Detained (9 page)

She wore the cream hotel robe and nothing underneath. It flowed against her skin, silk on silk. She sat opposite him, devouring a fruit tart after a main course of salmon. She ate like she enjoyed food. Devoured it. She ate like she fucked. And she’d fucked like she was starving for good food. She could become a problem.

But she wasn’t going to starve this weekend. They weren’t finished with each other by a long shot. All her reserve and hesitancy was gone now. She didn’t dodge his glance or default to shyness or caution. No more nibbling. From here on in it was full mouthfuls.

He patted his thigh and she brought her feet up, let him massage her arches and her toes, groaned with delight when he pressed into her foot, sinking further in her chair. Her robe fell open, and she didn’t bother to try and cover her legs.

He liked this comfort with him. He figured it was the opening act for the kind of brazenness she showed in debate. She had a plan, he could see it brewing. He just hoped it left him able to walk. Because at some point he’d have to. Without looking back.

He parked the thought. They had hours. They had worlds to explore yet.

She broke into his musings. “What are you thinking about?”

“You.”

She smiled, delighted. “Tell me.”

He pressed his thumb into the pad of her foot and she jumped. “I was thinking about how real you are.”

“You said that before. You’ve been hanging out with superheroes too much if you’re so impressed with my realness.”

He laughed. “It’s a money thing. When you have money and influence people see you through its filter. They act differently. They act how they think you’re going to like them most.”

“Is that why you don’t want me to know your name?”

He stilled his hand, wrapped it over her foot. He didn’t want to think about this. “I get the feeling you’d see me the same way no matter what my name was.”

“Are you sure you’re not a lawyer, or a bookie?” She was laughing at him. “You hedge your bets.”

“Spoken like a journalist.”

She waggled her foot under his hand. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re made to question, and you don’t take things at face value.”

She sighed. “That doesn’t do me any favours. It’s what makes it hard to love me, I think.” She looked wistful.

“You’re just looking in the wrong places. You’re looking at men who see everything as a competition.”

“Oh and you don’t.”

“Sure I do. But I’m not scared of being beaten. Most men are.”

“What makes you different?”

He laughed and it sounded bitter to his own ears. “Because I started out beaten. Being beaten taught me everything I know. I appreciate its value.”

“You don’t just mean the scars, do you?”

“No. I mean beaten in a consciousness sense. Beaten so low nothing is expected of you, and you don’t expect anything of yourself.”

“Where did you get the will to succeed?”

“Journalist.” He shook her foot. “I’m not your lab rat.”

She grimaced. “I know, but I can’t help wanting to understand how you did it.”

“You mean got out of the gutter,” gestured to the room, “and into the palace?”

She stood. Held out her hand. He let her led him into the lounge room. He sat beside her a minute then swung his legs up and stretched out, putting his head in her lap. Her hand went to his hair, like he hoped it might. But he knew the
quid pro quo
was a story.

“It’s not success when there’s nothing on the flipside.”

“I’m listening.”

“I had a choice. Make good or subsist. Success for most people is a flexible measure. You can stuff lots of definitions into it: a job, a better job, a home, a better home, one kid or three. All depends where you started from. For me it was either never be poor again or live on the dole forever.”

“Wait a minute. You just said, the measure of success was flexible and then gave me a rigid definition with extreme outcomes for yourself.”

“Like I said—inconsistent.”

She gave his hair a hard tug.

“I assume that answer didn’t come up to your impeccable standards of rationality.”

“You assume correct.”

He shook her hand off and sat up to face her. “It’s not rational. It’s just how it was for me.”

“And it’s still that way?”

“Baked in.” He reached for her hand and pulled her to him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a character out of an Ayn Rand book, making up my own perverse rules of natural order.”

She laughed and swung her leg across him so she straddled his lap.

“Don’t say it. You know I can read a book now. You’re the same anyway.”

“I am not.” She poked him in the chest. “We are not the same.”

“Oh, no? On anyone’s scale, you’d have to be considered a success. You’re independent, educated, you have a career you care about.”

“I’m paid a pittance and I have to fight for every decent by-line. I’m nowhere near where I want to be in my career.”

“You prove my case.”

“And how do I do that, lawyer?”

“By defining success as something beyond reasonable expectations—as something personal to you. As something you stretch the boundaries of your life for every day.”

“You’re a little too smart for your own good.”

“You forgot rich.”

She stroked a finger over his brow and he closed his eyes. She breathed in his ear, “I forget nothing.”

“Certainly not what sitting in my lap does to me.”

She rotated her pelvis, forward, back. Tease. “What does it do to you?”

He opened one eye. “I know you’re not stupid, woman.”

“I want you to tell me.”

“Because showing you isn’t enough?”

She laughed, a wanton sound, leaned forward to kiss him. Long and lush enough to make time stand still. He pulled her against his chest, pushed the robe off her shoulders. Her hands went for the tie on his. Her lips were at his neck. Her movements were feverish, while he felt drugged by her nearness, by the warmth and softness of her caresses. He had no inclination to move back to the bedroom, and she had every intention of keeping him right here. She abandoned his lap and slid to the carpet, doll eyes full of mischief, overflowing with carnal intent.

He pulled a strand of her hair, let it slide between his fingers. “I’m not sure I want you on your knees.”

“I don’t require your permission.”

He captured her hands before she could do anything lethal with them. “You do.”

She pulled free, wrapped the robe about her, stood up and put the coffee table between them. Disappointment spiked sharp though his body, though he had no right to it. She had her arms folded, the silk pulled firm across her breasts. Her nipples were tight beads. Ripe to taste again.

“You’re a control freak and I don’t like it.”

He shrugged. “It’s how I am. You knew that.”

“Not here. Not with me.”

“Just because the door’s closed, just because this isn’t the usual Saturday date night, it’s still the real world.”

“If this was the real world, I wouldn’t be here. I don’t let strangers buy me, fuck me.”

Hearing the obscenity from her mouth made him groan out loud. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to let go.”

“Baby, there isn’t anything being held back.” Except the one thing that would seal her opinion of him in a casket.

“Liar. You know how to give. God, you know how to give. You just don’t know how to give yourself.”

He sighed, this wasn’t fun. Her over there, wanting to debate him. Him over here on the defensive. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.”

She didn’t know what she was asking, but the look of determination on her face, the double knot in the belt of her robe, told him she was closed for business unless he changed the product on offer.

What would it be like to let go with her? Shoot his control full of holes and let instinct take over? Except his instinct veered towards aggression, and that was as unacceptable now as it had ever been. He didn’t trust himself not to hurt her. He’d promised not to.

“I can’t.”

“You expect me to believe that. You don’t want to.”

“You’re right. Wasn’t I enough for you?”

She softened, her shoulders dropping. “You’re the most generous lover I’ve ever had. But you don’t play fair.”

“You didn’t get the memo. Life’s not fair.”

“But in this room, with me, now—it could be. Just for a little while.”

He closed his eyes against the temptation, sank into the suede.

“I trust you.”

He barked a laugh, opened his eyes to find her standing in front of him. “You know I’m a liar and you think I’m a pirate. Why would you trust me?”

“Because of what we’ve already done. Because I know you too.”

“You only think—”

“Shut up.”

She said it with such force it surprised him into closing his mouth, swallowing the sentence.

“You’re a man who’s made his own world. A world of prestige and power out of raw materials most would have struggled to build anything with, and you brought your brother along for the ride. But to get where you are now was expensive. It cost you deeply. It made you controlling. It made you scared to let go.”

“It didn’t make me any—”

“Shut. Up.”

She was fierce now. All cat with claws.

“You read widely because you still think you have to catch up. You sleep with women you pay for because it’s a contract and the rules are clear. This, being here with me, it’s wildly out of the ordinary for you too.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m speculating. Am I wrong?”

She had her hands on her hips. The neck of the robe was slashed opened to her waist. It was getting harder and harder to hold out against her. “You hated telling me you that, didn’t you?”

She could drag admissions out of the devil. “I prefer a neat Scotch.”

“You hate the idea of letting go, maybe losing control.”

“I’d prefer you in my lap. Come here.”

“Don’t dodge the question.” She frowned at him. “I don’t want to be in your lap.”

“You want to be at my feet? I don’t understand.”

“I want to unravel you.”

He stood up. This had to stop now. “That’s not on the program.”

“Then the program’s wrong.”

She came at him and it occurred to him it might be sensible to back away. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to trust me.”

“It’s not about me trusting you.”

“What’s it about?”

This was ridiculous. He laughed. “Me not trusting me.”

She stood toe to toe with him. Shorter by a head. She held his gaze. “I dare you.”

“This isn’t some game. You’re playing with fire.”

“God I hope so.” She eye-rolled as though this was a mere irritant.

He stroked his hand down her hair, gripped the back of her neck. “I didn’t get scratched up because I’m a sweet loving person.”

“You’re telling me you’re a brawler.”

“And then some.”

“So you’re scared you might hit me?”

He recoiled, dropped his hold on her and stepped back. She wasn’t clever to keep pushing this. He’d cut his own arm off before he’d hit a woman, but there were oh so many other ways to hurt them.

“When’s the last time you hit someone?”

He had to think. He hadn’t hit anything in anger bigger than a squash ball in a very long time. “That’s not the point.”

“You truly think you might hurt me and that’s why you hold back.”

He nodded

“Truth?”

“Not a nice one.”

“Liar.”

She might have spat it at him, but she was laughing. Something shuddered loose in his chest. She was dangerous. And he wanted her so badly he was beginning not to care about playing nice. “You think you’re strong enough for me?”

She smiled. Her hands were at her waist, fingers on the knot of the robe. She got it undone and it slithered to the ground at her feet. Jesus Christ she was beautiful. Soft, luscious curves and creamy skin, so unlike his angular Chinese princesses. That dry ragged sound in the room was coming from him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Sit.”

He couldn’t move. But she did. Two strides towards him. She palmed him in the chest, he stepped back, the underside of his knees met the edge of the sofa, and he sat down. He’d give her the fun. Let her think she’d won. Her hands were warm and soft. Her lips on his ribs, floating lower, tracing his hipbone made him twitch. Then the light in his head went out when she closed a hand around the base of him and brought her mouth down on him. He saw shooting stars. His skin melted. His muscles burned. He didn’t understand this reaction. He never felt like this. He fisted her hair, to pull her away, to hold her there, he couldn’t decide. He couldn’t think. He felt a kind of panic. He pressed his feet into the carpet to stand, to grip onto the world as it spun too fast. She made a deep-throated groan and his stomach bottomed out like on a roller-coaster.

He pulled her hair, pulled her up. “Enough.”

She looked confused and he regretted the sharpness of his command immediately. She held up a hand and he took it in his, threaded their fingers together.

“This is for me,” she said.

He looked deep in her eyes and knew he’d give her anything, even if it meant giving himself up and he was lost and found and lost again.

When he came back to the world, they were on the floor. This suite had a custom-made bed and they were flopped on the carpet. He was bathed in sweat and she was sprawled across him. Her hair was wet, one hand was curled around his neck, the other held his arm. He had no idea how long they’d been there. He felt drunk, but he’d hardly had anything to drink. He felt clean, though he knew the next stop was going to be the bath.

He’d let her take control in a way he never had as an adult. Not with Jiao, not with the women before her. The fear was blinding, almost shutting him down, but she burned it away with her sure touch, her soft whispering, her innate responsiveness.

She was no courtesan. It wasn’t a practiced performance with a predictable, bankable outcome. She knocked his teeth, she bit too hard. She crashed against him and he loved it. The rawness of it, the power of it. She gave him her body and her heart, and she made him feel new.