Unbound (15 page)

It’s not till I am swinging my legs out of the bed decisively and standing up that I notice I feel astonishingly good. After yesterday’s drinking session, I ought to be feeling pretty bad and my head should be throbbing. I feel a bit weak, my mouth is dry, and I’m a bit unsteady on my feet. But I’m still surprised it isn’t much worse.

The pajama top I’m wearing almost reaches my knees and is more like a nightgown. I’ve still got my panties on; Jonathan didn’t take those off then.

I hurry into the adjoining bathroom—I need to take a look in the mirror before I venture out—and I’m amazed to see how luxurious its fittings are: all black, with a gigantic glassed-in shower cubicle and a tub which two people could lie in together. But my astonishment changes to horror when I see myself in the mirror above the curved designer sink: my hair is a total mess and my mascara is smeared, making my eyes look sticky and ringed with black. I wash my face quickly and and fix my hair as best I can. Then I drink from the tap because I’m suddenly terribly thirsty, and rinse out my mouth. Only then do I go back to the room.

But instead of heading for the door, I take a slight detour to the window to look outside and get my bearings. It’s definitely one of the city’s wealthier neighborhoods, so I probably really am in Knightsbridge. There’s a small park with mature trees and a high hedge directly opposite. The townhouses, which surround it on all sides, have well-maintained facades—a sign of wealth. The balconies and entranceways by the front doors are mostly enclosed by iron gratings, painted black, and contain potted trees, shrubs, and even palms.

The house I find myself in is the only one in the street with a gleaming white facade, which is also slightly curved and decorated with plaster, so that it stands out. The various round trees in their terracotta pots arranged in front of the entrance set it off even more, making it seem really special. If this really is Jonathan’s house, I think, it suits him very much.

I take a deep breath of air and, as I inhale, I feel a hollow sensation in my chest, which is almost painful. Then I turn to the door, ready for whatever awaits me on the other side. First there’s just a broad hallway, lined in the same dark wood as the bedroom. Another few doors lead off from it, but I head for the staircase with the modern metal handrail that leads downstairs. One story down and I’m standing in a generous living area, which is more like a suite of rooms, because there is a further, equally large room leading off from the one I’m in and, behind a translucent white curtain, I recognize the metal bars of a balcony.

Both rooms are modern and very tastefully decorated, with couches and armchairs in harmonious light brown colors, matching dressers and bookshelves, and a minimalist, very expensive-looking TV set without a single cable in sight, which blends in seamlessly with the rest of the room. High-quality carpets cover the floor and it all forms one integrated whole, as if an interior designer who knew what he was doing had been at work here.

But the most striking elements are the pictures and works of art. Each wall is hung with expressive modern paintings in saturated colors that immediately attract the eye. And there are large and small sculpture arrangements, made of interesting materials, all over on the shelves and the floor. Fascinated, I run my fingers over a life-sized artwork right next to me, made of iron filigree welded together into fan-like shapes. Jonathan obviously doesn’t just support art; he owns it too.

But something’s funny, I think. Annie had accused me of having garnered too much information from watching movies about the English aristocracy, and perhaps I have—but I would have expected a future earl to own some antiques. A lot of antiques, even. Family heirlooms. But there’s nothing of the kind anywhere to be seen, except in the adjoining room, which contains an antique piano made of carefully polished brown wood with fold-out brass candle holders in front, and that really looks like an anachronism here. Suddenly I hear a loud clatter, which makes me jump.

Someone curses, and I recognize Jonathan’s voice. It’s coming from the floor below me, the source of a very tempting smell of fried bacon. So I follow the staircase down and have to stop dead in surprise again to look around me at the dining room, which contains a long, heavy, stone table with decorated edges. Its high-backed chairs provide seating for at least ten people. The same kinds of artworks I admired upstairs decorate the walls and corners here, too.

My bare feet make no sound against the wooden floor as I head past the table to a narrow gangway that seems to lead to the kitchen. The kitchen is large and cool, too, and quite different from the one in the Islington apartment. There’s a gray expanse of gleaming, state-of-the-art kitchen cabinets—which, together with the pale, marble countertop, create an elegant, minimalist impression. The appliances have stainless steel paneling with no visible buttons, which makes them look very simple and clean. There is a contrasting, narrow, stone table placed like an island between the two walls of high-tech kitchen equipment. It’s similar to the one in the adjoining room, just much smaller. There are four chairs around it, with high, curved seatbacks that make them look like miniature wing chairs. They’re upholstered in gray velvet, providing the otherwise cool room with a certain warmth. I’m still standing in the gangway observing Jonathan, who’s standing at the stove with his back to me. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants, which must be from some designer label, with a faded-looking t-shirt that doesn’t really go with them, making him look extremely casual. He looks almost alien in that immaculately designed room.

But he feels at home here, you can tell from the ease of his movements, the way he handles the stove, wipes something up with a cloth and then throws it at the sink, slightly further away, with perfect aim, while with his other hand, he shakes the pan in which the hissing bacon is frying. A moment later, he uses a spatula to stir the scrambled eggs, which are beginning to set in a different pan.

He can cook, I think, realizing that I really hadn’t been expecting that. We’ve been out to eat so many times in the last two weeks that I assumed this was his only way of feeding himself. And that, when he’s home, he has staff to deal with his every request.

After all, he’s not only rich but also titled, and must have been used to having a butler and cooks since childhood. However, we are clearly alone in the house.

Appearances can be deceiving, I think.

Then it occurs to me that, despite the appearance of routine, his movements have a hectic quality, as if he isn’t really focused on what he’s doing. And he’s obviously had an accident, because when he turns to the side slightly I see fat spattered on the front of his t-shirt. He seems to have only just noticed it himself, because he stops short when he sees it.

Then he turns around, pushing his t-shirt up, and pulling it impatiently over his head. While it’s still covering his lower arms and he’s about to slip it off completely, he spots me and stops mid-movement, staring at me in a way that makes me go hot and cold. I’m almost expecting him to pull his t-shirt back on but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes it all the way off his arms. And then he hangs it on the back of a kitchen chair.

“Good morning.” He says it calmly and not as angrily as I was expecting, but his face remains serious, without the slightest trace of a smile.

My mouth is so dry I can’t answer, because my eyes are fixed not on his face but on his naked torso. His broad chest is hairless and muscular but not in an exaggerated way like a bodybuilder’s. Just enough that every part of him is clearly defined beneath his skin; the slight curve of his biceps, his broad, flat pecs, and the folds of his six pack, which disappears into his pajama pants. His skin isn’t as pale as mine; it has the olive tint typical of brunettes, and now so much of it is visible it forms an even more striking contrast to the pale, bright blue eyes, which are still staring at me.

“Good …morning.” I force it out with difficulty, because I notice he’s still waiting for an answer.

There is a loud hissing from the pan, which breaks the tension building up between us. Jonathan breaks eye contact, and turns back around to flip the bacon.

“Are you hungry?” he asks over his shoulder. I nod, although it’s not true, and sink into one of the chairs. I probably won’t be able to swallow a single bite but I don’t want to disappoint him.

Shortly afterwards, there’s a plate of steaming English breakfast in front of me. It smells delicious. But I’m really not hungry.

Jonathan sits down next to me at the table. He’s just staring at his plate too and doesn’t pick up the silverware lying next to it. Then he looks at me again.

“How’s your head?”

I put one hand to my temples and smile wryly.

“Surprisingly good. I …I really thought I would feel much worse.” I’m embarrassed to talk about the state I was in yesterday. “But it’s OK.”

“The headache pill obviously worked then.”

“What pill?” I look at him, confused. I don’t remember that. “Did you give me one?”

He twists his mouth into an ambiguous smile. “More or less. I dissolved it in water and made you drink it as a prophylactic. I always take one when I’ve had too much to drink.” He says it calmly, so I can’t tell whether he finds the situation uncomfortable or not. “You don’t remember?”

I shake my head, embarrassed, and we look at each other again, paying no attention to our food.

“Why didn’t you take me home?” I ask him, to break the silence.

“I wanted to. You didn’t have a key with you.”

“You could have rung the bell.”

“The house was in complete darkness.”

“But perhaps one of the others was there anyway and would have opened the door.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Do you expect me to apologise for not having simply dumped you at your front door and left you alone in the state you were in?”

“No, of course not,” I answer timidly. “I …wish I hadn’t made you go to so much trouble.”

He stands up abruptly and goes back to the oven, as if he wanted to increase the distance between us. He leans a hip against it and crosses his arms over his naked chest, which still makes me terribly nervous. I quickly lower my gaze and suddenly notice that the pattern of my shirt matches that of his pants. I’m wearing the matching top that goes with his pajama pants!

He notices my look and interprets it correctly.

“I had to put something on you. The pyjamas had just been washed and were lying in the closet. And, for the sake of simplicity …” He gestures at his pants.

“Then you …undressed me?” I know it must have been him, since there seems to be no one else here except us two, but I want to know for sure.

He nods and I swallow at the thought of his hands pushing up my dress and unfastening my bra. Why didn’t I notice?

“And where did you sleep?” When I got up, I saw an impression on the other side of the bed, as if someone had been lying there. But perhaps I just rolled over in the night.

Jonathan pushes his hair out of his eyes. “The house has three bedrooms,” he explains.

I look at the floor. Of course a house this big has more than one bedroom. And why would Jonathan Huntington lie down next to his drunken employee?

“I did spend part of the night with you, however,” he qualifies and my head shoots up again.

“What?” The shock at his words resonates through me. “Why?”

“You weren’t very well.”

Actually now I remember lying there on the wide bed groaning, while everything around me was spinning. And how nauseated I felt. Suddenly it all makes sense. “That’s why you gave me the pill.” It’s a statement, and he nods.

“Did I …puke?” I look at him uneasily. If he says yes I think I will want the earth to swallow me up from shame. But he just smiles slightly.

“No.”

“Good.” I breathe a sigh of relief.

The smile on his face disappears again. The tension in the air between us is almost unbearable. It’s making my heartbeat wildly.

“Are you going to let me go now?” I ask him, gingerly.

To my great relief, he shakes his head. “I only have personal dealings with Richard, not professional dealings. So, while your performance was very embarrassing, it won’t affect business.”

For a moment, I wonder why he invited me to the dinner in the first place if it was a private rather than a business meeting. But then I realize that the dinner itself and the way I behaved are not my biggest problems.

“And what about what happened afterwards?”

I know he knows what I mean. I can see it in his face. My stomach cramps up and my breath falters as I wait for his answer.

It takes a long time for him to say anything and, when he does, his voice sounds extremely composed.

“Nothing happened which would justify asking you to leave.”

I breathe out again heavily.

“No,” I say, and add silently, unfortunately. But I can’t suppress a sigh as I examine the beautifully formed muscles in his arms, which are still folded across his chest.

“Damn it, Grace.” He’s right there next to me again, so fast that I jump in surprise. He grabs my wrists and he pulls me out of my chair, which falls sideways and lands on the floor with a crash, pushes me backwards until I’m standing with my back against the stainless steel door of the big fridge. My arms are trapped above my head; his hands are encircling them with an iron grip. He’s very close to me but our bodies aren’t touching.

“Have you any idea how seductive you are with your red hair, your porcelain skin, and those big green eyes which can look at someone so innocently that it makes them want to grab you and pull you into the nearest bedroom right away? No wonder …”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He lets go of my arms and takes a step backward.

“No wonder what?” I ask uncertainly, rubbing my wrists.

I say it in a whisper.

He shakes his head reluctantly. “Nothing.”

He turns away, but he’s still standing so close to me that I can touch him. I carefully reach out my hand and place it on his back, caressing his skin. I can’t help it.

“Jonathan?”