Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set

by Hunter, Adriana

  Hanky Panky. Vermouth, gin and the herby kick of Fernet Branca, served in a long-stemmed cocktail glass with a sliver of orange peel floating in it for garnish. My old publishing director had introduced me to it at the Savoy, where it was invented, and since I’d bought one for Julie it had become a firm favorite.

  “So... bystanders, you say?”

  “Hmm. I could easily have another one or three of these, hun. Yeah, bystanders. Onlookers. Someone close enough to be involved but without that blinkered perspective. Anyone fit the bill?”

  I thought, my brain just a little fuddled by the three cocktails so far. Drinking on a Sunday night! Not good, come Monday morning...

  I tried to focus. The people I’d met back at Cambridge, when I’d thought Ethan was pleased to see me and hadn’t realized that he was actually going through shit and resented me being there. Them.

  “Well,” I said. “There was Joe. Sweet and incredibly shy. Took him forever to ask me out, but nothing ever came of it. Nice guy, but he’s got a wife and a small baby now... not sure he’d appreciate me popping up out of his past right now.”

  “So who else?”

  “There was Neil. He was one of Ethan’s closest buddies. Uber geek, but always thought he was God’s gift. Stinking rich now.”

  “Really? You have a number for him?” We chuckled into our cocktails, and then realized they were empty now.

  Harvey Wallbangers were next up.

  “And then there was Hammy. Ahmed’s his real name, but they all called him Hammy. He was at the wedding. Mathematician or something.”

  “So are you in touch with any of these guys? Anyone you could take for a drink and grill about what happened in the past so you can put your pretty little mind at rest?”

  “Well I could ask Ethan, I guess,” I said, and we both laughed into our drinks again. Then I paused to think. “Most likely is Hammy,” I said. “After the wedding he sent me a Facebook invite. I think there might be the embers of an old crush there.”

  “So you’re friends on Facebook?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t accept. I was a bit uneasy, I guess. Lots of things happening all of a sudden.”

  Julie held out her hand, and gestured impatiently. “So give it here, then,” she said. “Gimme your phone.”

  “No! You can’t just...”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t want to see yer man’s cock shots. I just want to hack your Facebook account, okay?”

  Somehow that reassured me. It made sense after the day I’d had, and the cocktails I’d had, which I realized were running dry again, so I paused to order a couple of Vodka Gimlets from a passing waitress.

  And then I realized Julie had my cell phone. Had I given it to her? Had she just grabbed it from the top of my bag while I was distracted with ordering drinks?

  “Nah,” she said now. “I’ve just accepted his friend request for you, so I can see his profile, but he doesn’t have a phone number listed there. Looks kind of cute, though, if you like a bit of puppy fat to hold onto, and I know I do. But jeez, he likes Girls Aloud, for the love of God? That’s one mixed up son of a–”

  “So what’re you doing now?” She was typing something. On my phone.

  “Don’t worry,” said Julie. “Trust me. I’m just messaging him on Facebook with your phone number. Apparently you were pleased to meet him again at the wedding and it brought up lots of old happy memories of your time at Cambridge, and it’d be good to catch up. Oh, and could he tell you anything about the Cabal?”

  I snatched for my phone, but she pulled away and then pressed the screen with a flourish.

  “Sent,” she said, and then the cocktails came, and we laughed – I don’t know why – and then I had my phone again and somehow it didn’t matter any more.

  §

  I don’t know how I got through the next day. My head pounded, my throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper grating whenever I tried to swallow. I felt sick, too, the kind of sick that can only be cured by a full English breakfast.

  I sat there in a window seat of a café just around the corner from my office, a big mug of coffee steaming before me, a half-finished breakfast pushed away, and a stack of manuscripts awaiting my attention. I often came here to work. Coffee and muffins and a window seat from which I could watch the world pass by. In theory it was to get away from my desk, but in practice, with my phone and iPad, I could never really get away from the desk.

  Still, at least that nauseous hole in my stomach had something in it now, and I was starting to feel a little more human again.

  My phone. I reached for it and checked my in-box, but it was just work mail. Nothing from him. Nothing from Will.

  So much seemed to have happened since that date: the trip to Cambridge with its unpleasant truths about a time I’d previously remembered fondly. Drinks with Julie. Oh dear, those cocktails...

  The date. The awkward conversation about Sally Fielding, that nagging feeling that I was being manipulated somehow. Should a man who could do what he did to my heart still leave me suspicious of his motives? It seemed so wrong to be so conflicted.

  I started a text message and stared at the blank screen of my cell phone for minutes. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do.

  I put my phone away again and reached for the first manuscript.

  25.

  Somehow I got through the day, albeit with a good supply of water, coffee and paracetamol, and an understanding PA who diverted my phone.

  Home, a microwave curry and some crap TV was my plan, but I hadn’t bargained on Charlie. He was standing there on the corner of the street as I completed the ten minute walk from the Tube station. Blue, slightly rumpled suit that somehow emphasized the leanness of his body. Floppy blond hair that was in need of a cut. And those piercing blue eyes.

  I paused, assessing him.

  We’d been together for a year, then apart for a year, but then recently there had been a couple of times... well, a couple of times when things had gone much further than they should. But now? Now I looked at him and that lean, fit body didn’t do what it had always done for me before. It didn’t cause that tightening in my belly, that sudden heat in response to him, an animal thing. He was eye candy, no more than that. It was over, and I really didn’t want this now.

  “Hey there, Trude.” There was an arrogance in his voice. The tone of a man who had learned that “no” didn’t always mean no.

  “Charlie,” I said. “I really don’t need this. I’ve had a long day, my head is pounding, and I just want to kick off my shoes and watch reality TV, okay?”

  “I give a good foot rub.”

  “I know. I know, Charlie. Why don’t you just go and work that charm on someone who gives a shit, okay?”

  That stung like a slap.

  He was standing in my way, and suddenly I didn’t know what to do. Barge past him and risk that he might put an arm out and stop me, or worse, that he might turn and follow me inside? Stand here like a fool and make him think that this was going to be another of those times when I protested too much and really just wanted to be dragged into bed again?

  Or turn, walk away, defeated.

  I didn’t have the fight today.

  I turned, feeling my shoulders slump as I did so, and started to walk away from my apartment, heading down the street to where there was a little coffee shop, my sanctuary.

  Did I really think he’d let me walk away?

  He was there suddenly, at my side, matching my pace.

  “Come on, Trude,” he said. “Can we just be civil? Let’s go inside and talk. What’s the harm in that?”

  I stopped and turned to confront him, and suddenly we were face to face, so close I could feel his breath on my face. “You been drinking already?” I asked. His breath was all beer and smoke.

  He shrugged. “A pint, yes. What of it? Can we go back to the apartment and talk? Back to our place?”

  It hadn’t been our place for over a year.


  “No,” I said, my voice low and tight to stop me shouting it right into his face. “No, we can’t go back to my place, Charlie. You’re drunk and you should just go home. We’re over, Charlie. Well and truly over. What do I have to do to make you see that?”

  He tossed his head and made a dismissive sound in his throat. “So you say,” he said.

  It was my fault. All my fault. Those two times. No wonder he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  I reached out, put a hand on his arm, squeezed. “It really is, Charlie. It’s over.”

  He looked down now, and there were tears in those blue eyes, welling up, ready to spill.

  “It’s him isn’t it?” he said, suddenly defiant again. “Will. It’s always fucking Will.”

  “Why should that matter?” I said. “It could be anybody. It’s just not going to be you, Charlie, okay?”

  He shook my hand free and turned away, and suddenly it felt as if the tables were turned, as if I was the one demanding his attention.

  “He’s a bad sort,” he said in a low voice.

  That damned Englishness of his. How did he expect me to take him seriously when he said things like bad sort?

  “Listen,” I said. “I know you have history with Will and Ethan. I know about Sally Fielding. I–”

  “You do, do you?” Now he was facing me again, face close to mine, breath hot and beery. I wanted to take a step backwards, away from him, but I knew that would send the wrong signal. I needed to stand up to him, not keep backing off, giving in.

  As we stood there like that, a woman with a toddler gave us a wide berth, staring at us, ushering her little boy past us quickly.

  “You’re making a scene,” I said. “People are looking.” God, but I could do English, too, if I wanted.

  “So you know what happened with Sally?” he said. “Back at All Hallows... He’s told you all about it, has he?” Then, in response to my silence, he went on: “I didn’t think so. Why would he tell you about all that? You know his family hushed it all up, don’t you? Friends in high places, a few well-placed threats, and we all just pretended none of it had happened.”

  “None of what?”

  He looked down, away, suddenly shrinking into himself again.

  Suddenly sensitive, I put a hand to his arm again and said, “You know about Sally, don’t you? You know...”

  He nodded. “She was too much of a risk for them,” he said. “For him, his family, the people he works with in MI whatever it is. MI5? MI6?”

  Military Intelligence...

  “She was trying to blackmail him,” I said.

  “That figures,” said Charlie. “Will and his folks are well-regarded enough that she could cause a lot of damage if she spoke to the Press.”

  “About what?” I asked. I put my hand to my spinning head, as if I could physically suppress all the thoughts bouncing around inside my skull.

  “The Cabal,” said Charlie. “The Cabal and Sally Fielding.”

  26.

  Sally Fielding had been the youngest daughter from another land-owning English family. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she had always been one to push the boundaries. Cambridge had given her new boundaries, and new opportunities to push.

  “She latched onto Ethan,” said Charlie. “Tall, blond, Hollywood good looks, built like an American football player... what is it, a quarterback? It was somebody’s birthday, a party. Ethan was always surrounded by the girls, and he had one hanging onto his arm when Sally spotted him. She just went up to him, leaned up to kiss him on the cheek and whispered something in his ear and that was it.”

  “What did she whisper?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I’ve no idea. A promise? A joke? I really don’t know, but from that point on Ethan was hers for the taking. They were inseparable for the next week. I don’t think he went to college at all that week. I don’t think they left his room.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Will happened. We had this thing. The three of us...”

  “The Cabal.”

  “That’s what Sally called us. We used to party. None of us was interested in serious relationships back then. We just wanted a bit of fun. And there was plenty to be had. A girl would be with me one day, then with Will or Ethan. Kind of pass the parcel. That’s what Will said once. ‘Time to pass the parcel’.”

  It all sounded a bit seedy, but they were young men at college... it was hardly shocking, other than it was my big brother we were talking about.

  “So Will kind of assumed that would be the case with Sally, too.”

  “But Ethan didn’t want to pass?”

  Charlie shook his head. “I don’t think it was love or anything, but he was certainly having a lot of fun. So no, he didn’t want to pass her on.”

  “So...?”

  “So Will took what he wanted. He always gets what he wants, didn’t you realize that? You’re just another challenge, another box to tick. Just like Sally was.”

  I ignored the jibe. “What happened?”

  “Another party,” said Charlie. “She was there, hanging onto Ethan like she’d been superglued. And Will just went up, kissed her on the cheek and whispered something in her ear – just like she’d done with Ethan. She looked at him, then at Ethan and me, and she said, ‘Really? He said that?’”

  “Said what?”

  “That we liked to party. All of us. Together. That Ethan had said she’d be up for it.”

  “And she was?”

  “Not at first,” said Charlie. “She went off. Vanished for a couple of days. I only found out later that she’d shut herself away in her flat and Will had gone there and persuaded her.”

  “To...?”

  “He had this place. A small house in Cambridge, owned by the family. We took her there. He had a room. Kitted out. Chains, a rack. Iron loops set in the floor and walls. Floggers and whips, and big wooden paddles.”

  I almost stopped him there. I didn’t need to know more. Ethan...? Will...? Charlie? The man I’d lived with for a year... I knew he liked it rough, but...

  “I tried to stop them. I said to her she didn’t have to do this, it was okay, just a bit of fun, we could all go for a drink and a laugh if she wanted. But... but there was something in her eyes. She’d found something. Something new to her, a new thrill, a new way to break through the boundaries that had stifled her all her life. She just took my face in her hands and kissed me hard, and then... things kind of happened, we got carried away...”

  He had been looking away as he spoke, but now he peered into my eyes, as if seeking forgiveness for what he was about to tell me.

  “She wanted to do it,” he said. “She rushed into that room, like a child in a playroom full of new toys. Will told her how it would be, he gave her a safe word. As soon as she said that word she would be released, no questions asked. I stood in the doorway and watched. He went to her, took her chin in his hand–”

  He’d done that to me... held me like that!

  “–and said to her, ‘Just choose a safe word. Say it to me now, once, so we all know what it is.’ So she said, ‘Cabal. That’s my safe word. You three: the Cabal.’”

  Charlie paused then for so long that I thought that was all he was going to tell me. “She never said it,” he finally continued. “She was there for more than two weeks, and she refused to use the safe word. We kept her there in chains and we whipped her and abused her. We did everything... had her in every way we could imagine. Over and over and over again.”

  “And she didn’t want to stop?” I was shocked. My heart was pounding. It was hard to imagine that these three men had done something like this. Hard to see what was wrong or right about a situation so far from my experience.

  “She was reported missing,” said Charlie. “Her family. There was a big police hunt and Ethan and I wanted to set her free, but... but Will insisted that we should honor the agreement. He said she was in control and we were duty-bound to honor her wishes.”

  I shook my head
, struggling to take it all in.

  “Have you heard of the Stockholm Syndrome?” asked Charlie. “It’s when someone who’s been kidnapped or taken hostage becomes emotionally and psychologically attached to their captor. There was a newspaper heiress in the ’70s who was kidnapped and then a couple of months later she carried out an armed robbery with the gang that had taken her.”

  “Patty Hearst,” I said. I remembered her getting an official pardon from President Clinton just before he left office. Her defense that she was suffering Stockholm Syndrome hadn’t stopped her being imprisoned for years, but it had finally earned her the pardon. “Are you saying Sally was like Patty Hearst? She became, what, brainwashed?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charlie. “All I know is that she never used that safe word and so Will wouldn’t let us set her free.”

  “So what happened?”

  “We were raided. The police and some security guys hired by the Fielding family. We were arrested, locked up, threatened with all kinds of charges: abduction, aggravated assault, rape... I forget all the terms they threw at us. We could have been locked away for years, and our families would have been scandalized!”

  “But you weren’t...”

  He shook his head.

  “The power of the Bentinck-Stanleys,” he said. “They rolled up, their lawyers argued our corner, favors were called in, influence applied... All charges were dropped. Sally refused to testify. She said it was all consensual, which I guess it was.”

  “You guess?”

  He wouldn’t meet my look, then. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s all a blur. It’s like it happened to someone else. She insisted it was consensual, and I suppose that’s what matters, isn’t it? She said she’d orchestrated it, that she wanted it, that she’d still be there if they hadn’t so rudely interrupted.

  “She was waiting for us when we walked out of that police station. We came out, flanked by the Bentinck-Stanley legal team and she was just standing there in a little denim skirt and t-shirt, clutching her bag. She was like a puppy. If she’d had a tail to wag it’d have been going twenty to the dozen when she laid eyes on the Honorable Will.