Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Those images turned me the fuck on.’ His head bent, his words are raspy hot breath against the skin of my neck. ‘Let’s table what it all means for a discussion some other place. Like your bed.’

  ‘I like your thinking,’ I whisper in response, my body moving seamlessly with his. I should’ve known he’d be a fabulous dancer on account of all the moves he has between the sheets.

  ‘That would mean letting the pussy out of the bag, which,’ he responds, ‘for the record, I’m in favour of.’ It must be obvious I’m missing his point as he says. ‘Rory’s place still looks like a bomb site.’

  ‘So he’s staying with Fin?’

  ‘Yep. Unless you have some other plan?’

  My heart sinks to my stomach. ‘No, and I’m working tomorrow.’

  ‘Sunday?’ he growls.

  ‘I’m going to the christening; flying up to Scotland on Saturday evening.’

  Kit hisses a curse. ‘This would be Fin’s friend, Ivy, and the movie star? That’s this weekend? Do you have to go?’

  ‘To a christening in a castle with its own church and moat?’ Of course, I’m going! Weren’t you invited?’ I find my smile slipping, desperately wondering if I can get him added to the invitation list.

  ‘I have an invite. I met Dylan Duffy at the last hotel we opened. He’s a good bloke, actually. I just hadn’t planned to go. My PA made sure the wee one got a gift.’

  ‘You should come,’ I say immediately, and his mouth curls in a sexy smirk.

  ‘I plan to,’ he replies suggestively. ‘It just looks like I’d be doing so in my hand tonight.’

  ‘Come on; it’ll be fun. I’ll make sure it is . . . ’

  ‘And stay in the castle with Rory and all your friends? What I have planned for you is going to take some time, darlin’. Stone walls might muffle the noise of your ecstasy, but next time I get you into bed, we’re staying there for some time.’ His eyes gleam with suggestion and sex as he adds, ‘They’d send out search parties.’

  My heart begins to race at the possibilities, the pictures his words paint.

  ‘You should definitely come,’ I say quickly, though he smirks again. ‘We can stay somewhere else, and being there together will be our statement. Fin will be so busy with Ivy and the baby, and Rory—’ Oh, hell, Rory. What about him? ‘What will he say?’

  ‘I’m almost sure you’re saying something of note, but it’s hard to concentrate when your nipples are waving at me.’

  I look down and quickly back. ‘They are not. Be sensible; Rory!’

  ‘Two words that should never be said in the same breath,’ he grumbles. ‘Rory will be fine. Surprised, but okay. He knows I’ve been with women before; he’s just under the impression it’s one or the other and that I prefer men.’

  ‘And you don’t . . .?’

  ‘I prefer you,’ he growls.

  In a moment of madness and a spike of courage, words shoot from my mouth. ‘Would you be interested in men with me sometime?’

  Kit throws back his head and groans so beautifully. ‘Now I really can’t concentrate on account of all the blood flowing from my big head to my little head.’

  ‘It’s hard to tell which is which,’ I say with a giggle. ‘But I think I’d like to. With you, I mean.’ As we dance just out of Fin and Rory’s gaze, I lift to my toes, placing my mouth against his neck. I feel him swallow under my lips, his arm feeding around my back and pulling me to him.

  ‘I heard you were bringing someone tonight,’ I whisper against his skin. ‘I didn’t like it.’

  ‘So you thought you’d torture me just now?’ His tone borders on sardonic, one questioning eyebrow raised. As I lick his neck, he curses, murmuring something that seems to accuse me of having sadistic leanings.

  I lick my lips, a motion he doesn’t miss. ‘After the night at the hotel, I had it in mind to proposition you.’

  ‘That sounds better,’ he purrs. ‘Go on; I’m all ears.’

  ‘I was going to offer you myself. An arrangement, sort of.’

  ‘You were interested in a fling?’ His hand tightens on my waist, heat burning through my boring dress.

  ‘I was thinking more of a . . .’ My brow creases, hesitant now to say the words. ‘A sort of set date for sex thing.’

  ‘You wanted to use me for my body?’ I wince, his chest moving under my hand as he laughs. ‘And in your mind, were we syncing our calendars tonight?’

  ‘Don’t tease,’ I mumble. ‘It’s not nice.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I find I want something I’d never considered.’

  ‘At the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, ouch.’

  ‘I’d never considered it because I never foresaw us as a possibility. I really didn’t think you were that sort of interested in me.’

  ‘Not in the café, or hotel? Not when I had my fingers between your legs? I’m not some kind of sex fiend. I do have to like the people I fuck.’

  ‘And you like me.’ My voice seems small.

  ‘More than you seem to appreciate. I don’t know how to put it any plainer than to tell you thoughts of you fill my fucking head. I can’t work for thinking of you. When I’m at home, I wonder what you’re doing. I’m driven mad by the need to know you—obsessed with knowing your real name!’

  ‘It’s really not that interesting,’ I answer, laughing. ‘You’re going to be so disappointed.’

  His hands tighten again as he says, ‘Never. I’m interested in everything about you.’

  I feel so dizzy—so deliriously happy. I feel like I never want this dance to end.

  ‘So we’re going to date?’

  ‘It would never have worked.’ My heart misses a beat, starting again as he qualifies his statement. ‘Casual sex wouldn’t have been enough for us.’

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ As Kit continues to twirl me around the dance floor, I let my eyes glide to Fin. She’s still watching, though pretending not to. Goodness knows what she’s making of this.

  ‘We tell them.’

  ‘But not tonight.’

  ‘You think you’re fooling her?’ Kit follows the direction of my gaze.

  ‘No, just keeping you all to myself for one more night.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  BEA

  Saturday I’m back at the hospital, though my mind is anywhere but here. I can’t ever remember feeling as distracted as I do today. But it’s a good thing. I mean, I’m not so unfocused I’m threatening lives.

  I’m just . . . a little love-struck and teenager-y. Which is a very new sensation for me. Maybe I’m dick drunk? But I don’t think so. The sex is great, and Natasha was absolutely right about bisexuals because Kit is like the sexual unicorn personified. Without the whole horse thing, unless we’re talking about him being hung.

  Truthfully, I think the appeal has less to do with Kit being bisexual and more to do with him just being him.

  As in, as dirty as all get-out.

  No clinics are held on Saturday, and while it sometimes sucks to work weekends—especially when your friends have already left for Scotland for tomorrow’s christening and movie star schmooze—the day is usually a little quieter. So much so that, when one o’clock rolls around, I’m able to grab some lunch in the staff restaurant.

  Management says restaurant. I ask, where is this place?

  It’s definitely more of a canteen than anything.

  I queue, pay for my sandwich, a bottle of water, and a slice of pre-packaged carrot cake, and then head off to find a secluded table to eat and scroll through my phone. Because no one wants to be overlooked during their Rumblr perve. As I make my way to a table by the window, I swipe an abandoned newspaper from one of the tables I pass, wondering how often Kit or Rory get pap’d.

  Rather them than me, I think.

  I eat and I scroll, making a few mental substitutions for Kit’s face in a couple of the GIFs, and then, as I’ve a few minutes left, I flip open the paper for a quick read.

  I
ck. The newspaper might be a cast-off rather than one I’ve bought, but even I have better taste than this tacky tabloid. Had I realised it was from one of the country’s most inflammatory presses, I’d have been more inclined to leave it or pick it up and chuck it in the bin. Not interested in the rubbish a rag like this prints, I decide to get back to work.

  The chair grates against the floor as I push it back, gathering my trash. I flip the newspaper closed then quickly open it again. Something about the photograph under a screaming headline stood out.

  The image is of a man in a suit coming out of an elegant building, clearly shocked by both the flash of the camera and the presence of a tabloid reporter.

  He’s not draped in women dressed like prostitutes and doesn’t appear to have a bag full of kittens to throw into the Thames. So it’s not immediately clear why the headline screams The Right Dishonourable!

  Until the familiar setting and the text all fall into place.

  MP Member of Exclusive SEX CLUB! reads the subheading.

  In the big splashy front page pic, the he in question—apparently a British Member of Parliament—looks horrified. And well he should; he promotes himself as an upstanding family man and is apparently calling for a government crackdown on what he terms as ‘Britain’s degeneration into vice’. At least, according to the article. As well as horrified, he also looks pretty horrific, the bright camera flash shining off his balding pate, and his mouth open in a silent threat.

  Front page news that might mean something to those interested in the lives of others or perhaps the government, but for me, it’s not the article or the headlines that grab my attention.

  Just the building. One I recognise, at least from the outside.

  The uniformed sash windows. The black front door with the gleaming brass letterbox, and the tall bay tree sentries. The same club I saw Kit leaving the morning I almost punched him.

  Despite feeling icky about reading this awful rag, the tenuous connection I have to this story urges me to continue reading. After scanning the tiny column of text—most of the page taken by photographs and the headlines—I turn the page to a double page feature spread. It’s littered with photographs that appear to have been taken without any of the subjects’ notice. A married couple who present a breakfast show, an actor or two, and other persons of note, all coming or going from the building I recognise. With a small jolt, I notice an image in the bottom left hand corner is of Kit Tremaine.

  The picture was definitely taken without his knowledge and during the evening, though it’s hard to tell if he’s leaving or arriving as he stands with one hand on the door and the other on a woman’s ass. It’s captioned as Kit Tremaine, Playboy Hotelier Plays. It’s very unlike how he was described in the article I read the other day. That the woman isn’t me is . . . okay. I’m not keen on the whole “playboy” thing, but it’s not like he was created for me last week, totally fuckable but virginal and unused. There were women before me. And men. All totally cool, except . . . he’s wearing the same suit as he wore last night.

  And he was as hard as a rock when we parted ways.

  That doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. A man doesn’t say he can’t function daily for thoughts of you—doesn’t ask if he can keep you—and then go fuck at a sex club the same day. Night? Because, in this picture, he must be fucking, or at least about to, by the way his hand is placed.

  His body language is so territorial and something I understand because I feel . . . angry. Irrationally betrayed. And a little bit sick as I scan the text for further clues.

  The club, rumoured to be called the Den, is owned by a wealthy property developer by the name of Daniel Masters. Ken Pritchard, member for Ross under Lyme, was photographed leaving the building at 1am this morning. Mr Pritchard was unavailable for comment at his constituency this morning . . . blah-blah-blah.

  Membership fees are rumoured to be in the tens of thousands and include a cover charge for kinky shows, orgies, and the use of exclusive themed rooms. More blah.

  When contacted, Mr Master’s office declined to comment. Hardly surprising.

  So many famous and wealthy clients, proven by the photographs taken over just . . . one twenty-four-hour period.

  He was there.

  Kit was there last night after leaving me.

  My beef sandwich turns to a lead weight in my stomach. I swallow strongly against the idea of its reappearance, doing what I can to shut my emotions down.

  I carefully fold the newspaper closed, the sheer force of my own will preventing me from breaking down. I glance at my watch and calculate how much longer I have to be here at work. It doesn’t do to see the doctor crying, even if she feels like her heart has been dropped from a great height.

  Fin is, of course, in Scotland when I get home. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.

  Could this be over before it has even begun?

  Why am I hurting? How come it was so easy to let go of Jon, yet Kit’s words feel like they’ve pried open my chest? This is exactly why I should be stronger, why I should avoid relationships. I should’ve gotten in my keep-it-casual proposal first . . . and I really am an idiot if I believe that would’ve kept my heart from his reach.

  Less that twenty hours ago, he asked if he could keep me. Could he truly have gone to the club to fuck someone else? Could those words have meant so little to him?

  God, I feel like such an idiot.

  ‘I’m tired of feeling like this,’ I say to the empty flat. Only this doesn’t feel like last time—like Jon. I mean. I feel . . . sad, not angry. My pride isn’t hurt. I hurt!

  I want to feel angry—it was so much easier to deal with.

  ‘I’m tired of being taken for an idiot.’

  But I’m not an idiot. Maybe I’m just someone who keeps falling for utter pricks.

  I spend the whole evening wondering if he’s seen it. Is he waiting for my call so he can sell me more pretty lies? Maybe he thinks such a tabloid rag is beneath me and that I’ll never see? Or that news doesn’t carry through the concrete walls of a hospital?

  Will he choose to tread the same path as Jon with clichéd denials?

  Or maybe there’s a better explanation. And maybe if I called him, I could find out.

  But I don’t want to call him. I don’t want to listen to him as I endured Jon. The voicemails, apologies, and excuses delivered so reasonably.

  I want to watch his eyes—his face—as he explains.

  I just want to know I can trust myself to trust him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  KIT

  I catch a flight to Edinburgh on Saturday and collect the truck from the airport. Rory has teased me mercilessly about the Ford F-150 I keep in Scotland, suggesting it’s some kind of phallic declaration, which seems to imply I have a small dick.

  But since we both know that’s not true, I let it slide.

  The truck, now renamed the beast, thanks to Rory, was an impulse buy and so impractical. I can’t get a parking spot for the size of it, and it’s murder on the wee country roads. I’m beginning to think I hold onto it just because it gets up Rory’s nose.

  The drive to Tremaine House, our latest acquired hotel, is uneventful. The weather is dry and bright, though the kind of brass monkeys cold that only Scotland knows because spring is always late to this part of the world.

  The big hoose, as the locals call the hotel, should have some meaning to us. It is, after all, our father’s ancestral seat. Not that it came to us. The auld twat left almost everything to a local greyhound charity when he died.

  Kit and I were his bastards, our mother his bit on the side. Seems he kept her hanging on by saying he couldn’t leave his disabled wife. When our mother died in a car accident, he wouldn’t take us in, but when his wife died, strangely enough, he came grovelling.

  It was too little too late, and far too easy for two ballin’ lads to tell him to get fucked. So I hate this place and loathe the thought of being here tonight.

 
But I am looking forward to shagging Bea all over the grounds.

  When Tremaine House came up for sale, I wanted nothing to do with the place. But Rory’s a hothead. Emotional. Said it should be ours by right, and that we should buy it and do with it whatever we liked.

  Of course, what he wanted to do was knock it to the ground until I pointed out it would spoil the gardens our mother designed while she worked there. It’s also heritage listed, so knocking it down wouldn’t have been all right. Because Rory felt so strongly, or in other words, got his knickers in a knot, we picked it up at auction then set about turning it into a boutique hotel with the most outlandish décor. I’m certain the sperm donor is now spinning in his grave.

  Sentimentality has no place in business, I tell myself as I arrive at the short causeway even though the memories tied to this place still hurt.

  The big hoose stands on a small island, connected to the picturesque village of Auchkeld. No other hotels are around, just a couple of bed and breakfast establishments, and I’d rather sleep in one of the farmer’s fields than subject myself to one of those places.

  As I pull into the driveway, the sun is setting, turning the sandstone building gold. Blossom covered trees stand on the distant hills as the evening mist rolls in from the sea. It’s hard not to be seduced by how beautiful this wee bit of Scotland is.

  I drive around the moss-covered fountain, which stands as a turning circle these days, and pull in to park. After grabbing my bag from the back seat, I climb the dozen or so worn steps to the portico, pushing open one of the massive Scottish oak doors.

  I wonder if this is what it feels like to be the queen? Whether she thinks everything is perfect and smells like roses because a wee woman is always ten steps ahead, flinging flower petals on the floor while running a feather duster over every surface.

  I didn’t come here to inspect the place—that’s what the area manager is for. But I can hardly say I’m not interested. That’s not part of our company ethos.

  Nowhere does it read sod off and leave me alone.

  So far, I’ve looked at the building work on the former worker’s cottages, which will be self-contained suites come the Easter holidays. I’ve examined the cellar and taken a phone call from a vintner who’s interested in doing business with us. And I’ve had my opinion sought over a dozen smaller things.