Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3)

by Sadie Matthews

  Images of Andrei flash in front of me: he’s elegant in his tailored suits, driving his smoke-grey Bentley convertible. He’s sophisticated in his tastes, loving his art collection and his beautiful apartments, and enjoying the finer things he can easily afford.

  But once he was a bullet-headed orphan fighting his way to the top in the sleazy backstreets of Moscow. Boys like that get tough fast and they learn to take their opponents out without a shred of feeling because, unless they act first, they’ll be the ones left for dead in an alley.

  No one would want to cross Andrei, I’m sure of that. And now the man I love has set himself up as his rival.

  I want to be strong, as strong as Dominic, but I can’t help being afraid.

  The next few days pass quickly as I prepare for the trip to New York. Andrei emails me the details of his apartment and says that his housekeeper will be expecting me to drop by at any time. I look up the address online and see that his apartment is in a luxurious block right on Central Park. I might not know New York, but I can guess that this is an extremely prestigious address. Maybe I’ll take Laura to see it and we can ooh and aah together at a glimpse of Manhattan life that we’d never normally see.

  Mark is still too ill to receive visitors but Caroline tells me that the doctors are confident they’re getting on top of the infection. It’s been a setback but not something we should worry too much about. That’s a huge relief.

  ‘You go to New York and enjoy yourself,’ Caroline says with a smile as she watches me finishing up the last bits and pieces before I head off on the Thursday. ‘You can’t do anything here.’

  ‘Thanks, Caroline. Will you give Mark my love?’

  ‘Of course. Now off you go! You can tell me all about it on Tuesday.’

  I leave the office that evening feeling excited. We’re actually going tomorrow! It’s going to be fun, I just know it. If only Mark were better, then life would be wonderful.

  Except . . .

  A disloyal little voice sounds in my head. I try to shush it but it pipes up before I can make it be quiet.

  You’d prefer to be going to New York with Dominic.

  Stop it! I’m going to have a fantastic time with Laura.

  Yes, but with Dominic there would be romance and kisses and . . . sex. Lots of lovely, mind-blowing sex . . .

  Sex isn’t everything, I scold myself. Friendship is pretty important too, remember? I tell myself that I owe Laura some time. She’s single and I’ve not exactly been the perfect flatmate over the last few months with Dominic – and Andrei – taking up so much of my time. This is payback. And I’m looking forward to sipping Cosmopolitans in some fancy bar – I just won’t expect the evening to end in multiple orgasms, that’s all.

  I shiver as I remember the last, extraordinary orgasm I had with Dominic. With that little silver plug he’s taken me along another path I could never have imagined going down. I try to remember what I was like at the beginning of this extraordinary year: I was so inexperienced, thinking that my small-town boyfriend was the centre of the universe, and seriously considering settling down with him. Thank God for Hannah and her enormous tits! If she hadn’t tempted him into bed, we might never have broken up and I could be having boring sex with Adam for the rest of my life.

  As I take the Underground home, I wonder where Dominic is at this moment. He emailed me this morning to say that his meetings in Montenegro had gone very well, but that he’s taken an unexpected trip to Klosters, the expensive skiing resort where millionaires like to gather for Christmas. He’ll be staying in a friend’s chalet while he socialises on the slopes and makes those all-important contacts, the ones who might be interested in putting some serious money into his investment fund.

  It’s going to be full on. Skiing, après-ski, après-après-ski. Hard work, honey, but you know me, I’m the self-sacrificing type (or am I?). I’ll keep in touch. Enjoy New York, have fun with Laura. Take care.

  D x x

  I send back a reply full of excitement about our New York plans and telling him to enjoy himself skiing. It’s only later, as I’m letting myself into the flat, that I have a sudden pang of guilt. I haven’t told Dominic that I’m going to visit Andrei’s apartment while I’m in New York, or that Andrei’s offered me this new commission for next year. I’m cross with myself – what happened to no more secrets? I’ve promised that I’m going to be open and honest with Dominic now. There’s no point in keeping things to myself, it only leads to misunderstandings.

  But there’s no real harm in it – after all, I’m not going to see Andrei. It’s just a look around his apartment to keep him happy. And if I’m honest, I’d like to see it, get a feel for the art he has there and work out what I might do with it, even though I’ve no intention of taking the job. And I’ll tell Dominic in my next email. Definitely.

  Laura and I are both hyper with excitement that evening, checking our luggage over and over again, making sure we have passports and money, maps and guides, and all the bits and pieces we can’t travel without, from phone chargers to lip salve. We’re so keyed up that we open a celebratory bottle of wine and drink it very fast with our supper. So we open another and end up a bit drunk, chatting away until we realise with horror that it’s nearly midnight and we’re supposed to be up at four for the taxi that’s taking us to the airport. We tidy up and turn in, but I can’t get to sleep.

  It’s weird but I’m so excited to be travelling like any other ordinary person. I’ve enjoyed my experience of the luxurious world of the very wealthy but it’s indelibly linked in my mind to ownership. I’ve only been given access to that world because I’ve worked for Andrei and I can only enjoy it on his terms. It’s not mine, or anything close to mine, so really, it’s no more meaningful than a fairground ride. Whereas my ticket to New York, and the hotel and everything else, has been paid for with money I’ve earned. I’m proud of that and I’m going to enjoy this trip a million times more because of it.

  I don’t know what time I go to sleep but it feels like about five minutes before my alarm goes off. I drag my eyes open and groan, then force myself out of bed and into the shower. I meet Laura as I come out and she looks red-eyed and tired too.

  ‘We shouldn’t have had that wine last night,’ she says, heading into the bathroom.

  ‘Tell me about it! Taxi’s due in fifteen minutes.’ I think I’m going to feel awful, but as soon as I’m dressed in jeans, a sloppy T-shirt and a sharp dark green blazer and biker boots, I feel good again. A drink of water helps clear my head and just as Laura is bringing her bag into the hall we hear the beep from the taxi outside the flat.

  ‘Let’s go, sister!’ she says, her eyes bright.

  ‘You betcha!’ I smile back. This is fun already. I can’t wait for the adventure to begin.

  We make the airport in excellent time because the roads out of London are deserted at this time of the morning. We’re excited and desperate for coffee by the time we arrive but we decide to check in first so that we can go through security and settle down in the departure area for a bit. We’re going to have a good hour or so to wait – plenty of time to have breakfast and browse in duty-free.

  At the check-in desk we hand over our passports and cases. The woman behind the desk checks everything over, taps things into her computer and scans our passports. Then she looks up and smiles at us. ‘Good news, ladies. You’ve been upgraded.’

  ‘What?’ Laura exclaims.

  ‘Yes. Congratulations. You’re flying first class to JFK.’

  ‘Oh wow!’ Laura gives a little jump of pleasure and excitement.

  ‘Why?’ I say with a frown.

  The woman looks at me, evidently surprised by my reaction. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. It’s just what it says on the computer here. You’re now first-class passengers. You wait for your flight in the first-class lounge.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ asks Laura as we make our way to the VIP lounge. ‘Aren’t you excited that we’re upgraded? I’ve never trav
elled first class before!’

  ‘Of course I am,’ I say as heartily as I can, not wanting to spoil her pleasure. But the truth is, I’m a little upset. I can sense someone’s hand in this, and I feel as though my private trip has been invaded. I was proud that we were doing this alone. Now we’ve been given a little bonus that we’ve not earned or paid for.

  Unless it’s just your lucky day . . .

  Yeah, right!

  The first-class lounge is nice, though. We take full advantage of the delicious food and steaming coffee on offer, then curl up on the sofas with a range of magazines to while away the time till our flight is called. When it does, we’re ushered through carpeted corridors and on to the plane before anyone else, turning left as we go on board. In first class, the luxury is in stark contrast to the cramped conditions in economy: vast comfortable seats that can be turned into beds at any time, a packet of expensive-brand toiletries plus slippers, masks and even a pair of silk pyjamas in case we want to change into something comfortable. And that’s before we’ve begun playing with our personal entertainment systems or ordering whatever we want from the menus.

  ‘I could live on here!’ Laura says ecstatically. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been so lucky.’

  The pleasure on her face softens my hostility towards whoever decided to do this for us. Maybe it’s not such a bad gift. The problem is that I suspect Andrei is behind it and that makes it hard for me to enjoy it. He’s got a way of making me accept things from him that I don’t really want: nights in hotels, expensive dresses, jewels – and now this.

  Relax, I tell myself as the plane begins to taxi down the runway. There’s nothing you can do about it. And in New York, you’ll be far away from Andrei. Just enjoy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When we arrive at JFK it’s only mid-morning, and we get another burst of energy as we head off the plane, through passport control and out into America. It feels simultaneously familiar from all the movies and shows I’ve watched that are set here, and foreign, with the strange accents and different feel to the place. I’ve never felt so British. Laura and I have planned to get a yellow cab into Manhattan but as we exit the arrivals lounge, I’m startled to see my name being held up on a card by a black man in a dark suit and peaked cap.

  ‘Look, Beth!’ Laura nudges me at the same moment. ‘That’s your name!’

  ‘Miss Villiers?’ The man smiles at me. ‘How are you? I’m here to take you and your friend to your hotel.’

  ‘What?’ I say, suspicious again. ‘Who booked you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, ma’am,’ he says politely. ‘I just do what my boss tells me.’

  ‘Beth,’ hisses Laura, ‘this is probably part of the first-class service!’

  I’m not so sure. I stare at the driver. ‘What’s your company? Does the airline book you?’

  ‘All sorts of people book us, ma’am, I can assure you we’re completely reputable. Now, would you ladies like to come this way? The limo is waiting.’

  ‘A limo!’ Laura exclaims, her eyes bright.

  I hesitate. This is probably fine. It’s probably part of the service. Where’s the harm? ‘Okay,’ I say reluctantly. He takes our luggage and we follow as he leads us out to where a long square-nosed limousine is waiting. We slide into leather seats, the driver loads our luggage and then we’re off, heading out onto a motorway and towards the famous Manhattan skyline. I try to put my negative feelings to one side and just enjoy it as Laura chatters away about our plans for the rest of the day. I must be one ungrateful woman if I can’t enjoy being treated to the finer things in life – but I can’t help wishing that whoever it is would just butt out of it and let me get on with things in my own way.

  It takes about an hour to get to Manhattan and crossing the bridge onto the island itself is a thrilling moment. The sky is a cool unblemished blue and filled with icy sunshine. The temperature is very cold but that only adds to the wintry, Christmassy glamour of the city. As the limo proceeds up the famous grid-patterned roads, we gaze out, drinking in the sights of the busy city, pointing out landmarks we recognise, and thrilling to the numbered names of the streets. We’ve chosen a modest hotel in midtown, one that’s close enough to the action that we can walk just about anywhere, but which is still in a reasonable price bracket. The photos online showed a pleasant, rather old-fashioned place, and we’ve booked a small twin room, which is all we need.

  I’m surprised when we come to a halt on East 57th Street in front of a very glamorous hotel, an elegant building that soars up into the sky. A doorman comes over and opens the car door but I’m leaning forward and knocking on the glass partition between us and the driver. He lowers it.

  ‘Where on earth is this?’ I demand. ‘This isn’t our hotel!’

  ‘This is the Four Seasons, ma’am,’ replies the driver. ‘This is where I’ve been told to bring you. I understand you have reservations here.’

  ‘Well, we don’t!’ I exclaim. ‘Our hotel is on Lexington Avenue. Please take us there at once.’

  The doorman is standing there baffled, obviously waiting for us to get out. Laura is half in and half out, listening to the conversation with anxiety in her eyes.

  ‘Do I understand, ma’am, that you don’t want to stay at the Four Seasons?’ The driver shoots me a quizzical look over his shoulder. I can tell he thinks that this is just plain weird.

  ‘That’s right. We’re at the Washington on Lexington Avenue.’

  ‘Beth . . .’ Laura is looking at me as the driver shakes his head in disbelief.

  ‘Laura, we didn’t book the Four Seasons and while it looks amazing we can’t pretend that this is part of the first-class flight. I don’t think they go that far. Someone is being way too generous and I don’t like it. I want to go to the hotel we chose together.’

  I can see from Laura’s face that she knows this is the right thing to do, no matter how enticing the luxury being dangled in front of us. She sits back in her seat. ‘Okay. Let’s go to the Washington.’

  ‘Thank you, you can close the door now!’ I say to the doorman, and he obeys, evidently confused and having understood very little of what’s just gone on. I have a feeling that there aren’t many people who react angrily to being brought to the Four Seasons.

  The driver sighs and heads off into the busy Manhattan traffic and, fifteen minutes later, he draws up in front of a much smaller, more modest red-brick hotel.

  ‘Here you are, ma’am,’ he says, ‘just like you wanted. This is the Washington.’

  ‘It looks fantastic,’ Laura says stoically, though I can tell she’s yearning a little for the glamour of the other hotel.

  ‘It’s just what we need – and what we can afford,’ I say firmly. ‘Thank you, driver, you can drop us here.’

  A few minutes later, we’re standing at the reception desk in the traditional-looking lobby. It’s not exactly the last word in New York chic but it’s very cosy with its patterned rugs and brass light fittings. The man behind the desk is neatly turned out with gelled-down hair and elegant hands. He’s checking our reservations.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, looking at his screen with a frown. ‘That’s most unusual. Hold on a second while I check with my manager.’

  Laura and I exchange glances.

  ‘What now?’ she murmurs. ‘Another upgrade?’

  ‘But no one knows we’re here,’ I say. ‘I didn’t tell anyone we were staying in this hotel. Did you?’

  She shakes her head.

  The man returns with his manager, who has a neatly trimmed moustache and pale blue eyes. He smiles at us.

  ‘Good morning, ladies, how are you? There’s been a change to your reservation.’

  I groan internally. Here we go again.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s been cancelled.’

  ‘What?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Cancelled?’ echoes Laura, her face falling in dismay.

  The manager nods gravely. ‘That’s right. Cancelled.’

  ‘Please uncancel it,’ I
say, trying to sound as imperious as I can. ‘We didn’t give any instructions to cancel, I’ve got my confirmation printout right here. We need our room!’

  ‘We can’t do that, I’m afraid, the room has already been rebooked and we have no other availability. It’s a busy time of year. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘But . . .’ I can hardly believe my ears. How has this happened? ‘Where are we going to stay?’

  The manager makes a beckoning gesture to a man standing by the door. ‘That’s all been arranged, so I understand. This car has been sent for you.’

  The man comes up to us and takes up our luggage. ‘If you’d like to follow me, ladies.’

  Laura and I exchange helpless looks. We don’t have any choice now. The Washington can’t give us a room even if it wants to. Outside, another limo is waiting for us. We climb inside this one, which is very similar to the last. Our new driver loads our luggage and then we’re off again. This time we seem to be heading away from midtown again, back the way we came. Then we’re in a different part of the city, away from the grid and into a more loosely gathered set of streets.

  ‘This is the Village,’ Laura says, staring out of the window. ‘I came here when I last visited. Definitely one of the coolest parts of town, much more arty and boho than the area around Central Park.’

  ‘I suppose that’s good,’ I say, watching the sights outside as they glide past the window. I’m still feeling cross that our plans have been interfered with like this. But why on earth would Andrei have booked us into the Four Seasons, cancelled our reservations at the Washington and then arranged another hotel? I can’t make it out.

  ‘I know you’re not happy about all this,’ Laura says tentatively. ‘But this is your Russian guy being generous again, isn’t it?’

  I feel bad. From Laura’s perspective, a glamorous hotel and limos are amazing things to be enjoyed. She has no idea how Andrei has tried to control me and how much I resent him interfering in my life, even when the things he does look like wonderful, generous presents. Well, I’ve tried to reject this one but Andrei’s out-thought me somehow.