by Flora Dain
* * * *
Back in our rooms he runs a deep, scent-filled bath. I try to protest. I can walk perfectly well. But it’s fun being spoiled.
We lie together in the water, weary but blissful, saying little. When we finally get out, he swathes me in towels, scoops me up and carries me into his room, laying me reverently on the quilt like some precious object.
His wet, glorious body looms over me like some ancient sculpture, perfect, honed—his erection jutting into me whenever he draws close.
“You’ve not eaten much today. I can order some food. Are you hungry?”
I bite my lip. Yes, but not for food.
His eyes gleam, like he knows. “Every time we met on stage, I wanted to eat you whole. Now I’ll do just that.”
He parts my legs and drops kisses along my thighs and across my belly, making me shiver. Soon his eager mouth fastens on my groin, and I lie back and groan as heat courses through me. Another climax, after such intense emotion and so many sensations, rockets through me in seconds. As my spasms die away, he flips me over and hauls me up by the hips. His erection juts, burning hot against my opening, still slick with juices and pulsing with need.
He pauses, letting its girth and its heat torment me, teasing me with small, impatient thrusts as my muscles haul at him, willing him to fill me.
Instead he leans over, his breath hot on my neck and takes firm hold of my heavy breasts, plumping them with his hands and squeezing my nipples until I whimper.
“A word of advice. Next time you face a Dom with a bullwhip, be very”—he plunges inside then slowly withdraws—“very”—he lunges again, harder this time, making me cry out in delight and shock—“careful what you say. And if he says submit”—he plunges harder, hauling my hips even higher so I moan aloud—“you do it. Or you might just find yourself being fucked like this.”
With a few strokes more, he pauses then comes with a shout, filling my belly with honeyed heat. It seeps into my weary muscles and is instantly followed by wave upon wave of deep, contented sleep.
* * * *
“I once dated Brad Pitt.” I smile up at the ceiling.
“In your dreams.” Cade is lying next to me, his arm cradling my head. We’re still panting, limbs laced together from our latest encounter.
It’s nearly dawn. We’ve slept, made love and slept again. Now, in the small hours, we’re lying together, contented and idle. We’re playing a game.
“I once bought a hardware store.”
I giggle, ludicrously happy. “Nonsense. And don’t pretend you like DIY.”
He grins briefly. “You’re right. That’s untrue. I fancied one of the assistants.” He kisses my cheek. “And I bought the whole chain.”
I kiss the edge of his armpit, thrilling to his warm, animal smell. “I once kissed a frog. But he never became a prince.”
“No? You amaze me.” He nuzzles my neck. “I wanted to whip your ass the second I met you. That was before I masterminded your career so I could.”
I stare up at the ceiling as his words sink in. Slowly the smile fades from my face and with it, my tide of happiness. I sit up and peer at him in the dim light from our single bedside lamp. “You did what?”
He smiles lazily up at me. “You heard.”
I stare down at him, numb with shock. “That’s untrue, right?”
He shuffles up on the pillows, his long, naked body glowing and glorious. “No, it’s true. Why? What’s the matter?”
“You masterminded my career? How?” Ice seeps through me.
His smile twists into scorn at the corner of his mouth. “How do you think? I own the network. Audience figures can be massaged, producers told whom to hire and when. It was just a matter of time.”
I spring off the bed and search through the rails for my clothes. I bring an armful back with me and start to dress with swift, angry movements.
“Tunis, what are you doing?” He leaps off the bed. “Are you going somewhere? At this hour?”
I don’t trust myself to speak. I fasten my jeans, step into my trainers and shrug on my jacket. As I reach for my case, I snap it open and pile in the rest of my things, the gowns and underwear all jumbled together, the shoes stuffed in anyhow.
“I’m leaving. I’m horrified you did that.”
Tears are close. I fight them off. “I’ve worked hard at my job. I thought I was good at it. I thought I was a success. I thought I was bringing you something—talent, ambition, success—whatever. I thought I was somebody. But Janice was right all along. I’m a nobody.”
I glance back at him from the doorway. “Thanks for reminding me.”
His face contorts with shock. “What? You are a success. They even watch you abroad.”
“Yes, but you did it all. I’m just a…toy.” I slam my case shut and haul it off the bed. “What is it with you, this mania for control?”
He bars my way. “What are you doing? You can’t go anywhere now.”
I glare at him. “No? Watch me. I can’t stay here. I’ve got a job to do. I’m wanted in post-production. Next time, get yourself a blow-up doll. It should be easy enough to control that. And find one you can whip.”
I blunder past him, snatching up my bag as I go.
“Wait.” His eyes flash. Now he’s angry too. “Take no notice of Janice. You’re not a nobody. Don’t ever say that about yourself. And here, you’ll need this.” He tosses something over to me.
By some miracle, I catch it.
It’s my phone.
I slip out of the main door into an eerie gray world. It’s nearly dawn. The park’s shrouded in thick white mist full of weird echoes, muffled birdcalls and odd rustling noises. Treetops poke through like islands in a lake.
I trudge along the drive in the early chill. My mind’s still blank, but I think vaguely that on the main road I might hitch a lift to a town. There I can pick up a taxi, train—whatever.
At that moment I hear the crunch of gravel as a large, darkened car draws up beside me.
Cade.
I try to hurry, but it’s hopeless. My case is too heavy.
“Miss Vale?”
I pause and turn as Mason, Cade’s driver, calls after me. “I’m to drive you wherever you want to go, miss. Mr. Fitzlean insists. He’s concerned for your safety.”
I glare at him. “Is he in that car?”
“No, miss. Where are you headed?”
I hesitate. I’m miles from anywhere. It’s probably the best option. “That’s kind of you, Mason, but I’m going back to London. If you could drop me at the nearest railway station?”
“What address in London, miss?”
Impatiently I rattle off the address of Mel’s flat in Hammersmith. He turns and opens the passenger door, his face impassive. “If you’d get in, miss.”
* * * *
Mason’s a fast, efficient driver. In just over two hours, we’re blending effortlessly into the early traffic on the Chiswick Flyover and heading for central London. Without being told, Mason takes the north exit to make the right turn for Hammersmith and soon we’re nosing into the alleyway outside Mel’s tiny apartment.
A tousled Mel answers the door in pajamas, toothbrush in hand. “Tunis. Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.”
I turn and wave to Mason, still sitting in the car on the street below. Lifting a gloved hand, he slowly draws away.
Mel stares after him. “Who’s that?”
“He gave me a lift. Sorry to barge in, Mel. I need somewhere to stay for a few days.”
“Who is it?” In the tiny kitchen, Ben looks up from a sizzling pan full of bacon and eggs. “Hey, good timing. Take a pew.”
“I don’t want anything to eat. Just somewhere to sleep.” I shake my head at his polite offer to share breakfast. I accept a small glass of juice.
“You look terrible.” Mel scans my face. “Have you been with the Panther all this time? What’s he done to you?”
I sigh. “Please, Mel, not now. I’m fine, just tir
ed. That’s all. So, can I stay?”
Mel throws an arm around me. “Sure you can. Take the spare room. You’ll have to squeeze in with Ben’s stuff. He’s moving in later this week.”
“You’re together at last? I’m so glad for you. Mel, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Mel arches an eyebrow at Ben. “Girl-talk, Ben. Okay?”
When he’s gone, Mel fixes me with a worried stare. “What?”
Rapidly I explain about Cade and his sister, and why he was covering for her. Mel’s eyes glow. “Wow. That’s terrific. His sister?”
I take a deep breath. “But he wants it kept quiet. Please don’t use it. And don’t tell anybody, not even Ben—as a favor to me.”
She looks aghast. “For Pete’s sake, why ever not?”
I want to tell her that I love him, and it’s the last thing that will ever be in my power to give him, but I’m too shaky. “It’s for Cade. It’s just… I owe him. It’s…complicated.” I break off and my eyes fill with tears.
She’s frowning. “You’re keen on him?”
I nod. “Yes. Truly.”
“As in—madly, deeply? The real deal?”
I nod again and bury my head in her neck.
She pats me on the cheek, hands me a tissue and gives me one of her tough, pale smiles. “Okay, done. We’ll drop it.”
* * * *
Two hours later, after a shower, a nap and a reviving cup of coffee, I hurry through the busy streets to the small cluster of warehouses and workshops housing our editing studio. Waving to the technicians, I pick my way past delivery crates and banks of recording equipment to the small, familiar group of people in a booth at the end of the building.
They’re like family. It seems a long time since I saw them.
“Hi, stranger. Ready for the big finale?” For once Jake’s relaxed and happy. “Sonja’s worried about you.”
“You’re together?”
Ben claps him on the back. “Yep. I’m moving in with Mel and Sonja’s moved in with Jake. Happy families all round. You?”
“Free as a bird.” I avoid Mel’s eye. How can I tell them I’ve got no plans, no prospects and never even had a career?
“So, the voiceover. Where do I start?”
* * * *
For the next few days I sit in a soundproofed booth in front of a small screen and a script and read aloud. Sometimes I falter when my narrative touches on times when I recall what Cade and I were doing in other parts of the Hall.
The hardest parts are when I see him on screen. Several times Ben’s voice breaks into my headphones. “Cut, cut. Sorry, Tunis. We lost you there. Go again.”
The work’s tiring and slow, but it stops me thinking.
During breaks I chat to the engineers and peer over their shoulders at the screens. They’re on a tight schedule. Post-production usually takes months but the team here’s got just three weeks. It’ll be a marathon. Most of it’s on computer, but some of Jake’s footage is old-style film and takes even longer. Discarded pieces roll about on the floor in curls like carpenter’s shavings.
Idly I pick them up and hold them to the light. One shows the roofs and turrets of Beat Hall, another shows blurred close-ups of Garth Delaney leering at Mel. There’s even a strip of interior shots of Cade’s office. I peer more closely and Izzy’s lazy drawl drifts through my mind.
That photo in his office? Take a good look at it, honey. Says it all.
I hold the strip up to the light and there it is—the Gemmell photo of the two children.
So what’s it saying?
Jake walks over, curious. “Thought I’d get a print off that strip. It’s the only way I’ll ever get my own copy if Mr. Megabuck’s bought up all the rights.”
I frown at the picture, trying to see what it was that had caught the photographer’s eye.
A boy and a girl sitting on a bank… The boy is reaching out to the little girl in a simple, protective gesture. In the space between them is a blur of shapes—an overturned car, police, maybe an ambulance.
It makes a graceful, striking composition. But that’s all I see.
It must be something here. “Jake, can we enhance this?”
Ten minutes later I’m staring at an enlarged, clarified section of the picture on his computer screen. I flip the image so it shows the car upright. Inside a figure slumps at the wheel. The car bonnet’s badly crumpled, the marque unrecognizable, the number plate indistinct. It’s short, distinctive. OPL? OPI?
I look again and something clicks into place. It has to be…
“Jake? Look at the number plate. It says GF1. That must be Sir Gerald’s car. This is a picture of Cade and his sister at the scene of the crash that killed their mother.”
Is this the final piece of the puzzle?
His mother’s life was out of control, like the car that killed her.
Control… He always has to be in control, and this is why. It’s the only way he feels safe.
* * * *
Somehow I survive as one day follows another, but the pain stays the same.
Other people break up. Other people survive.
Now it’s my turn.
Our report’s done. We deliver on time and it airs to instant acclaim. Public interest in the movie and the launch spikes. Our viewing figures hit the roof.
I even manage to say how much of a pussycat the Panther is, without saying who he is and without breaking down.
Now for the premiere.
With my voiceover finished, I go home. Janice is back now, rested and pleased to see me. There’s no mention of clinics.
On the second morning, I’m sitting in the kitchen, my head in my hands, unable to face breakfast. Janice gives me a hug.
“You must eat, Tunis. Being miserable won’t bring him back.”
“Why should I want him back?”
I’ve told her nothing, but she’s a good guesser.
Janice sits down next to me. “Because he’s nice. He cares for the people he loves. And you love him, don’t you?”
She’s right. I do.
“And he’ll be at the premiere, right?”
She kisses me on the cheek. “Then you’re going too. Leave this to me.”
* * * *
Janice may know nothing about Chinese jade, but as a former dancer herself, she knows plenty about premieres. She does me proud. On the evening of the premiere, I step onto the red carpet looking—and feeling—like a queen. The roar of the crowd and the flashing cameras tell me my stunning Millin lace gown, my matching heels and my piled hair look perfect, as does Cade’s beautiful necklace with the little key—the key to his heart.
Sadly a key’s not much use without the lock it fits.
I smile brightly as I mingle with the stars. I’ve seen so many of them in extremis or under a whip that it’s hard to feel shy with anyone here.
Nera greets me with a tight smile. “You look ravishing, Tunis. And your report was terrific. We’re all really pleased. “
She leans closer and lowers her voice to a fierce hiss. “And if we were alone, I’d slap your face. What the fuck have you done to him?”
She strides off before I can ask her what she means—or where he is.
Now I’m worried. What does Nera mean? Is he ill? I start to panic. If he’s not here, I may never see him again.
Soon I’m swept upstairs by the press of stars making their way to the circle balcony overlooking the auditorium. As I walk through the curtains, the crowd thins out at either side to reveal the deep cavern of the theater yawning below.
I’m suspended in space over a sea of faces. The audience clap and roar approval as the stars line up along the rail, me included.
Just then I see him.
He’s standing a little apart, somewhere on the other side. He looks stunningly handsome in formal dress. Our eyes lock. The scene around me starts to sway then he’s gone.
Oh no. He’s avoiding me. I should never have come.
But I had to. I promised
.
With a supreme effort, I smile down at the upturned faces. I’m just one in a bevy of stars here. My part in all this is very small. In this sea of celebrities, I don’t count for very much. But the rail’s swaying toward me now and the edges of my vision are starting to blot out…
“Tunis. Come away from the rail.”
Strong arms slide around me and haul me to safety. A warm, powerful presence covers my back and a deep, familiar voice growls in my ear.
He’s here.
I spin round to see him looking down at me, his eyes filled with heat.
“Where have you been? Please, please don’t do this. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand being without you.”
Eager starlets push forward to fill our places at the rail. No one’s looking at us.
We stand close together, completely unnoticed in the crowd as people flow past to get to their seats before the movie starts.
He ignores them, his eyes locked on mine. “Do you really want to see this thing?”
I gaze up at him, my throat almost too tight to speak. “No.”
His eyes narrow and I see the hint of a smile at the corners of his beautiful, sculpted lips. “Hungry?”
I lean up and kiss him gently on the jaw. “What do you think? It’s been weeks.”
His jaw line tenses. “I’ve got a car waiting. Your hotel or mine?”
I can hardly speak for joy. I simply stare at him. “Which is closest?”
“Does that mean…you’re coming back?” His voice is husky with emotion, full of pain.
Of course I’m coming back. He’s my life now. He’s everything I need, everything I’ve ever wanted or ever will want.
But even I have limits, and he’s crossed one.
I suppose, given all the things I’ve let him do up to now, it’s a fine point. But manipulating my career is a step too far. However much I love him, he has to know I’m not a puppet.
I smile serenely and lay my cheek against his. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
As the houselights dim for the movie to start, we’re already heading for the exit, hand in hand. The gleam in his eyes tells me we’ve a long and glorious night ahead. Maybe a lifetime—who knows?