‘To us,’ she repeats softly. It sticks in her throat.
She takes a small sip and tastes nothing. She puts the glass on the table and looks at her hands.
‘You have very beautiful skin. It was the first thing I noticed about you. Does it…mark very easily?’
‘Yes,’ she admits warily.
‘I knew it,’ he boasts with a sniff. ‘I am a connoisseur of skin. I love the taste and the touch of skin. I can already imagine the taste of yours. A skin of wine.’ He eyes her over the rim of his glass. She has tried her best not to look at the dandruff flakes that liberally dust the shoulders of his pin-striped suit, but with that last remark he has tossed his head and a flurry of motes have floated off his head and fallen onto the pristine tablecloth. Her eyes have helplessly followed their progress. She looks up to find him looking at her speculatively.
‘What will I be getting for my money?’
Lana blinks. It is all wrong. She shouldn’t be here. In this dress, or shoes, sitting in front of this obscene piece of filth hiding behind his handmade shirt, gold cufflinks and plummy, upper class accent. This man degrades and c 1 d
offends her simply by looking at her. She wishes herself somewhere else. But she is here. All her credit cards are maxed out. Two banks have impolitely turned her down.
And there is nothing else to do, but be here in this dress and these slutty shoes… Her stomach is in knots, but she smiles in what she hopes is a seductive way. ‘What would you like for your money?’
‘Forget what I would like for the moment. What are you selling?’ His eyes have become suddenly hard.
‘Me, I guess.’
That makes him snort with cruel laughter. ‘You are an extraordinarily beautiful girl, but to be honest I can get five first class supermodels for your asking price. What makes you think you’re worth that kind of money?’
‘I’m a virgin.’
He stops laughing. A suspicious look enters his pale blue eyes. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty.’ Well, she will be in two months’ time.
He frowns. ‘And you say you’re still a virgin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Saving yourself up for someone special, were you?’ His tone is annoying.
‘Does it matter?’ Her nails bite into her clenched fist.
His eyes glitter. ‘No, I suppose not.’ He pauses. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’
Lana swallows. The taste of her humiliation is bitter.
‘I’ll undergo any medical tests you require me to.’
He laughs. ‘No need. No need,’ he dismisses. ‘Blood on the sheets will be enough for me.’
The way he says blood makes Lana’s blood run cold.
‘Are all orifices up for sale?’
Oh! the brutality of the man. Something dies inside her, but she keeps the image of her mother in her mind, and her voice is clear and strong. ‘Yes.’
‘So all that is left is to renegotiate the price?’
Lana has to stop herself from recoiling. She knows now that she has committed two out of the nine sorts of behaviors her mother has warned her are considered contemptible and base. She has expected generosity from a miser and she has told her need to her enemy. ‘The price is not negotiable.’
His gaze sweeps meaningfully to her champagne glass.
‘Shall we give this party a go first and bargain later, when you are in a better mood?’
Lana understands. He thinks he can drive the price down when she is drunk. ‘The price is not negotiable,’ she says firmly. ‘And will have to be paid up front.’
He smiles smarmily. ‘I’m sure we’ll come to some agreement that we will both be happy with.’
Lana frowns. She has been naïve. Her plan is sketchy and has no provisions for a sharp punter or price negotiations. She heard through the office grapevine where she worked as temporary secretary that her boss was one of those men who are prepared to pay a ten thousand pounds a pop for his pleasure and often, but she had never thought he would reduce her to bargaining.
While Rupert stuffs himself with cheese and biscuits she excuses herself and goes to the ladies. There is another woman standing at the mirror. She glances at Lana with a mixture of envy and disgust. Lana waits until she leaves, then calls her mother.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Where are you, Lana?’
‘I’m still at the restaurant.’
‘What time will you be coming home?’
‘I’ll be late. I’ve been invited to a party.’
‘A party,’ her mother repeats worriedly. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know the address. Somewhere in London.’
‘How will you get home?’ A wire of panic has crept into her mother’s voice.
Lana sighs. She has almost never left her mother alone at night; consequently her mother is now a bundle of jittery nerves. ‘I have a ride, Mum. Just don’t wait up for me, OK?’
‘All right. Be careful, won’t you?’
‘Nothing is going to happen to me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ her mother says, but she sounds distracted and unhappy.
‘How are you feeling, Mum?’
‘Good.’
‘Goodnight, then. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Lana?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I love you very much.’
‘Me too, Mum. Me too.’
She flips shut her phone with a snap. She no longer feels cheap or obscene. She feels strong and sure. There is nothing Rupert can do that will degrade her. She will have that money no matter what. She has hardly eaten—just watching Rupert gurgle down the oysters made her feel quite sick, and how was she to know steak tartare was ground raw meat. She reapplies her lipstick and goes out to meet Rupert.
Three
hall we go?’ Rupert asks, and before Lana can agree, ‘Simperiously clicks his fingers for the bill. They leave the restaurant and once outside, Rupert hails a black cab.
It is such a warm evening that Lana carries her coat in her hands. Rupert gives the address to the cab driver and they climb in. Lana’s dress has ridden up her thighs, but when she tries to pull it back down, he puts his meaty, white hand over hers and in a firm voice orders, ‘Leave it.’
Embarrassed, Lana looks into the rearview mirror. The taxi driver is observing them. Wordlessly, she drapes her coat over her knees and turns her face away from Rupert, to stare out. Damn him. As she gazes unseeingly out she feels his hand slide under her coat and settle on her thighs.
Biting her lip she tries to ignore the hand, but it is slithering up her thigh. When it is almost at her crotch she catches the offending hand in hers. She turns to him and looks him in the eye.
‘We don’t have a deal yet.’
‘True,’ he says, and retracts his hand, but the smile on his face is taunting and smug. He knows she needs the money.
The rest of the journey passes in silence while Lana’s stomach churns. She is so nervous she actually feels afraid she will lose the few vegetables she has eaten on the floor of the cab. Fortunately, the taxi turns into Bishop’s Avenue and they come to a stop outside a large, white, three-story Regency house. There are fancy cars parked bumper to bumper along the length of the street. Rupert pays the cab driver and they walk up a short flight of steps to a set of black doors. Rupert rings the bel and through the tall windows Lana sees the kind of people that she has only seen in magazines. Immaculately dressed and dripping in jewelry. She looks down upon her cheap orange dress in dismay. She pulls at the hem, but her efforts at modesty are counter-productive, as more of her cleavage falls into view.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rupert lies cheerfully. ‘You’ll do.’
A round man in an old-fashioned butler’s uniform opens the door. His manner suggests disdain. He can tell instantly they do not belong. Rupert haughtily informs him that they are guests of Blake Barrington. The man eyes register recognition. A glimmer of a smile surfaces.
He nods politely and stands as
ide to welcome them in.
Lana takes a deep breath, enters the grand hallway and stifles a gasp at her splendid surroundings.
From outside it did not appear so large and spacious.
She has never been anywhere so beautiful. Now she understands what Rupert meant by the smell of old money. The walls are covered with museum quality paintings. She gazes up at the cherubs and Madonna-like women looking down at her with awe. They are so beautiful that she wants a closer look, but Rupert is guiding her firmly by the elbow towards a sort of anteroom where a young woman takes her coat in exchange for a ticket.
From two open doorways live classical music and voices emanate. A waiter carrying a tray of champagne stops in front of them. Lana has hardly drunk at the restaurant in an effort to remain sober and level-headed, but now she knows she must be drunk or she will never be able to go through her deal with the devil. A pasty white devil with dandruff.
Lana takes a glass, and with a restraining hand on the surprised waiter’s arm, drains the tall flute. The bubbles hit her at the back of her throat and make her eyes water.
She returns the empty glass to the tray and snags another two.
‘Thanks,’ she says breathlessly, and the waiter, a young Mediterranean type, allows his dark, restless eyes to wander down to her chest.
Rupert watches her with feral, excited eyes. He wants her drunk. He has plans for her. He guides her by the small of her back into one of the rooms. Lana looks at the other women’s clothes. They probably cost more than she makes in a year. Lana feels many pairs of eyes on her. She is aware that she stands out like a sore thumb. She looks towards the string quartet and finds their eyes on her too.
Damn that Barrington guy for inviting them here. She sucks her champagne glass dry. Another waiter passes and she pulls another glass from the tray.
‘Go easy,’ Rupert warns.
She turned towards him with a bright smile. ‘I thought you wanted me drunk and pliable.’
He takes her elbow and leads her deeper into the room close to a large palm plant. With his back to the party he says, ‘I don’t like fucking inert bodies.’
Her eyes widen. The champagne has already gone to her head. No time better than now. She feels courageous again. ‘OK, I’m ready to talk terms now. ‘Right, you don’t want inert bodies. What do you want?’
From the camel’s lips came cold breath. ‘Have you read Fifty Shades Of Grey?’
Almost all the other girls at the agency have read the book and she has been present while they have raved about it, but she has been confused by its popularity. Did women really have a secret desire to be owned by a powerful man? Could it be love when a man wants to tie you up and flog you raw? When she mentioned it to her mother, her mother had smiled and astutely remarked, ‘The Western woman sneered at the woman in the purdah and now she dons a dog collar and worships at the same altar.’ Lana looks into his pale eyes. ‘No, but isn’t it about a sick man who abuses his lover?’
‘Perhaps it is not a sickness, but a matter of taste.’
‘Is that what you want from me?’
‘Not quite. What I really like is taking a woman by force. A dangerous activity likely to end me behind bars, so I am willing to settle for consensual rape. You will meet me in parks and alleyways, or I will pick you up in my car from a street corner and you will pretend to resist while I overpower you and rape you. There will be a bit of pain and sometimes it will involve a little bleeding, but I will never mark your face or leave any permanent scars. And when I am finished I will leave you in the gutter to make your own way back. Would that be acceptable to you?’
Shocked to her core, Lana hears her own voice as if from far away say, ‘How many times would you expect this…service from me?’
‘Let’s say five times?’
She feels as if she is a stick-figured bird precariously perched on a thin wire. Rupert’s face is frozen into a cold mask. A businessman to the end. Ten thousand must be the going price. The champagne has made her feel quite light-headed. He is waiting for something from her. He has already figured that her body is her last option. Can she really agree to let someone rape her? Unable to speak she nods.
‘Perhaps I should let you lick the brim to taste the poison,’ he murmurs, and moves closer to her.
Instinctively, she takes a step back on her tall shoes, and if not for the solid wall against her back, would have fallen.
With the trailing fronds of a palm tree and his big body hiding her from the party his hand comes up to pinch her right nipple. So hard she gasps in shock and pain. He takes that opportunity to crash down on her open mouth, bumps his teeth against her lips, and pokes a pointy, muscular tongue into her mouth. His tongue tastes coppery and bitter.
Copious amounts of saliva pour into her mouth making her want to gag. The oysters she has not eaten but watched him eat flash into her mind. His tongue feels slimy and dirty. She wants to brush her teeth, rinse, spit, and rinse again with the extra-strong mouthwash that her father used to have in the bathroom cabinet. She truly needs to go somewhere and be sick, but pinned tightly by his strong ox-like body to the wall she finds herself totally unable to move. She feels his hand force itself between her thighs and slide up quickly. His rough, sausages-like fingers are already grasping the rim of her knickers and pushing the material aside. And there is not a single thing she can do about it. Tears gather at the backs of her eyes and begin to roll down her face.
Suddenly he removes his mouth and looks down at her.
Her face is white with horror and she is gasping for breath.
He brings up a hand and touches her face. Her distress seems to please him. Her suffering is his pleasure. She is playing the part perfectly. If she had enjoyed it, it would have spoilt it for him.
‘For most part the symptoms of excitement and fear are so similar most men cannot tel the difference. I can,’ he whispers close to her ear, his thick fingers moving into the folds of her flesh. ‘I am going to finger-fuck you amongst all these high and mighty people and none of them will ever know.’
She is filled with loathing for him. Her brain scrambles for escape. ‘Don’t you care,’ she whispers back, through horrified lips, ‘what these people will think of us? Of you?
I thought you were pleased to be in the company of the crème de la crème of society.’
His laugh is harsh and sudden. ‘Did you see anybody come to greet me or talk to me? I am as invisible as you are, probably more so. Nobody is looking at us, because nobody cares about us. We are the outsiders.’
Desperately, she pushes the palms of her hands against his chest.
The nausea threatens at her throat. She must be sick ‘I need the toilet,’ she gasps.
He hesitates for a second and then he smiles. It is the smile of a man who is too pleased with himself. ‘It’s not very posh to say toilet. This lot call it the loo. Go on, then,’ he says, and steps aside.
The first thing her shocked, ashamed eyes meet is Blake.
There is a blonde in a long red dress wrapped around him, but he is staring at Lana with an expression on his face she cannot fathom. His eyes are blazing.
Lana snaps her mouth shut, squares her shoulders, and pushing herself away from the wall takes a step forward.
Her knees feel shaky and she is afraid she will fall, but she does not. She needs to get away. Away from the scene of her humiliation. She feels heads turning to watch her, disgusted expressions and whispers. She stumbles away towards the door. She can hardly control the rising nausea.
She doesn’t dare open her mouth to ask anyone where the loos are, but she spots two young women disappearing down a corridor and she rushes after them. They lead her to a cloakroom and she pushes past them, ignoring their offended cries of ‘Hey’. She runs into one of two cubicles and falling to her knees violently throws up the bits of vegetables she has eaten and the champagne. One of the girls asks if she is all right and she chokes, ‘Fine’. She hears them go into the other cubicle and loc
k the door.
She sits back on her heels and the hot tears come. She covers her mouth to muffle her sobs. She has made a fool of herself. What will she do? What will she do? Numbly she hears the girls in the next cubicle giggling about what all girls giggle and chat about—men. Then her ears pick up the sounds of them snorting lines of cocaine. When they leave she flushes the toilet and opens the door. She notices what she had not before. How grand the furnishings are.
There is a very large ornate, gilded mirror stretched across the wall. The other toilet seems to be in use and a thin woman with immaculate hair is perched on one of the gold and cream chairs waiting her turn. There is an air of superior calm about her. Her eyes meet Lana’s briefly but curiously, before she enters the cubicle that Lana has vacated.
Lana goes to stand in front of the mirror. She stares at herself. Her face is deathly pale and the cheap mascara she purchased from the market is smudged and running; her lips look as if she has been stung by bees, and her eyes are red from crying. This is what Blake Barrington saw. She looks like she feels. Soiled.
The woman in the other cubicle comes out. She looks identical to the woman who had perched herself on the chair. With a quick, surprised glance at Lana, she goes to stand at the other end of the mirror. She pats her immaculate hair, brushes away imaginary specks of dust from her soft pink dress suit and leaves. Lana turns on the tap and rinses her mouth with plenty of water. Scooping water in her palms she washes her face with hand soap and scrubs it dry with a paper towel. Without her make-up she feels defenseless.
There is a sick pervert out there who wants to rape her and leave her torn and bleeding in alleyways. You could walk away. Say fuck you. She couldn’t. It was so much money. And he knew it. She needed that money. She considers taking the money and not delivering. What could he do? It’s not like he could go to the police or she would be running a refund desk. Then she remembers his eyes. How cold and dangerous. No. Anyway, she has always said, she’d rather be the one who bought the Brooklyn Bridge than the one who sold it.
Again her thoughts turn to the Barrington man. Why is he still in her mind? Probably the way he had looked at her. No one. Absolutely no one has looked at her like that.
The Billionaire Banker Page 2