by JS Taylor
But I’m here. And there’s only really one course of action. I have to go ahead with my plan.
Swallowing hard, I consider my destination.
The house is medium-sized and approached by a gated drive. I can make out a modest swimming pool and a double storey residence.
There’s a gold-plated voice-com and bell, and taking a steadying breath, I press the button.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice blares out.
“I’m Isabella Green…” I start. But she cuts me off instantly.
“Wait there. I come out.”
A generously built Latino lady dressed in a maid’s outfit appears on the drive and walks rapidly towards me, her wide hips rolling.
She reaches the gates and peers suspiciously out at me.
“You are the new maid?” she asks.
“I…” I hesitate. And then I realise that my Spanish type-casting has finally come through for me. The woman has mistaken me for a Latino maid.
“Yes,” I say, adding my mother’s Spanish lilt to my voice with ease. “You’re the housekeeper?” I guess.
She nods. “The agency sent you?” queries the lady, switching to Spanish.
“Si,” I reply, thanking my lucky stars for my fluent Spanish.
She presses a button on the inside of the gate, and it swings open slowly.
“Come in,” she gestures. “You are a day early,” she adds with a grumble, still speaking in Spanish. “But the lady won’t mind paying.”
She gives me a thorough look up and down and makes an approving nod.
“You’ll be ok, I think,” she decides. “The lady is very nervous. They told you that? At the agency?”
“Uh. They told me she had been the victim of an attack,” I say, hoping this fits what she knows. I’m trying to keep my accent Mexican, but I’m not sure how convincing it is, since I grew up speaking mainland Spanish.
The woman looks at me a little strangely. Then nods gravely, turning on her heel for me to follow. She moves up the drive at a surprisingly fast pace, and I have to stride to keep up.
“A terrible thing happened,” agrees the housekeeper. “She used to be an actress. But now she just sits inside.”
We reach the door, and she gestures I should follow her in to a large entrance hall.
“You wait there,” she says. “I’ll be twenty minutes. The agency sent you early,” she repeats in annoyance. “But I’ll get you started as soon as I get all the paperwork ready.”
I nod, feeling the anxiety wind around me.
Paperwork. If she phones the agency, she’ll soon realise I’m not supposed to be here.
“The lady is upstairs,” adds the housekeeper. “She’s mostly quiet. You’ll get to meet her later.”
“Ok,” I reply, seeing an answer is expected of me.
“You are not from Mexico?” asks the woman suddenly. She’s eyeing me suspiciously now. “Your accent isn’t the same.”
“I’m from Chile,” I say, taking a gamble she’s not familiar with a Chilean accent.
“Ay!” she says, shaking her head. “Bad economy there. You’ll find a better life in America. If you’re prepared work hard.”
I nod my head earnestly, and she vanishes out of the hallway, leaving me alone.
Ok Issy. It’s now or never.
I’ve never done anything particularly brave. And I never tell lies. So this whole situation is sending adrenalin coursing through me. But this is my only chance.
Abandoning all my nice-girl upbringing, I head up the stairs to where the lady of the house is staying.
Halfway up, I catch a glimpse of the housekeeper with a pile of documents in front of her. She’s reaching for the phone.
Move fast, Issy.
I race up the remaining stairs and virtually fall through the first door I come to.
It’s a bedroom inside.
And sat on the bed is a limp young woman, her eyes glued to a flickering television.
She looks up, and when she sees me, her face is a blank mask of terror.
Chapter 30
The young woman’s eyes are wide, fear lancing through her features.
We both stare at each other.
Emilia. This must be her.
She is dressed in pyjamas, with bare feet, and sat on a large bed. Her hair was once dyed blonde, but it’s grown almost all out to a mousy colour. She has blue eyes, and her features are arresting. I can see how she could be considered beautiful. But holed up in this dark room, her face is gaunt, pale and uncared for.
The only furniture is a bed, a TV, and a small chair.
Then she speaks, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Did he send you?”
“Who?” I answer the question on reflex, the strangeness of the situation ushering my reply.
The girl blinks. Then her eyes widen.
“Him,” she breathes. “The Lipstick Stalker.”
I am shaking my head, overwhelmed with dismay. This poor sad girl is so broken and running half mad after the stalker’s attack.
“No,” I whisper, moving forward slowly. “I’m Isabella Green. I’m an actress. Like you.”
Her face sets to terror again, and I realise I have said the wrong thing.
“I’m not an actress,” she says. “Please don’t let him think I’m an actress. I’m not an actress anymore.”
“It’s ok,” I say, holding my hands up. “I’m not here to hurt you. And he can’t hurt you either. You’re safe. I promise.”
She regards me in disbelief, and I feel another wave of deep pity for her.
I move towards the seat, opposite the bed, and point to it.
“May I sit?”
She says nothing, so I sit down carefully.
“Is it just you in this house?” I ask, wondering who is taking care of her. “There’s no family with you?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t have any family. I’m all alone here.”
I hear the housekeeper’s accented tones drift up the stairwell. “No. The new maid is here now. I told you.”
Hurry Issy. You don’t have long.
“I have some news,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “The stalker is in prison.”
She flinches at his name.
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” I repeat. “He can’t get to you.”
She looks unconvinced.
“He said he could always get to me,” she says. “You don’t know what he can do.”
Her eyes sweep the room, as if she expected him to pounce from any corner.
“Your name is Emilia,” I say, “isn’t it?”
She nods fearfully.
“I’m here to help you,” I say. “The stalker has a… a friend. Helping him. I need to find out who it is.”
“Yes,” agrees the girl. “He has powerful friends. He told me.”
“No!” the housekeeper’s voice comes louder. “She is here now. I told you!”
Quickly Issy. The housekeeper is finding you out.
“I need your help,” I say, fear making my words come rapidly. “I know you wouldn’t speak to the police. But I was hoping you would speak with me.”
My eyes are on hers. Beseeching. But there’s nothing in her blank gaze.
“Did… Did the stalker mention anything which could help identify him?” I press. “Did he… say anyone’s name, or mention a place?”
The girl is gazing back. It’s difficult to know if she’s even understood what I’ve said.
Then she swallows. “I’m not an actress,” she says in a strange sing-song voice. “Not an actress.” She starts to rock gently, back and forth.
I hear footsteps on the bottom of the stairs.
Oh no. The housekeeper has found me out.
“Please!” I lean forward desperately and touch the girl’s arm. She recoils as though she’s been struck, and as she does so, her pyjama top falls open a little.
My eyes drop to the naked skin underneath, and I gasp in shock.
The girl sees my gaze and quickly tugs the top back across her chest.
“Did he… Did the stalker do that to you?” I breathe, horrified. Her eyes fix on mine for a sad second. And I know in that instant, he did.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my heart breaking for her. “I’m so, so sorry. The police thought… They said he didn’t physically harm you.”
She leans a little closer. “I didn’t tell them anything,” she says. “I didn’t tell the police anything. Just like he told me.”
I put my hand on her arm, and this time she doesn’t recoil. For a moment, we’re looking at one another, joined by a mutual sadness.
“What the hell are you doing up here?”
Oh shit. It’s the housekeeper.
I turn to see the housekeeper standing, hand on her hip, in high outrage.
“I talk to agency,” she shouts in English. “They no send you.” She switches to Spanish. “Did you come here to steal? You should be ashamed. This lady has been through enough.”
“I didn’t…” I start, but the housekeeper cuts me off.
“I’ve called the police,” she says, still in Spanish. “They’ll be here soon. You should get out now, if you know what’s good for you.”
I swallow, taking in Emilia’s frightened face. My hand is still on her arm, and I turn back to her, gripping it.
“Listen to me,” I urge. “You are safe now. Do you understand? He can’t get to you. He can’t ever get to you again. He is locked away, in a different country. I want you to know, that you are safe.”
Emilia’s blank gaze has returned, and she stares back at me.
“America is good place for honest people,” shouts the housekeeper, waving her arms to shoo me out of the room. “People like you, you ruin it for all of us.”
I stand with as much dignity as I can muster for a girl who has just been accused of housebreaking and theft. And make to leave.
“Wait!”
As I move to the door, Emilia’s voice sounds. I turn in surprise. Her tone is far clearer than it had been. Even the housekeeper blinks in shock.
“There was something,” she says, her cool blue eyes blinking. “I heard him talk on the phone once. He said a name.” Emilia frowns. “A strange name,” she adds. “Close. Argile Close. He was asking for money to be sent.”
My eyes widen. Because I recognise her words.
Argile Close.
That’s not a person. I think that’s a London street.
I’m certain I’ve passed a street called Argyll Close in west London.
“Thank you,” I say.
This could actually be something!
“Thank you so much.”
Chapter 31
The flight back from LA seems to take three times as long. I confessed to James before boarding, giving him the information I discovered. And though he was angry at my risk, I could tell he was pleased to have a new lead.
When I arrive back at Heathrow, James is there to pick me up, and I rush into his arms. We’ve only been apart 24 hours, but it feels like so much longer.
“I’ve looked on a map, and Argyll Close isn’t a large street,” James tells me excitedly as we drive away from the airport. “This could be a breakthrough.”
Then his face sets sternly, remembering. “Promise me, next time you’ll let me know when you plan to skip the country,” he adds. “Couples are supposed to share things, remember?”
I smile, realising he’s using my own words against me.
“Would you have let me go?” I ask.
“No,” he admits. Then he thinks for a moment. “Not by yourself,” he adds. “But I could have arranged for some security for you, or accompanied you myself. It would have been safer. That girl could have been dangerous. You had no idea of her mental state.”
My mind flashes back to Emilia’s sad face. Her mental state. I feel a wave of sadness for her.
“Promise me,” he urges. “Don’t do something like that again.”
“Alright,” I concede. “I promise. Next time, I’ll let you know. But I’m hoping there won’t need to be a next time.”
Maybe this new information is all we need.
We arrive back at James’s apartment, and he guides me to the bedroom.
“I’m guessing after your return trip to LA, you’re ready to sleep?” he asks.
I shake my head. Being apart from James has brought a renewed burst of desire for him. Perhaps something about my recent danger is helping too.
I circle my arms around his neck.
“I’m not really sleepy,” I say. “And I had a lot of time to think on the plane.”
“Oh you did?” he raises an eyebrow at my tone of voice. “What were you thinking about?”
“You,” I say, keeping my tone sultry-soft.
“Me?” he pulls me a little closer. “What about me?”
“I was thinking,” I say, moving my face almost to touch his. “About what we should do when I got back.”
James is holding his breath. I walk my fingers slowly up his chest and bring them to rest on his lips.
“I was thinking I should cash in my winnings,” I add, “from that night at the casino.”
James regards me. “You’re sure you’d like to do that now?” he asks. “You wouldn’t rather get some sleep?”
I shake my head. “I told you,” I say. “I’m not sleepy. In fact, I’m very, very awake.” I show him with my eyes that I mean one part of my body in particular.
The short separation has given my lust a turbo charge.
Excitement flashes in his face, and his hardness presses against me.
He feels the same way.
“What would you like to do?” James’s voice is low, as if he hardly dares believe my sudden bravery.
“To begin with,” I say, “I think you should join me in the shower.”
He nods. “I think that would be a very good idea.”
Slowly, he begins to ease up my T-shirt, and then he’s unbuttoning my jeans and letting them fall.
“Now you,” I say, taking advantage of my newfound power. I love seeing him naked.
He strips off his own clothing, and I gaze at his muscular body.
“Shower,” I decide. “Now.”
James takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom adjoining his bedroom. He turns on the shower, and then twists a few extra functions.
In the next second, steamy water is raining from every angle.
“Rainforest function,” he explains. “I thought you’d approve.”
I grin, stepping into the onslaught of warm water, and guiding him in after me by the hand.
Mmmmm. The shower feels heavenly drumming against my skin. I tip my head back for a moment, letting it run into my long dark hair, massaging my scalp.
Then I feel James’s hands on my body.
“I think you’re very dirty,” he says, “around this area, in particular.”
His hands are soaping my breasts in firm circles, his fingers lingering on my nipples.
Ooooo. That’s so good.
I lean into his touch and feel his erection against my naked skin.
With the warm water cascading over us, I’m suddenly charged with a deep, dark lust. I want to seize every part of him. To have him invade my body utterly.
The strength of my desire both frightens and thrills me.
James sees it in my eyes and pulls me close.
“Not here,” I say. “On the bed.”
He steps out of the shower, wrapping me into a bath towel. I pull him into a deep passionate kiss.
“I want you,” I whisper into his mouth as we kiss. “I want you now.”
His eyebrows lift. “You are insatiable, Ms Green,” he says. “I like it.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I say, dropping my hands to his erection and watching his face convulse with pleasure. “I’d say it’s had the same effect on you.”
James lifts me up and carries me to the bed. Then he places me down, moving beside me.
“What would you like me to do?” he asks. There’s some new energy about him which I’ve never seen before. He’s so eager to please. So turned on by my instruction. It awakes something inside me. Something primal.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, kissing my throat. I groan at the touch of his lips, my whole body alight.
I need him. I need him to take me, body and soul. I want to crawl inside of his body and have him possess me utterly.
And one particular idea is swirling in my brain.
Can I ask him this? Am I brave enough to voice my real desires?
“I want you…” I swallow, and close my eyes, forcing myself to admit the words. “I want you to fuck my ass,” I whisper.
I hear James take a breath and open my eyes. His face is wide, surprised. But there’s something else there. A carnal lust.
“Really?” he says.
I nod. “Yes.”
He’s breathing heavily, and he pulls me against him. My eyes widen in shock as my body draws in close. He wants this. Badly.
His sudden desire fuels a rush of caution in me.
I’m biting my lip. “Will it hurt?” I ask.
James strokes a hand along my body, and then his hand moves up to open the bedside cabinet.
“It might feel strong at the beginning,” he says, “as you’re getting used to the sensation. But I won’t hurt you.”
He moves his hand to my face.
“It’s more intense than you’ll have felt before,” he says. “This kind of sex, is very different. You’ll be more open to me than you ever have been. That will make you feel vulnerable.”
More open to him.
My earlier control has evaporated. And I realise I have changed the dynamic completely. It’s all about him being in charge of me. I will be submitting to him utterly.
“And you’ll have to trust me,” he adds. “The more you relax, the better it will feel.”
“Ok,” I nod. But my face must show fear.
James leans in and kisses my mouth.
Then he pulls away, and his face has set dark.
Slowly, he positions me along the bed. I can feel by the tension in his body how badly he wants this.