Taking His Own

by Jessica Wildblood

  “Ha. You can tell?”

  “It’s obvious. But why wouldn’t she be?”

  So Zara doesn’t think I’m quite the waste of space she’d have me believe. A touch more progress. Every atom in my body is craving more. If I reached out just a few inches, my fingertips would brush the soft skin on her hand…

  But I won’t. Not yet. The thought of scaring her away is the only thing that stops me reaching out to reclaim those soft lips as my own. A memory of the taste of her calls to me across the void of ten lonely years. It’s sweet, honey-sweet as no woman has the right to be and no woman has ever been since, and now it’s sitting just a breath away from me in the car.

  We pull up to the side of the road and the driver gets out to open Zara’s door. “Bond Street,” he announces. The tall, white stone buildings rise into the sky around us, colourful flags announcing the names of each of the shops within: Cartier, Piaget, Chanel. Zara’s eyes widen as she steps out of the car.

  “You’re not coming with me?” she asks nervously. Now that she’s here, surrounded by the sophisticated spendaholics of London’s upper classes, she’s forgotten all about not taking up a minute of my time.

  “You show me what you pick up later,” I tell her, squashing down my fantasies of changing rooms in Agent Provocateur and scraps of black lace. “Wait – here you go.” I lean out of the car and hand her my platinum credit card. Zara almost drops it in shock.

  “Chance, I can’t –”

  “Have a great time.” I close the door on her protests. Behind her, Prisha Singh from the Singh’s of Bond Street shopping agency has recognised my car and is ready to greet her with a practised professionalism that I know is going to throw Zara for a loop. I’m almost sorry I’m not staying to see it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Zara

  The woman standing in front of me is polished in every sense of the word. Her nails shine a deep, glossy red. Her teeth gleam. Her hair glows. She looks as though she’s stepped straight from the pages of Vogue.

  I, on the other hand, am standing here in the jeans I wore yesterday on the plane. My hair’s been brushed, and that’s all I can say for it. I’m in a t-shirt, and I’m shivering. No make-up. I’m not a make-up kind of girl.

  This all leads me to believe that when Prisha sticks out her manicured hand and introduces herself with that great big gleaming smile, it surely must be fake. But I can’t help liking her anyway. She’s putting a hell of an effort into the act.

  “Let’s get you out of the cold,” she says. Her voice is every bit as plummy and polished as her patent leather heels, her fine wool coat, and the Fendi handbag under her arm. “Mr Madison informed us you’ve just arrived from Malaysia. How exciting! I love the beach, but I’m more often over in the Caribbean.”

  “I live there,” I say. No point disguising what I am. If this woman’s going to see my lumpy bum sticking out of the fancy clothes they sell in this part of town, she may as well know what she’s dealing with from the off. “I’m big into surfing.”

  Prisha’s eyes light up as if she’s really, genuinely enthralled. “What a dream.” She steers me expertly into a small boutique, beautifully furnished – I couldn’t even afford the light fittings in this place. Prisha whips the credit card out of my hand. A genuine smirk twists her mouth. “Let’s start with a haircut!”

  “Um… I think Chance just wanted to get me a coat,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Something warm for the cold weather?”

  “Oh, no, no.” Prisha shakes her head, whisking me off towards a back room and holding Chance’s card in front of us like the holy grail. “Mr Madison has entrusted me to fit you out with whatever I think is necessary for your new life in London. We only have three hours, so there’s very little time to waste. We’ll start with your hair –”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “It’s beautiful. What we can do here is make the most of it. After your haircut we’ll take you to the beauty salon for a manicure, a facial, and a makeover. I’ve chosen the best stylists and they should work quickly enough to give us time to pick out your wardrobe.”

  “Hold up.” I shake my head. This is difficult, as I’ve already been plumped down into a chair in front of a mirror and there’s a disapproving Italian woman pinning up my hair by the handful. “I don’t have space for loads of new clothes. I’m staying in my grandmother’s cottage. When she comes home I’ll be sleeping on the sofa.”

  Prisha blinks, taken aback for just a moment. But the flow of whatever force is impelling her onwards can’t be held back for long. She leans down to whisper conspiratorially in my ear. “I think you’re about to find out that a man like Mr Madison can take care of a lot more than your wardrobe, Miss Jacobs. If I were you I would sit back, relax, and let me take of everything.”

  Sit back. Relax. Go with the flow. I can’t deny I’m practised at that. It’s how I’ve lived my whole life. Suddenly, with Chance in the mix, it doesn’t feel right anymore.

  But what else am I supposed to do? Run away with his credit card? Abandon my Grandma to the hospital for god knows how long?

  I close my eyes and do what Prisha tells me.

  Two and a half hours later and my hair is falling in soft, feathery curls around my face. My eyebrows are plucked into sophisticated arches. My eyes have been lined and mascaraed – but not too much, I insisted. Chance never liked too much make-up on me, I tell the girl at the make-up counter. And I wonder why I remember that. And I wonder whether I’m using it as an excuse, or if I actually care.

  She leaves my lips bare. What do they think of me, Prisha and the hairdresser and the make-up artist, who service rich women – bankers’ wives and lawyers and movie stars – all day long? Do they think I’m buying something from Chance, me in my scruffy jeans with my unsophisticated ways? What do they think I have to sell?

  Is that what Chance thinks is going on here? He’s doing a lot for my family. What does he want in return?

  Now I’m standing in front of a mirror in my underwear. I’ve grown used to Prisha’s eyes on my body – it’s not really any different to wearing a bikini. And what I’ve got on is far from sexy. Plain black bra and cotton panties to match. It’s been a long while since I’ve had anyone to dress up for in that way.

  There’s a neat pile of clothes in the buy pile that’s growing ever larger, and more in bags standing around Prisha’s feet. I’ve tried to keep my head, but Prisha has an astonishing eye for what suits my figure and she’s very hard to say no to. Grandma’s going to flip when she sees all this. Half of them will go straight to the charity shop – but deciding which half is going to be difficult.

  Such beautiful clothes – soft cashmere jumpers to ward away the cold, in colours that make my skin glow. Shirts that hug my waist and make my skinny, boyish chest look like it’s actually got some curves. Skirts that whisper around my ankles, kicking over my hips like a dream. I never realised that cut and fabric and cost mattered so much.

  Now Prisha is holding out a dress. A beautiful dress, yes. A totally elegant, floor-length, slit-to-the-thigh, opulently purple evening gown.

  There’s no way I’m putting that on. Putting it on could mean falling in love.

  “When am I ever going to wear a thing like that?” I demand, hugging the latest in a series of soft and gorgeous jumpers to my half-naked body.

  “This evening,” says Prisha matter-of-factly.

  “What?”

  “Mr Madison informed me you have a dinner date at Le Cygne Céleste. I’ve never been there myself, but I’m well aware of the dress code – believe me. You’ll need to be suitably attired.”

  “A date? With who?”

  Prisha’s mouth wrinkles into a tight little ball. I realise she’s desperately trying not to laugh at me.

  “Mr Madison must have been mistaken,” I say coldly. Like hell does he think he can sideways-wrangle me into a date like this. Even at the Celestial whatever. Even if Prisha’s eyes glimmer with jealousy at the very thou
ght.

  “Please, just try it on,” she urges me. “This will look perfect on you. I know it. You have such an athletic body. It’s just exactly right.”

  I relent, grudgingly. If only because I can see that Prisha takes a genuine pride in her work. And transforming me from grimy, jetlagged surfer into celestial swan must be a hell of a lot more satisfying than adding a touch of extra glam to the hordes of pre-primped women who drift through Bond Street every day.

  As I pull the dress over my head I feel something go click inside me. The fabric’s cool against my skin. I just know, even before I look in the mirror, that Prisha’s done it again. It’s going to be perfect.

  But even I’m not prepared for the glamorous stranger looking out from what used to be my face.

  I look…amazing. I honestly do. I can’t stop staring at myself, turning around to examine my body from every angle. The way the fabric falls in a waterfall, revealing a deep triangle of my tanned back. The way it hugs my bum without making it look lumpy or obscene. I look plump in the right places, flat and smooth in others.

  Oh god, I never want to take this dress off.

  Prisha’s pressing a finger to her lips, nodding thoughtfully. “Shoes,” she murmurs. “Black. Strappy. Can you walk in heels?”

  I shake my head. Prisha glances down at her watch. “You have twenty minutes to learn.”

  It’s only later, sitting in the car while Chance’s driver weaves in and out of the London traffic, that I ease open the bag and stroke a corner of the dress and finally realise.

  That shade of purple.

  I know that shade of purple.

  It reminds me of that one night I can never forget as long as I live. No matter how hard I try.

  I lost my virginity wearing that rich, dark purple. A colour much too adult for the young girl I was. For the first time in years, the memory makes me smile.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Chance

  When I get back to the office, my secretary, Clarissa, is waiting for me with a heavy file and her foot tapping suspiciously against her desk.

  “These are the profiles the nursing agency sent over. I’ve had them printed out for you to take a look,” she says. There’s a furrow in her forehead that tells me she’s got multiple questions about my sudden interest in care for the elderly, so I take steps to hurry her out of the door.

  “What are you still doing here? I thought you were only on mornings this week.” Ever since she married my brother last year, Clarissa’s had no real need to work another day in her life. But she’s not the type to sit around doing nothing but enjoy her husband’s money. And before she arrived on the scene, my team of computer technicians were a disorganised bunch of mad professor types. Now, we’re still disorganised and prone to getting distracted by the latest piece of tech or shiny object – but Clarissa sees us as the slick, mean, programming machines we aspire to be, and we all want to keep her happy. She rules the roost around here with a rigid filing system and a gentle thumb. I’m glad she’s decided to stick around, even if it’s only part time.

  “Haven’t I met all your old friends?” she asks, sitting herself down at the chair opposite mine. She’s going nowhere till she gets answers. “Who’s got the sick grandma? James and I ought to send a card.”

  I wonder how much James has told her about my history with Zara. Knowing him, it’s everything. James doesn’t hold anything back from his wife. I can’t risk him finding out about Zara at this delicate stage. He tends to take more of a sledgehammer approach to life. And lord knows, he won’t be happy about this.

  “It’s Mariam Jacobs,” I say. “She’s an old school friend. They don’t have the money to pay for home care. Come on, Clarissa, it’s a sick old lady – what am I supposed to do?”

  Clarissa softens. A wry smile twists her cheek. “You’re too good, you know that?”

  “It’s my worst failing.” Shit. I feel terrible for lying to her. Even if it’s only by omission.

  Clarissa gets up, and my eyes drift to the slight curve of her stomach underneath her loose work dress. Loose-fitting isn’t her usual style. I haven’t asked, of course, and she hasn’t told me. But I’m pretty certain that I’m going to be an uncle again before long. Looks like I’m not the only one around here keeping a little secret.

  “I’ve had housekeeping send over a suit for you,” she says, unhanging it from the hook on the back of the door. “The boys want you to have a look at those bugs in the Mackenzie system.”

  I groan. That’ll take me a solid few hours to work through. “Anything else?”

  “A skype meeting with Martin King at two – hence the suit. Unless you want me to have James speak to him?”

  “No, no. I’ll handle it.” So far James has been surprised that I want to invest in a Malaysian property developer, but not overly interested. I want to give him as little to think about as possible. “I won’t be staying late tonight, Clarissa. Let the team know in case anything comes up.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Got a hot date?”

  I wink. Clarissa groans. “I knew it. Is it this Mariam girl? Chance, that’s awful. You can’t take advantage of someone in a situation like that.”

  “It’s not Mariam. It’s her little sister. And I’m rather hoping she’ll be the one taking advantage of me.’ I can’t help grinning. ‘I know, Clarissa. Isn’t it awful? This billionaire playboy lifestyle. Next thing you know, I’ll be screwing the staff.”

  She just about restrains herself from chucking something at my head before she leaves me to change into my suit.

  Zara appears bang on the dot of half two, poured into a brand new pair of tight black jeans and wearing a loose turquoise cashmere jumper that slides invitingly off one shoulder. I resist the urge to trace my finger along the delicate edge of her collarbone. Instead, I enjoy the expression on her face as my receptionist takes her coat – also new, and Prisha chose well, the cut’s incredibly flattering on her – and Zara looks around at my office with its tall ceilings, the lift with its glass doors, the view from so many storeys above the busy streets of London.

  “You work here?” she gasps. I chuckle.

  “We own the building. Come on through to my office. Would you like a coffee?”

  “Tea, please.”

  “Two sugars,” I tell the receptionist. Zara’s lips fall slightly open.

  “How do you –”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s only a drinks preference. I have the kind of memory that keeps hold of things. Come on in, take a seat.”

  Clarissa’s done well. The nurses we interview are all professional, well-presented, well-spoken women with the highest qualifications. I keep my eyes on Zara and let her do the questioning, only interjecting when I think I can make her smile. I track the minute changes of expression on her face, trying to see which nurses she likes the most. Eventually, of the eight the agency sends us, we settle on one night nurse and one for the day. Both are warm, friendly women, with easy manners and matter-of-fact answers. I think they’ll get on with Christine very well.

  When it’s over, Zara leans back in her chair. She looks more relieved than I thought she would. It’s as if she’s been carrying a huge weight around for days. Now that it’s gone she’s pleased, but still tired. I’m concerned, but she shoots me one of her rare lightning smiles.

  “That was good. I’m glad we did it. Thank you.”

  “Holy shit. Did I just get thanked by Zara Jacobs?’ I reach for my phone. ‘I ought to call the papers.”

  Her shoulders convulse. She’s holding back a gale of laughter. “You look so weird swearing in your posh businessman suit. Look at you. You ought to talk like a rich guy.”

  “Oh? How does a rich guy talk?”

  “Well, not like some kid I met at Mayhew Sixth Form. You’re exactly the same, Chance. And it’s all wrong. You shouldn’t be.” But she’s smiling. She likes it.

  She liked me, back then. Up to a point, anyway. I can work with this.

&
nbsp; “We have dinner reservations in an hour,” I tell her. “There’s a room just down the corridor where you can get changed.”

  “Yes, Prisha told me about dinner. What exactly makes you think I’ll come out to a fancy restaurant with you?” She tosses her hair proudly. “I might have other plans.”

  “I can top them.” My heart stops in its tracks at the thought that she might say no. But I keep my tone light. And I see another piece of the Zara Jacobs iceberg melt away.

  “Ok. Just dinner. It’d be nice to catch up.”

  One more piece clicks into place.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Chance

  Le Cygne Céleste is the kind of place powerful men show up to in tuxedos. Where beautiful women sip cocktails out of crystal glasses and talk about idle nothings while their husbands cut business deals worth billions. It’s far from my usual weekday haunt. I’ll admit it: I threw around all the weight of my fortune to get us a last-minute table tonight. I want Zara to be impressed.

  No. I want her overwhelmed.

  That’s the only way to keep us on an equal footing.

  When she comes out of the changing room she’s wearing the most exquisite piece of silk I’ve ever seen draped over the human body, a pair of killer black heels, and a smirk that tells me she knows exactly how I’m going to react.

  Which is with complete fucking awe and a hard-on that I can barely contain.

  The dress clings to her in all the right places, hangs low down her back, reveals the silky skin of her gorgeous thighs. It’s not quite as much of Zara as I saw in her bikini, but somehow having it only partially revealed makes me want her all the more. I’m practically salivating at the thought of undressing her.

  There’s something about the way that deep purple glows against her skin which stirs a hidden memory at the back of my mind. I’m picturing Zara’s face, beautifully contorted in the throes of passion as my cock drives into her again and again. It’s an image I can’t get out of my head.