender when I smell burning.
“Chips!”
I ditch the lid and fling open the oven door to expose a load of hot smoky air.
“Crap!”
I pull the chips from the oven and rest them on a chopping board in their tray, utterly inedible. I turn back to the blender and just as I flick the switch to
ON
the smoke alarm starts to sound, then the contents of the blender is swished out of the top where I’ve forgotten to place the lid. Warm soup is spitting all over me, the smoke alarm is blazing, I’m screaming and I can’t find the
OFF
switch. As I pull the plug from the wall, Gregory bursts through the apartment door, closely followed by Jackson, panic evident on their faces. Gregory stops when he sees me and Jackson almost runs into the back of him.
Wiping soup from my face with the back of my hand, I look down to see the cheesy liquid splattered over my body from head to toe. Ed Sheeran stops singing about building a Lego house. The black chips stare at me from the bench. The smoke alarm is still blazing.
Raising my arms up with what I hope is an adorable smile, I say, “I tried.”
Jackson is first to laugh, then we’re all at it, though Gregory’s laugh is short lived. Jackson takes a tea towel from the bench and wafts it under the smoke alarm until it’s silent.
“You went out then?” Gregory asks.
“I hate to state the obvious but I’ve been going outdoors without supervision for about twenty years.”
Jackson quietly takes himself off to his room.
“Things are different right now.”
“What happened?”
He sighs. “Get yourself cleaned up and we’ll talk. Is there anything we can salvage here?”
“A bottle of wine and cheesy soup covered steak.”
“I’ll get something sent up from Oblix. And next time tell me if you want a home-cooked meal. I employ Amy for that.”
By the time I’ve showered, changed into a new pair of skinny jeans and a shirt and blow dried my hair, two steaks have arrived, not covered in cheesy soup and certainly cooked better than I would have managed. Gregory is pouring the wine, his shirt unbuttoned by three but still tucked into his navy trousers. Too damn sexy,
“Maybe this was a better idea,” I concede.
Gregory pushes a glass of wine in my direction and leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen island.
“This can’t be good.”
He takes a drawn out drink from his glass.
“Don’t try to sugarcoat it, just tell me.”
“This was hand delivered to the office today,” he says, unfolding an old looking document onto the island and sliding it across to me.
I’m looking at the birth certificate of Gregory James Pearson but there’s a cross made with pen through his name. Next to the field for Mother, there’s also a cross through
Lara Olivia Pearson
. The only name not crossed is that next to Father,
Kevin James Pearson.
“Your birth certificate?”
“Ja. Ryans is my mother’s maiden name.”
“Okay. And this was delivered to your office?”
“I spoke to my mother earlier and she said she hasn’t had it since South Africa. We just left, there were things she didn’t have time to find. If we could buy it or replace it we left it.”
“So you think your father had this and delivered it to your office?”
“This afternoon, when you were there. The notes, the—”
“The wedding ring.”
He shoots me a questioning glare. “How do you know about that?”
“Is that you confessing that you were keeping things from me again? It doesn’t matter how I know. What does it mean? He’s...he’s coming for us?”
“I think the only question is when and where.”
Goose bumps rise under the hairs on my arms. I gulp from my wine glass.
“What’re we going to do?” I try and fail to suppress the tremble in my voice.
“You’re going to start listening to Jackson and me. Jackson will be with us and he’s got more guys at my mother’s house. He’s got extra security for the party. But I won’t just wait for him, not this time. Jackson’s pulled a team together to find him before he finds us. The problem is, he has no base here. He doesn’t live in England and he doesn’t have a routine.”
I take two deep breaths as subtly as I can. “Do you.” My voice breaks so I cough to disguise my fear. “Do you think... How far will he go?”
Gregory refuses to meet my eye. His reaction alone is enough to give me the honest answer but he says, “We can’t know for sure.”
“And you still don’t think the police should be involved?”
Gregory doesn’t respond. I know exactly why the police can’t be involved and it terrifies me. The thought that something might happen to him is unbearable. We eat in relative silence. In bed we both lie awake, staring at the ceiling. My mind flits from fear to anger and each time I sneak a glance at Gregory’s open eyes, I wish I could tell what mix of emotions he’s feeling.
I want this to end. However it happens, I just want him to be free.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Are you ready?” Amanda asks, popping her head around my office door.
“Yep. Just shutting down. Jackson’s going to drive us to Harrods, is that okay?”
“Okay? It’s great! Some of us
do not
have a problem being chauffeured around.”
Jackson drops us at the Brompton Road entrance to the finest and largest department store in London and two concierges are on hand to welcome us. Concierges at Harrods are somewhat an institution in Britain. They have status. They wind up on post-cards, tourists stop to take their photograph, sometimes they even make it to biscuit tin lids. It’s their gentlemanly manner, their cute knee-length grey jackets with dazzling gold buttons and their matching grey top hats. They’re part of what makes Harrods
Harrods
.
“Follow me,” Amanda demands.
“Wait, I want to look at the bags first.”
“No, we can do that later, this way.”
She struts toward the lift vestibule where we stare at bottle-green marble walls trimmed with gold and wait for the lift. When the doors open on the women’s floor, a pristine lady greets us. I’d place in her forties despite her flawless, youthful looking skin. A pearl necklace hangs over her demure black blouse, which is tucked into an expensive-looking black-and-silver-striped pencil skirt. Her brown hair looks as if she’s just stepped out of a salon and sits with perfect bounce onto her shoulders. I recognise the scent of Marc Jacobs as she offers her hand, first to Amanda.
“Good evening, I’m Julia. Scarlett, is it?”
“Oh, no, Amanda. It’s nice to meet you. This is Scarlett.”
“I’m sorry. It truly is a pleasure to meet you, Scarlett.”
“Ahh, hi, it’s nice to meet you. What is going on?”
Julia giggles, throwing her head back. “He’s sneaky, isn’t he? Come this way. I spend a lot of time styling Mr. Ryans, although I think I know what he likes by now so I don’t see him as often as I used to.”
“It’s so important to have a brand image, I think,” Amanda says, feigning the accent of the Queen, mimicking Julia. I want to laugh but refrain.
Following behind Julia as she strides without fault in her black Louboutins (I know this because of the red sole), Amanda explains, “Gregory said I could pick whatever I want if I got you here. He said you’d say no if he suggested it to you.”
“I can’t afford this,” I try to whisper.
Julia stops in front of a frosted glass door. Before she opens it for us she leans in toward my ear and whispers, “It’s all on Mr. Ryans’s account.”
“But, I—”
“Stop fussing, Scarlett,” Amanda says, wafting a hand past my face and following Julia into the black-walled room, “he can afford it.”
And you’re more than happy to accept it.
I huffily take out my iPhone and send Gregory a text.
You’re such a controlling arse...
I get an almost instant reply.
Enjoy!
In the room another flawlessly styled woman in a black dress and a man in a three-piece suit with a pink floral tie are standing to attention and smiling like something out of
The Brady Bunch
. Two embroidered sofas are set back to back in the center of the room and racks of evening gowns line the walls. A glass table is laden with jewelry and the biggest diamonds I’ve ever seen. Three white shelves contain a selection of shoes in different colours and styles, highlighted by spotlights above them. Two dressing areas are separated by black velour curtains held back by gold chains.
Turning in the center of the room, I must look gormless as I take in the spectacular view.
So this is how the other half live.
“You’re the one,” the suited man says, offering me his hand. “I’m Lucas. This is Genevieve.”
I smile at Lucas and Genevieve, as I reciprocate a handshake. “Scarlett. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Champagne?” Lucas asks, turning his hand flamboyantly toward a waiter carrying two glasses of champagne on a tray in one hand and menus for the restaurant in the other.
“I could get used to this,” Amanda says, taking a glass of champagne and sitting onto a sofa with the menu.
By the time we’ve ordered food, Julia and Genevieve have selected the first two dresses for me to try on.
“We’ll start with Scarlett,” Lucas says.
Amanda wafts a hand. “I’m more than happy right here.” She sips her champagne with her legs lifted, lounging out on the sofa.
Genevieve holds up a satin floor-length dress in midnight blue. It has a thick halter neck with a triangle of lace inset over the bust and coming to a point at the bottom of the breastbone area. Julia holds up an equally long black dress with full-length sleeves and a wide round neck, lower at the back than the front. A slit runs thigh-high on one leg.
“I’ll try the blue first please.”
Lucas clicks his fingers excitedly. “Shoes!” he sings, as I’m encouraged to move into the dressing room and the velour curtain is drawn around me.
“That bra isn’t going to work,” Genevieve says when I’ve revealed my black lace underwear. “What size are you? Thirty-two C?”
“Ah, yes, actually.”
“This is my job,” she says, rather pleased with herself. “Julia, can we get a strapless plunge in a thirty-two C?”
Julia passes through a bra in seconds and, much to my horror, Genevieve doesn’t leave the room or even turn as I swap my own bra for the strapless plunge. She helps me into the dress and gestures for me to sit as she places the shoes Lucas has picked out onto my feet.
“Right, let’s take a look,” she says.
I have to hand it to them, I look fantastic, for me. The dress gives me a figure I’m sure I’ve never seen and the lace point reveals enough to make me appear to have a cleavage without being overt. Genevieve draws back the curtain to display me to the room.
Immediately, without taking a breath or giving her heart a chance to beat, Julia says, “No.” Followed by Lucas who, with a hand on his hip and the other on his chin, says, “It’s all wrong.”
Amanda laughs, presumably at my bottom lip, which has worked its way out in a childish pout.
“Let’s try the black,” Julia says.
After the third unsuccessful dress, my poached salmon and asparagus with a side order of potatoes has arrived with a new glass of champagne. The table has been pulled toward the sofas for us to eat. As I pick up my knife and fork, Lucas swoops in and removes my side plate of potatoes.
“We don’t want you to bloat.”
Once again, my pouting lower lip is out and Amanda snorts.
“You too, missy,” Lucas says, taking away her side order as well.
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
Lucas is quick to get me back on my feet after dinner. Genevieve and Julia begin searching the racks again.
“Is it alright if I look too?” I ask.
“Of course,” Julia replies.
Searching through a number of black dresses, I pull out one, a satin halter neck fastened with three buttons at the nape and a cut out back. It’s fitted to the waist then a-line in shape, with a short train, an inch or two. Then I see a sheath-cut black dress, subtly embroidered with small black crystals. It’s strapless with a sweetheart neckline.
“Can I try these?”
Lucas scrutinises the two dresses then says, “Not bad, not bad. Let’s try them.”
This time Julia helps me dress and Lucas picks the shoes again. First, I put on the black halter neck and step out from behind the changing curtain.
“That’s my favourite so far,” Amanda says.
This time it’s Genevieve who disapproves. “I just don’t feel wowed by it.”
I’m beginning to lose the will to live. What started as fun is now laborious and tiresome. I traipse back behind the curtain and Julia helps me slip out of the halter neck and into the crystal-laced dress.
“These will be perfect,” Lucas says, handing Julia a pair of Gina jeweled sandals.
Julia straps me into the sandals and gives me a hand to stand up. The dress feels amazing, it fits my waist perfectly and the silk slip kisses my legs as I walk but I don’t bother to look in the mirror. Instead I step straight out to the lion pack from behind the curtain.
Lucas gasps and puts his hands together, touching the tip of his nose as if in prayer. “That’s it. That’s the one!”
“He won’t be able to take his eyes off you,” Genevieve adds.
Julia claps excitedly. “Accessories!”
“This one!” Lucas says, taking a thick diamond choker from a blue velvet box and handing it to Julia.
“Hair up, definitely up,” Genevieve says.
Julia places the choker around my neck and turns me to face the mirror. “Go on, take a look.”
In the mirror, I see Amanda grin and slowly nod her head. It’s still the same me, but even I must admit it’s a better version of me. I look a million dollars...but that’s also the problem.
“There’s no way I can let Gregory pay for all of this. I’m sorry, I do love it but it must be a fortune.”
“Hunny, do you have any idea how much his clothes cost? Anyway, the necklace would be on loan, people rarely buy these things,” Lucas points out.
“But what about the shoes and dress?”
Julia rests a hand on my shoulder. “To Gregory? Buttons.”
“You could always soften the blow,” Amanda offers, dangling lace French knickers from one finger.
* * *
By the time we’re back in the Mercedes with Jackson, I have a dress, a new pair of shoes and a bag, a diamond necklace on loan and a black satin corset with matching stockings and suspenders—the “Mercy Corset,” so I’m told. Amanda has an entirely new outfit as well, minus the underwear, and Julia was more than happy to put it on Gregory’s tab and take her commission.
Stepping out into the crisp air has made me realise how much the champagne has gone to my head.
“Sweet dreams,” Amanda calls as she leaves the car.
Jackson and I wait until she’s in her apartment block and the door locks behind her.
“Thank you for picking us up.”
“It’s never a problem. It’s good for Gregory right now too.”
“How is he?”
“About as stressed as I’ve ever seen him. Usually it’s just business or even when it’s personal, it’s only about him. But he’s worried now for his mother, and for you.”
“Has your team had any luck today?”
“Nothing yet but they’re good guys, they’ll keep trying.”
When we arrive back at the apartment Gregory is drinking coffee and looking over the documents sprawled out on the coffee table in the lounge. I gather this is the information the team has pulled together on Pearson so far.
“Did you get a dress?”
I give him a playful scowl. “Yes, I have a dress but you shouldn’t have paid.”
“You could just say thank you.”
I plant a kiss on his lips. “Thank you.” Then I hand him the smallest of the Harrods bags. “This is for you.”
He peeks into the bag and moves the black tissue to one side to reveal the Mercy Corset. I take the bag back from him. “You won’t be too late, will you?”
He clears his throat and turns to Jackson. “I, we, we won’t be too much longer, Jackson, will we?”
I hang up my dress then take a shower. It takes some time and skillful maneuvering but I’m eventually dressed in the corset and stockings. I decide to add the Gina shoes into the mix and finally, the diamond choker, then I dim the bedroom lights and lie on the chaise longue waiting for Gregory.
Eventually the door opens and he stands, observing from the doorway, his arms folded, his hips pressed slightly forward.
I feel seductive, ridiculous and more feminine than I’d ever have thought possible.
“What are we going to do with you?” His words are low, heavy, promising.
He rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt as he moves toward me. He turns my legs and plants them on the floor in my heels, then forces them wide apart in a sudden move that makes me to lean back on my hands, the Mercy Corset pushing my breasts upward. Air kisses my vulva and has me raising my hips on a breath of insatiable anticipation. He kneels between my legs, his steely expression teasing my pulsing muscles.
“Like what you see?” I tease him with his own words.
“Like it? I want to fuck you until neither of us has anything left. I’m going to make you scream my name and beg me to take you every way imaginable.”
His hands move slowly around my neck then inch by inch, down my body. I feel myself swell and moisten when he applies pressure to my breasts. My head rolls back, full of nothing but images of this Adonis.
He moves his hands seductively down my abdomen and I gasp when he finally presses a hand between my legs, cupping my labia.
He lifts me in one swift action and stands me in front of the bed. I watch him take the belt from the kimono hanging on the back of the bedroom door. The loss of contact heightens my anticipation and drives my hunger.
Licking my lips, I reach out for his chest as he stands before me. Broad, firm, devastating.
“Drop your hands. I’m in control here, Scarlett.”
That thought alone makes me ache to be filled by him. Stepping forward, he wraps the silk belt across my eyes, tying it at the back of my head. Excited and nervous, I take deep breaths as he unhooks my suspenders and pulls down my thong, guiding my feet to step out of it. He takes off his shirt then presses his bare chest against me, finally allowing me to feel his hot flesh on mine. I moan with uncontrollable desperation.
Then he’s gone, leaving me bereft. I hear him moving around the room.
“Teardrop” from Massive Attack fills my ears and as my senses adjust his tongue is between my legs. My knees want to buckle as he caresses my clit and I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself. The music and the perfect, controlled rhythm of his hot, wet tongue make my hips rise toward him. I feel myself build to orgasm.
“Gregory.”
I’m on the edge, my internal walls are clenching as his tongue dips seductively in and out of my sex and back to my swollen bud. My own tongue tastes the salt above my lips.
Touch. Smell. Sound. Sight. Taste. He consumes me.
“Oh, God, Gregory.”
Then he stops. My muscles are on the brink of spasm, my clit crying out, my G-spot heaving, begging for relief.