I didn’t react; I needed to give this young woman some serious thought.
“Hello?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I assume we can do that?”
“The car’s this way,” I smiled, and stepping to her side, I touched her back and guided her forward.
She didn’t say much on the drive to my house, and I didn’t press. If she preferred an awkward silence, I could awkward silence her until the cows came home; after hours of practice in conference rooms and at dinners negotiating complex deals I’m an awkward silence expert.
As we hit central London she perked up; I could tell she was enjoying the hustle and bustle, and seeing sights she’d only viewed through the media.
“Where’s the tower of London? I want to see where Anne Boleyn got her head cut off.”
“I can take you there when we get back from Paris. We won’t have time before we leave.”
She didn’t comment, and a little while later I turned my Jaguar on to my street, and into the garage.
“Wow, only a one-car garage, and it’s so small,” she remarked.
“Garage space is a luxury,” I replied. “Surely it’s the same in Manhattan? Were you thinking of renting a car why you’re here?”
“What? No,” she retorted, “and I guess it’s just as well.”
“Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
Apparently my home impressed her more than my small garage, and as she glanced around, taking note of the expensive furnishings and the few antiques scattered about, she nodded approvingly. There are times when I have to accommodate an overseas client, it’s rare, but it happens, so I took particular care in making the guest room very comfortable, and walking in the door she smiled.
“This works,” she nodded, dropping her bag on the bed. “I’ll be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.”
“Will you?” I grinned.
“Yes, I just need a shower. I have one change of clothes.”
I turned and left, shaking my head at how unbelievably entitled she was. I’d just made myself some coffee and was sitting down at the kitchen table when she wandered in, similarly dressed, but wearing leather ankle boots, not the comfortable ballet slippers she’d opted for on the plane.
“Can we go?”
“Have a seat,” I smiled. “Care for some coffee?”
“No…uh, can we go?”
“I didn’t hear you, what did you say?” I said casually, taking another drink. “It’s really good, are you sure you don’t want some?”
“What do you mean, you didn’t hear me? Of course you did.”
“I tend not to hear requests without a please somewhere involved, like, please, can we go now, or can we leave now, please. Here in England we’re sticklers for manners, and I must confess, I am definitely a manners kind of man.”
“Oh, Christ,” she exclaimed, “seriously? I’ll just take a taxi.”
“Up to you, but a taxi at this time of day, good luck with that. Even if you find one the taxi driver won’t know about the chic boutiques, and I was planning on Frankie’s for an early dinner.”
She paused; the invitation was tempting, and I could see the wheels in her head turning. Flagging a taxi, not good, not knowing where to shop, not good, dinner at Frankie’s, sounds interesting.
“Please, Rachel, sit down and calm down. I’m going to finish my coffee.”
Reluctantly she shuffled forward and plopped herself on the chair opposite me. Taking it as an opening I took another drink and smiled across at her.
“What?” she frowned.
“You need to understand that I’ll do my best to accommodate you, but barking orders is not the way to my generosity.”
“Whatever,” she sighed.
“The, whatever, is up to you,” I remarked, and locking her eyes I sent the rest of the unspoken message, but I’m not someone you want to mess with.
I saw it land, and then I saw the brief flicker of understanding.
“When you’re finished your coffee, can we please go?”
“Absolutely,” I smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”
CHAPTER TEN
A Close Call
Rachel was a quick, sharp shopper, and I enjoyed watching her fast forward through the racks. She had the sales clerks hopping and the time sailed by.
Alistair joined us at Frankie’s for a quick bite before heading home, and I had no complaints about her behavior. She chatted with him amicably, ate heartily, and as I’d predicted, when we returned to my house she was almost asleep when we walked in the door.
She’d left her many packages in the car, and I didn’t know if she assumed I’d bring them in, or was just too tired and planned to do so the following morning, but they remained there overnight, in my car, in the small garage.
Over breakfast, which for her was a piece of toast and a cup of coffee, there wasn’t anything said about them, but after cleaning up the kitchen I had some calls to make, and I watched her lug in package after package and deposit them in her room, all the while sporting a deep frown.
I’d booked us on a mid-afternoon trip on the Eurostar, and when she’d finished bringing in her shopping spoils, I handed her a suitcase.
“We’ll be gone four days. I don’t think you’ll fit everything you need into your hobo bag, and there are better things to do there than shop.”
“Thanks, yeah, I have stuff now. I’m tired though, I’m going back to bed. Just let me know an hour before we have to leave.”
“Sure, I’ll knock on your door,” I replied.
I’d decided on the mid-afternoon train because they serve an excellent afternoon tea, and it would keep us in good stead until dinner that night. I know many charming restaurants in Paris, and had selected one in walking distance from our hotel.
In appreciation for putting her up and taking her with me to Paris, her father had booked us a two-bedroom suite at the George Sank. The hotel is not inexpensive, and I’d protested, but he’d insisted.
I’d agreed only because, after thinking it through, it was probably a safer bet than having her in her own room in the small boutique hotel at which I usually stay. At the George Sank, with only a living room between us, I could keep close watch, and sleeping with my door open I’d (hopefully) be able to hear her if she decided to take off in the middle of the night.
After she’d disappeared into her room, I didn’t hear a peep. The house was quiet and I worked in my office until it was time for me to knock on her door.
“Okay, I’ll be ready,” she called out.
“Would you like some coffee or something to eat?” I called back, thinking she must need something.
“No, I’m good.”
Moving to the kitchen I made myself some tea, and carried it up to my room to drink while I packed. About an hour later, I was walking down the stairs, my suitcase in hand, when she emerged from her bedroom clearly ready to leave. Wearing slacks and high-heeled sandals, and a silk shirt with a vest, she looked the epitome of what she was; a wealthy young woman on vacation.
“You look great,” I smiled.
“Thanks. That bag you’ve lent me was good idea.”
“You’re welcome.”
We were ready to leave, but there was one last thing I had to do, and I had to do it without her in the house. Reaching into my wallet I pulled out a ten-pound note.
“Can you please do me a quick favor? There’s a newsagent at the end of the road, just turn left out the front door. I need this week’s Business Journal and they may be out of them at the train station. I’d go but I still have a couple of things to finish up before we leave.”
“Sure,” she nodded.
“Feel free to get any magazines you might want to read on the train. We’ll take off when you get back.”
She took the money, and as she ambled towards the front door it struck me that the girl’s biggest problem was probably boredom.
It was on the train that the party started, just as I knew it would. Rachel became e
dgy; she didn’t like the cakes, the bite-sized sandwiches or the tea. She thought the seats were uncomfortable, and finally grabbing her bag she headed off to the ladies room.
I was drinking my Darjeeling, and halfway through an outstanding custard tart when she stormed back, and plopping down in her seat she glared at me across the table.
“Where is it?” she hissed.
“You mean that small, glass vial with the white powder you had hidden in that empty lipstick cartridge?” I asked calmly.
“You bastard!” she spat, her eyes filled with fury.
“My house, and my life, is a drug free zone,” I said sternly.
“You had no right to go through my things.”
“Take a deep breath and pay attention,” I continued, leaning across and fixing her with a steely, intense gaze. “When we exit this train there’s every possibility that there will be drug sniffing dogs at the station. I can assure you, a thin piece of tin would not prevent them from locating your stash, especially not when you overlooked the tiny roach at the very bottom of your bag.”
“What?”
Her angry frowned deepened and the color was draining from her face.
“I emptied everything, ran the hand-vac inside, sucked up the last of the tiny bits, and sprayed it with a deodorizer, but I’m fairly sure the dogs will bark, and you’ll be searched, and thanks to me, bastard that I am, you will not be spending an indefinite period of time in a French jail.”
She sat, staring at me, and I could see her fury melting into confusion.
“Nothing to say?” I asked.
“No, nothing to say,” she muttered.
“No, thank you, James, for saving my sorry ass?”
“My dad would have handled it,” she quipped.
“No, I don’t think so. There’s only so much money can do, which you’ve apparently not yet learned, and he certainly wouldn’t have been able to keep you from spending several nights behind bars.”
She grabbed a cake and began to chew, and I knew her mind was racing. She wanted whatever was in that glass vial, and she had no way of getting any, at least, not in the foreseeable future. Pouring herself some tea to wash down the cake, she ran her fingers through her hair and stared at the blackness outside the window.
“It will pass,” I remarked. “I don’t know how often you take the stuff, but your edginess will pass. Might take a day or so, but-”
“Not often. I don’t take it often. I only brought it so I could get over the jet lag,” she said hastily. “I’m not some loser drug addict.”
“Good to hear, and there’s something else you need to understand. I know you’re an adult, but I’ve been charged to watch out for you while we’re in Paris, and I take that very seriously. Do what you want when you get back to the good old, U.S. of A., but not while I’m responsible for your welfare.”
“Fine, fine, I don’t care, whatever,” she growled.
“Listen to me,” I said sternly, irritated by her flippant attitude, “if you step out of line, just once, I’ll put you over my knee and spank that very cute bottom of yours, and I’ll spank it hard, very hard, so hard you won’t be able to sit in that seat on our way back to London.”
The heavy scowl transformed into a look of wide-eyed shock, and literally, her jaw dropped.
“The hell you will!”
“You’ve been warned,” I said, my voice still stern.
She didn’t say much of anything the rest of the journey, burying herself in the magazines she’d bought at the newsagents, and that was fine with me; she needed to process my threat, and I was sure she was trying to decide whether or not I’d meant what I’d said.
When the train rolled into the station, just as I suspected the dogs were waiting, and much to her horror they barked at her bag. We were led off to a sterile room where we were both exhaustively searched and questioned before being dismissed; the unpleasant experience lasted about an hour.
Back at my house I’d gone through all of her things with a fine tooth comb, even plunging my fingers into a large jar of face cream, so I was fairly confident there was nothing to be found, but I was still greatly relieved when we were finally released.
Rachel, though, Rachel was visibly shaken. She’d held it together during the ordeal, but sitting in the taxi on the way to the George Sank I saw her hands were trembling.
“Okay, so now I owe you one,” she mumbled as the taxi pulled up to the hotel.
Once checked in and shown to our suite she went straight into her room and stayed there until I gently knocked an hour or so later, asking if she’d like to go out for some dinner; she called out that she would and she’d be ready in ten minutes.
I figured she had to be exhausted, and when she appeared a short time later it was obvious she was, and with no stimulants to give her a lift her sparkle had vanished.
Dinner was a calm, mellow affair, and after a leisurely walk we returned to the hotel and both crashed. I wasn’t worried about sleeping with my door open, I knew she’d was down for the count.
The following day, after one of those charming breakfasts on an outdoor patio watching the world go by, I told her about Montmartre and the Basilica of the Sacre.
“That sounds neat,” she said. “Like one of those things that’s a tourist thing, but you should do anyway.”
“That, Rachel, is a perfect description. The view is spectacular, one you’ll carry with you for years, and one you’ll want to return to.”
“Let’s do it,” she smiled.
I foolishly thought I’d won the battle, that I’d convinced her I was to be taken seriously, and that the rest of our trip would be roses and sunshine: I couldn’t have been more wrong. Rachel, as I said in the beginning of this tale, had moxie.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I Picked Up The Glove
Given the choice between walking uphill into the actual village, climbing the endless steps, or taking the small white train, she chose the small white train; no surprise there. I found it a bit embarrassing but this was about her not me, so I took it in good spirits, and never having ridden it before I have to admit it was kind of fun.
We wandered the cobblestone streets for some time, she stood in front of the noble white church staring out at the captivating view and was awed by its majesty, then proclaimed that she wanted a cup of coffee. I heartily agreed, and we meandered through the village until we found a place that was quiet and quaint.
My french is better than most, and after ordering to a smiling waiter, grateful he had foreigners who spoke the language, our drinks were brought quickly, (as they generally are in Paris), along with a selection of tempting pastries.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said slowly, as if she was about to make a grand announcement.
This was a first. Rarely did she initiate a conversation, and the words, I’ve been thinking, I didn’t really equate to her.
“About?”
(This is where the moxie part comes in.)
“You shouldn’t make a threat unless you’re going to back them up, and you won’t.”
I had to smile. I probably shouldn’t have but I couldn’t help myself.
“I believe a better way of saying that would be, threats shouldn’t be made unless you’re willing to back them up, and just leave it at that. The rest is redundant, and your choice of words was wrong, singular and plural don’t go together. You could say-”
“What?” she interrupted. “Do you know what I just said? What I’m talking about”
“Of course,” I scoffed.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Don’t you want to know why there’s no way you’d…uh…do what you said?”
“You mean, put you over my knee and spank you,” I said, making sure it was loud enough for everyone around us to hear.
“Seriously? Do you have to advertise it to the whole fucking world?” she exclaimed with blazing eyes.
“I just wanted to make sure we were talking ab
out the same thing.”
“You’re infuriating,” she glowered. “Do you want to know or not?”
“It doesn’t matter what you have to say, Rachel, because if you get out of line, believe me, I will spank you.”
“That’s because you haven’t thought this through,” she declared triumphantly.
“I haven’t?” I asked, feigning surprise.
“Obviously not,” she spat, speaking to me as if I was an absolute moron. “IF…IF…you did something so stupid, I’d sue you for assault. My father would hire a zillion lawyers, he’d destroy you, so no, you haven’t thought it through, and now that I’ve explained what will happen, you’d be an idiot to carry out your threat, so you won’t. You can’t possibly take such a huge risk. That’s the end of it, period.”
She looked incredibly pleased with herself, and reaching to the plate of pastries I selected a particularly messy one and took a large bite.
“Oh, wow, that is incredible,” I declared, then taking a swallow of coffee I added, “a zillion, that’s a lot of lawyers.”
“It’s a figure of speech,” she said impatiently. “He’ll hire as many as it takes. Your name will be mud.”
She looked so earnest it was almost endearing, it almost made me want to agree with her, but sadly for Rachel I was about to pop her over-inflated balloon.
“I’m afraid you’ve just made a grave error,” I sighed.
I saw her gulp, and a worried crease crinkled across her forehead.
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you ever heard the term, throw down the gauntlet?”
“Yes, of course,” she said warily.
“Tell me what it means.”
“Why, don’t you know?”
“Oh, yes, it means to issue a challenge. The knight throws his glove on the ground, challenging the opposing knight to a duel. If the opposing knight picks it up it means the duel is on.”
“What are you going on about?” she snapped.
“I am picking up your glove, dear Rachel, and accepting your challenge.”
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