Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  “Only one,” he says.

  Only one?

  “After her there were no other girlfriends,” he adds, “only sexual liaisons.”

  Oh. So he’s telling me there was some great love of his life, and she let him beat her.

  “Why did you split up?” I say, hoping this doesn’t count as the kind of enquiry which merits physical discipline.

  “We didn’t,” he says shortly. “She died. Of a drugs overdose.”

  The look of pain in his face is so acute that I can’t stand it.

  I move back over to where he’s sitting, and seat myself beside him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, taking his hand. “I truly am.”

  He looks at me distractedly. Suddenly I catch a glimpse of something. Is this demand for obedience is his way of salving some great pain, deep inside?

  Can I agree to it? Could I be helping him?

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, and I see relief light his features. “But you have to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “You say you are gentler around me.”

  His features soften. “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you could try and find out what it is that makes you gentler, so you can practise it more.”

  He nods, looking down at the floor with a little smile. Then he meets my eyes.

  “I’m going to let you go now Isabella, so you can think things over. And believe me, nothing is quite so exquisitely painful as watching you leave.”

  He pauses for a moment and I realise he must have felt this on another occasion. Maybe even more than one. Was it as painful for him to leave me at the restaurant earlier than it was for me? Certainly he looked hurt when I left him in his suite last night.

  “But you must grant me permission to take you out tomorrow night, so that I might persuade you to my way of thinking.”

  I’m not sure I like where this is going.

  “You don’t need to be anxious,” he adds, “I am not taking you anywhere that you couldn’t tell your mother about.”

  My mother. Right. Like I would tell her I’m on a date with a man who wants to spank me for showing up late.

  “But it is a surprise. That is part of the deal. I am in charge.” He gives a devilish grin.

  I sigh. Can I accept this?

  “Somewhere I can tell me mother about?” I venture.

  “Yes.”

  That doesn’t sound too bad.

  “Ok,” I accept warily.

  “Good. The car will collect you at 8pm. Make sure you’ve had something to eat.”

  Not dinner then. I mentally cross that option off the list. Then what?

  He stands up, pulling me up with him by the hands.

  “Now,” he says, before you go. “I am going to give you something to remember me by.”

  He sweeps me into his arms, and his mouth is like fire, his tongue moving sensually, and his lips bringing alive every sense in my body.

  Wow.

  Then he reaches his hand down and strikes my behind in a sharp little spank. I gasp as a surge of desire runs through me.

  “Now go, and think about what I said,” he whispers as he releases me. And I realise with a sense of foreboding that I don’t know how I will be able to resist this dangerous man doing anything he wants with me.

  Chapter 11

  Click. The lens shutter hammers away as Chris angles the camera.

  “Beautiful! Beautiful Isabella.”

  He drops to his knees, angling the camera up under my face.

  “Just a few more.”

  I’m dressed like a medieval princess, with a long flowing dress and a small crown. My black hair flows beneath it, and I wear a heavy piece of gold-coloured costume jewellery at my neck.

  “Lovely.” Chris moves around to the other side, clicking away.

  This slightly bizarre side-line came courtesy of Lorna, who introduced me to Chris at a party. Chris is a classic London cockney photographer who started out snapping glamour girls and celebrities.

  He’s since expanded to supply book covers and portrait shots, but can always be relied upon to supply the latest celebrity gossip.

  “Come on Isabella,” he says, unleashing a flurry of shutter shots, “give me that reluctant model look I love.”

  I’m a terrible model, but for some reason my face just fits for a series of historical romance books. Chris roped me into the job a year ago, when he found that model agencies couldn’t supply him with a girl who looked medieval enough.

  I also look a lot more ordinary than girls like Lorna, who would look too modern and model-like decked out in olden day costumes, so I got the gig. And it earns me a few hundred pounds every six months or so when a new title is released.

  “Ok,” says Chris, “just a few more.”

  The shutter clicks again, and then he puts the camera down.

  “Perfect.”

  I give a sigh of relief. Standing in the heavy dress for hours is exhausting.

  “Here,” Chris throws me my phone. “You have about a hundred missed calls on this.”

  I catch the phone – no easy job in princess robes – and check the screen.

  Ten missed calls flash up at me and four messages.

  I scan through them. All from James Berkeley. What the hell?

  My immediate thought is he must be phoning to cancel, and my heart drops a little.

  I scroll through the texts.

  Need to talk to you about tonight.

  Isabella, call me.

  Are you alright?

  Call me. I’m worried.

  Wow. The guy is determined. Maybe that’s what makes famous directors. I click to call him back, mentally revising my evening. Lorna’s out partying as usual, so maybe I’ll have a much-deserved quiet night in.

  The phone picks up after one ring.

  “Isabella, are you alright?”

  The intensity of his answer throws me.

  “Yes. Yes I’m fine.”

  I hear him sigh in relief.

  “I thought something might have happened to you.”

  “Nothing bad can happen to me with you around, remember,” I tease.

  I look over the room to see Chris staring at me. With my poor dating history he’s not used to hearing me flirt on the phone.

  “But I’m not with you,” growls James. “That’s the problem.” He lets out a little huff of air. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in a photography studio.”

  “You’re where?”

  A feeling of uneasiness creeps through me. Something tells me Mr-Old-Fashioned is not going to like another man taking my picture.

  “I have a part-time job, having my picture taken for historic book covers,” I explain.

  “Who is taking the photos?” his voice is icy.

  “A photographer.” I snap back.

  “Answer the question Isabella,” he says, and there’s a dangerous tone in his voice.

  Have I made him angry?

  The idea has a new dimension now he’s said what he’d like to do to me if I step out of line.

  “Chris,” I say carefully, “he’s a celebrity photographer who shoots book covers.”

  There’s a silence as he considers this.

  “Isabella I don’t like men taking photos of you,” he says.

  Surprise, Surprise.

  “But since we haven’t yet reached a mutual agreement as to how we might progress, I will have to contain my annoyance.”

  I’m not sure how to respond, so I change the subject. “Why did you call?” I ask.

  “I needed to give you some information about this evening. About what to wear.”

  Oh. So we are still on. But he’s starting with the obsessive dressing me thing again.

  “I want you wearing a dress,” he says, “something feminine and not too short.”

  Excuse me?

  “Listen,” I say, my hackles rising. “As you so correctly stated before, we haven’t reached an arrangement.
You are not going to dictate to me what to wear.”

  Chris has stopping packing away his camera and is looking at me in amazement.

  “It’s important,” says James, his voice softening, “trust me Isabella. It’s not about my dictating to you. It impacts on where we’re going this evening. Believe me, it would be very remiss for me not to explain what you needed to wear.”

  Possibilities and questions are rising up in my mind. What on earth could we be doing that requires such a specific outfit? Surely he’s just using it as an excuse?

  “Alright,” I say slowly. “I’ll wear what you suggest. But if I get there and find it’s not necessary then you’ll be in big trouble.”

  He gives a soft laugh. “Believe me, Isabella,” he says. “When I’m around you I’m always in trouble.”

  There’s a click and the line goes dead. I’m left standing in my princess dress with Chris gaping at me.

  “Who was that?” he manages. “Someone has finally managed to get through to that cold heart of yours?”

  Chris is joking. He’s a massive flirt, and makes no secret of the fact he’s like to have sex with me. But seeing as he does this with every girl on the planet I don’t take it personally.

  “Shut up Chris,” I am grinning.

  “Oh my God!”

  “It’s not like that.” I’m shaking my head.

  “Ohhhhh. So what is it like then?”

  You tell me. I’ve found a man who wants to turn back the equality clock about two hundred years.

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “They’re all complicated darlin’” says Chris, shouldering his bag. “An right now I am about to join several of you gorgeous complicated female creatures in the boozer, down the road, for a pint. Care to join us?”

  I laugh. “No thanks Chris.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You make sure this geezer treats you right,” he adds, making his way out of the studio and leaving me to change and lock up. “You’re a special girl Isabella, you need to be treated special.”

  Oh he wants to treat me special alright.

  “Bye Chris,” I give him a tired wave, wondering what life must be like in his easy world of flirting and sex. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Chapter 12

  Lorna is buzzing round me excitedly as I dress for my date.

  I’ve chosen a green dress with a fitted fifties style halter-top and a flowing skirt. And since his gift of the Jimmy Choos are the only genuine designer shoes I own, I’ve reluctantly slipped them on. James Berkeley has a habit of choosing fancy locations and I don’t want to look out of place.

  “A secret date!” she says. “How romantic is that?”

  I have a feeling she wouldn’t think it was quite so romantic if she knew the reasoning behind it.

  So that I might persuade you to my way of thinking.

  The thought gives me a thrill of fear. He also promised it would be something I could explain to my mother. How bad could it be?

  There’s a ring at the doorbell as I’m putting the final touches to my make-up.

  Lorna looks at me knowingly.

  “That’ll be him!”

  “I don’t think so Lorna. Last time he waited in the car. Besides,” I check my watch. “It’s only quarter to eight.”

  I return to fixing my hair to match the dress. I’ve chosen to sweep it up into a chignon, but right now it’s misbehaving.

  I hear Lorna answer the door and then a male voice. My heart skips a beat.

  Then he’s there, in my doorway, looking beyond handsome in a grey wool coat, and holding an elegantly wrapped bunch of yellow roses.

  Lorna is behind him, almost bouncing up and down with glee.

  “She’s in here Mr Berkeley,” she says, her eyes glued to his face. Over the past few days I’ve conveniently forgotten than every other female on the planet finds James Berkeley irresistible. Why did I ever think he might be interested in me?

  A wave of depression sweeps over me.

  I’m just another sexual liaison to him, I think, remembering his words. The love of his life is dead. I wonder at how beautiful she must have been to make him fall in love with her.

  Lorna melts away into the hallway and suddenly there’s only me and him, standing in my bedroom.

  “Very nice,” he says, looking around the room.

  “Oh.” I glance around distractedly. My room is a homely jumble of flea-market finds items and furnishings from the nearby Portobello Market.

  “It’s just things I’ve collected over the years.”

  “I was talking about you,” he murmurs, taking a step closer and handing me the flowers. His eyes follow the halter-neck of my green dress,

  “Thank you,” I take them from him. I’ve never had such a beautiful bouquet. The green paper wrapping is emblazoned with the words Orlando Hamilton. I recognise the name from the newspapers. This is the florist which Guy Ritchie used to send flowers to Madonna.

  “They’re a clue to where we’re going tonight,” he says.

  I frown. This doesn’t help at all. Unless we’re going to a flower show. Unlikely.

  “They’re also yellow rather than red,” he says. “Do you know what that signifies?”

  I shake my head.

  “Jealousy,” he says.

  What? My eyes widen in surprise.

  “I do not like you being photographed by other men Isabella.” He says. “If we come to an arrangement between us behaviour of that sort will command a very heavy kind of punishment.”

  I place the flowers on my dressing table.

  “But we haven’t reached an arrangement,” I remind him smiling sweetly.

  Ha.

  He smiles, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “We’ll see.” He looks around the bedroom and his gaze falls on my bed. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

  It’s a large sleigh-bed which I got for a steal in an auction, and as an item of furniture it’s my pride and joy. But the way Berkeley is looking at it is giving my favourite purchase a whole new meaning.

  “It’s shame there’s no place I can tie you to that bed,” he says.

  He wants to tie me to my bed?

  The thought is outrageous and hot at the same time.

  He steps closer and runs his hand under my chin.

  “But first I have something arranged for you.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what it is now?” My voice comes out as a squeak. The bed remark has made me flustered despite my best intentions to play it cool.

  “Not yet.” He smiles, and the boyish carefree James who I caught a glimpse of last night returns.

  “Come with me,” he leans forward to plunk a single yellow rose from the bouquet, and then offers me his arm.

  We pass Lorna in the hallway and she waves us out. I pray she hasn’t been listening in on Berkley’s kinky pillow talk.

  She frowns at me as we leave, and I realise she’s signalling me to be safe. For whatever reason she doesn’t trust Berkeley.

  I roll my eyes and mouth ‘ok’ back at her, and then we’re out of the apartment.

  As we slide into the backseat of the car Berkeley reaches into his pocket and presents me with a slim box. He still holds the single yellow rose in his other hand.

  “What’s this,” I ask, as the car pulls away, “another gift?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” His eyes twitch in amusement. “Although it’s more a gift for me.”

  I tear off the paper, looking at him questioning, and open a card box. I ease of the lid, and inside is a silk blindfold.

  “You’ll need to wear it,” he says.

  I stare at him.

  “Isabella,” he says gently. “Trust me.”

  He takes it from my hands and eases it over my eyes. The silk is soft on my face.

  “It’s so you can’t see where we’re going,” he explains.

  From behind the dark of the mask the world has taken on ano
ther hue. And it’s filled with James Berkeley. The heat of his body, the scent of his skin. I realise suddenly that every cell in my body is heightened, crying out for him to touch me.

  Did he know it would have this effect?

  “Is this how you take all your dates out?” I ask, in a poor attempt at humour.

  He doesn’t laugh.

  “The back of this car has been made to certain requirements,” he says. “The driver can’t hear or see us from the front unless I press a switch enabling it.”

  He’s silent for a moment, allowing this information to sink in.

  “Have you had a lot of women in here?” I can’t help myself, the jealous memory of Lorna and all the other girls who must fall over him has risen to the fore.

  “Yes,” he says, and there’s humour in his voice. “I have fucked women in the back of this car. You are the only woman I have taken blindfold in it.”

  “Oh.” I chew at my lip nervously, wondering what my face looks like half-covered with the blindfold.

  Suddenly James’s mouth is at my ear, blowing gently.

  “Words cannot explain what an effect you’re having on me, blindfolded like that,” he says.

  A wonderful fragrance fills the air near my nostrils, and I realise he must be holding the rose close to my face. Then the soft petals touch my forehead, and sweep slowly down my face.

  My lips part slightly at the bloom runs gently over them. And then James sweeps the rose slowly downwards, across my collar bones and then down to where my green halter-dress meets the tops of my breasts.

  Wherever it touches seems to make my skin hypersensitive.

  “Tonight I am going to teach you what it means to be obedient to me,” he murmurs, as the petals touch where my breasts meet.

  I gasp as he dallies with the flower over the sensitive skin. Every cell in my body is yearning for him, for his touch.

  His hand is on my thigh. I tense and then relax.

  “I’m going to make you come now,” he whispers, stroking his hand slowly upwards, so it slides beneath my skirt. “I’ve been thinking about it since you left last night. Would you like that?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. There’s no point in lying. Desire is coming off me in waves. It feels as though every part of my skin is extra sensitive.