Wicked Pleasures (100 page)

‘Please don’t,’ she said, ‘please.’

‘Oh, but I want to please,’ he said, and stood back from her grinning. Charlotte summoned all her strength, raised her leg and kneed him in the crotch.

‘You bitch,’ he said, but it didn’t do what she had hoped, make him loosen his grip, he pressed harder on her throat, started moving his hand into her coat again.

She felt herself shrinking, shrinking, high up within herself, unable to think, unable even to fear, just revulsion, revulsion and nausea; and then, just as she knew there was no hope, no escape, he was pulled off her, and somebody, somebody large, strong, furiously, viciously strong, had him on the ground, and was belting him, punching him, and saying ‘You filthy, filthy fucker’ over and over again. It was Gabe’s voice: Charlotte stood there, staring at him, watching him punch the youth, turn him over, pull his hands together behind his back, drag her wallet out of his pocket.

He turned his head and looked up at her, briefly, and she could read nothing in his face, nothing at all, except a terrible, tender concern.

‘Are you OK?’ he said.

She nodded helplessly.

‘He didn’t … ?’

‘No. No he didn’t do anything. Really.’

Gabe picked the man’s head up almost casually and then knocked it down onto the street again.

‘You silly bitch,’ he said almost conversationally. ‘You silly silly bitch. Walking around in these streets as if you were in some goddamned English village. It’s time you wised up.’

‘Gabe,’ said Charlotte, scarcely able to believe she was hearing this attack, when she had been so frightened, so near to being raped, ‘Gabe, how dare you –’

‘Oh, shut up,’ he said, and stood up. The man was whimpering now and half conscious; Gabe threw him into the doorway.

‘Come on,’ he said, taking Charlotte’s arm. ‘Let’s get you home. This joker isn’t going anywhere.’

‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’ said Charlotte.

‘Yeah. We’ll go to the office. Are you really OK?’

‘Yes I’m fine. But won’t he run away?’

‘Well, he doesn’t look too well up to running. If he does, he does. I can’t leave you here, and I can’t take him with us. Come on, let’s get to the office. All right?’ She nodded, speechless. Her legs felt very weak suddenly. Gabe put his arm round her waist, helped her along; she kept stumbling.

They reached the bank; the night porter let them in.

‘I’m just going up to my office,’ said Gabe briefly.

‘Right-oh, Mr Hoffman. Still a lot of people up there.’

‘Gabe,’ said Charlotte, ‘let’s go to my – my other office. It’ll be quiet there. I don’t want a fuss.’

‘Won’t it be locked?’ he said.

‘I have a key.’

They went in, turned on the lamp. Charlotte sat down rather feebly in one of the low leather chairs by the fire. It had been waiting for her, this room: her equivalent of the Heir’s Room, a rather grand, beautifully furnished, clearly important office. Fred had shown it to her on her first morning before whisking her down to her grey pen. ‘You can move in when you’ve earned it,’ he had said. She had never so much as taken a call in it, but she had stood in it from time to time, wondering if she would ever be able to claim it.

Gabe called the police.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I’ll come and meet you. Corner of Beaver and Broad. Five minutes.’

‘I’ll be back,’ he said to Charlotte. ‘Don’t go away.’

She managed a half smile. ‘I won’t.’

He was back in fifteen minutes, closed the door behind him. He had a bottle of brandy with him.

‘OK. They carted him off. No problem. I thought you might need this. Got any glasses in here?’

‘Yes, I think so. In that cupboard there.’ She pointed to a cupboard by the fireplace; it had several glasses in it, of varying sizes.

He poured a large glass and handed it to her. Charlotte gulped at it; it was soothing, warming, welcome. Gabe looked around him, at the panelled walls, the flower-filled grate, the large desk, the Indian carpet.

‘Nice little place you’ve got here,’ he said.

‘Oh Gabe, don’t,’ said Charlotte wearily, ‘I can’t help it and anyway, you know I never used it.’

‘You will though, won’t you?’ he said and there was a wary expression in his eyes.

‘Yes, I suppose so. I hope so. Oh – let’s not talk about it. I feel awful.’

Gabe gave her some more brandy, then stood by the fireplace looking down at her. ‘Like I said, you’re a silly bitch,’ he said suddenly, ‘that was asking for it, you know. Fucking asking for it.’

Something exploded in Charlotte: something vast and sad and horrific in its
strength. She stood up and turned on Gabe, started to pummel at him with her fists, sobbing at the same time.

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up,’ she screamed through her sobs. ‘You’re harsh and cruel and vile. How can you talk to me like that when I – when I –’

‘When you were mugged,’ he said, and he was shouting too, ‘yeah, and when you could have been raped or killed, and all for nothing, the price of a bit of stupidity. You women never learn. Never.’

He grabbed her fists and tried to hold them still; Charlotte pulled them away.

‘I hate you,’ she said, ‘I hate you so much.’

She turned away from him, dashing her hand angrily across her eyes. ‘Don’t,’ he said, and his voice was different, quieter suddenly, almost gentle.

‘Don’t say that. I don’t like it.’

‘Oh you don’t? Why not? Does it not suit your great arrogant fucking ego?’

‘No,’ he said, quieter still. ‘I don’t like it because I love you.’

A shock went through Charlotte, a physical, shuddering shock. She felt it in her head, and she felt it deep within her body, and she felt it in her heart. She turned round slowly and stared at him; his face was white, his eyes very dark. He looked at her deeply, heavily seriously, almost sombre; he raised his hands towards her, then dropped them again.

‘Gabe,’ she said, aware even as she spoke that it was a cliché, an absurd cliché, ‘Gabe, did you say what I thought you said?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What I said was I love you.’ He scowled at her. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Why unfortunately?’

‘Why unfortunately: because you’re so difficult, and spoilt and self-centred and arrogant and bossy and moody and –’

‘
I’m
difficult and arrogant!’ said Charlotte. ‘Gabe Hoffman, you should take a look at yourself. I have never known anyone more difficult and arrogant than you – oh for God’s sake, what am I saying, what am I doing?’ She went over to the door, locked it, and stood with her back to it, looking at him. He had taken his jacket off, and his shirt was crumpled; his face seemed more lined than usual, his hair more wild. He was still scowling, but his eyes had softened.

‘I don’t know quite what to say,’ he said.

‘Nor do I,’ said Charlotte.

Gabe stepped forward, stood looking down at her. He was close enough now for her to touch him; she put out her hand tentatively, lacked the final courage and dropped it again.

‘Dear God,’ he said and picked up the hand, turned it over and kissed the palm. Very slowly, very languorously. Charlotte closed her eyes briefly, felt the hot molten sensation of desire invade her. Gabe took her face in his hands, and kissed her, on the mouth. His lips were very heavy, very strong, his tongue slowly exploring her mouth; Charlotte kissed him back, gently, almost nervously at first, then with a growing, surging urgency. She was still dazed, shocked, she still dared hardly move.

Gabe put his arms round her, pulling her against him. He was kissing her
harder now, saying her name, over and over again; his hands began to move down her, caressing her back, lingering on her waist, pausing, then moving again, down to her buttocks. She pushed against him, grinding her hips, gently but urgently; she felt as if her desire was a live thing in her, reaching out, searching for him; she felt him respond, and pulled her mouth away from his, smiling up into his eyes.

‘Thank God for my carpet,’ was all she said, and lay down on it, holding out her arms.

He began to unbutton her shirt; she sat up impatiently, tearing it off, and her bra too, lay down again, her eyes fixed on his. She could feel her nipples hard, erect, and at the same instant, as his mouth went to work on them, his tongue teasing them, playing with them, a heat, a liquid heat reaching down from them into the deep, aching depths of her. He pulled away again, started removing his own clothes; he was naked now, and as she stared up at him, at his heavy muscular body, the dark hairs covering his chest, his arms, the flat hard stomach and the jutting penis, standing out from a great mass of pubic hair, she moaned, moaned with longing and pleasure and disbelief at what was happening to her.

He knelt again and pulled her skirt down, off, and then her panties; he kissed her breasts again, then her mouth, her shoulders, her neck, frantic as if he could not have enough of her. And then he bent further, kissed her stomach, her thighs and then tenderly, very slowly moved again, lay above her, and she could feel him there, there, oddly gently, urging at her, sweet and slow. ‘I love you Charlotte,’ he said again, and she thrust at him, suddenly, swiftly, crying out, and he was in her, invading her, filling her, with a huge, strong, wild pleasure. She could feel herself beginning to climb now, already reaching, grasping for release; her body, moving with his, sweetly rhythmic, slowly at first, then faster, faster, advancing, retreating, rising, falling. She wrapped her legs round him, round his waist, feeling him deeper still; a shot of pleasure so bright, so violent she was almost afraid of it.

He was still suddenly: then pushed, pushed, reaching into her, seeking out her climax, drawing it from her; she felt the final climb, the great triumphant soaring into pleasure and she arched her back and cried out again and again, feeling him respond, now following her, now leading her and then at last he groaned and spasmed and slowly he was still.

‘Good God,’ he said after some little time. ‘Dear God, how very unbritish you are.’

‘No I’m not,’ she said, and even in her pleasure heard indignation in her voice. ‘I’m not unbritish at all.’

‘Charlotte,’ said Gabe, ‘do stop arguing.’

They lay there for a while; then she began to feel cold, shivered. Gabe reached out and got his jacket, laid it over her; kissed her tenderly, held her closer.

‘That was kind of nice,’ he said.

‘Yes it was. And kind of unexpected. Totally unexpected, I would say.’

‘I cannot believe,’ he said, ‘that you didn’t know.’

‘Didn’t know what?’

‘That I – well, loved you. Fancied you. Wanted you.’

‘Gabe, of course I didn’t know. I’m not clairvoyant. How could I have known?’

He grinned. ‘I thought women did know these things.’

‘Well – sometimes. If the man is charming, polite, complimentary. If he’s rude, boorish, aggressive, it’s a little harder.’

‘Was I rude and boorish?’

‘Yes you were.’

‘Yes, I guess I was.’

‘Why were you rude and boorish, Gabe?’

‘Well, because you were so fucking arrogant and touchy and difficult. It was like getting close to a piranha. I felt if I did, I’d be dead. I thought you disliked me. I thought you – well, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter now,’ said Charlotte. ‘It doesn’t matter at all.’

Later, she started to get dressed; bashful suddenly, concerned about her rounded stomach, her full breasts. ‘I’m fat,’ she said. ‘I look awful.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, reaching out, outlining the curves with his hand, ‘I like you that way. It’s how I remember you, when you were sixteen, when I first set eyes on you, at your grandfather’s party, ripe and plump, with a bloom on you, like some gorgeous peach. I thought you were beautiful. When I said in the bar you’d put on weight, it was meant to be a compliment.’

‘Well,’ said Charlotte tartly, ‘it didn’t come over that way. And I wouldn’t recommend you saying it to any of your other girls. They won’t see it like that either.’

‘I don’t have any other girls,’ he said.

‘Yes you do. Don’t lie.’

‘Yes, I do. I won’t lie.’

She finished dressing, pulled on her jacket even, chilled suddenly at his words. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue, avoiding his eyes.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘what did I say?’

‘Oh – nothing.’

‘Yes I did. What was it? The other girls? That was it, wasn’t it? God, you’re touchy, Charlotte. Touchy and difficult. I don’t know if I can handle this, I really don’t.’ But he was smiling. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said suddenly. ‘When I found out about you and Jeremy Foster, I could have killed him. And then probably you. I never really felt jealousy before then.’

‘I didn’t love him,’ said Charlotte. ‘I really truly didn’t.’ She looked at Gabe very solemnly. But her heart was singing.

‘Shit,’ he said, ‘where’s my watch?’ They started to look for it.

‘Why did you take it off ?’ said Charlotte, laughing.

‘I always take my watch off,’ he said, ‘when I’m doing anything important. You know I do.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes I suppose I do. Here it is, look, under the chair.’

He put it on, smiling at her. ‘Come along,’ he said, suddenly brisk, ‘I think I should get you a cab. Send you home.’

She stared at him. ‘There’s no hurry, Gabe. Honestly.’

‘Charlotte, I’m sorry, baby, but there is. The night is young. I have work to do. Several hours of it.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Charlotte. ‘I just don’t believe it.’

‘Charlotte my darling,’ he said, ‘you’d better believe it.’

Charlotte hardly slept that night. The combined effect of her attack, Gabe’s declaration of love and some extremely intense lovemaking had left her almost sick with tension. She felt literally shocked, assaulted by a series of emotional memories: fear, outrage, relief, anger, wonder, pleasure, and above all a wild happiness. It was impossible to rest.

She finally got up at six, showered, put on a track suit and went for a walk in Central Park. She supposed Gabe would have told her it was dangerous, but there seemed to be even more joggers than muggers.

He called her after breakfast. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’