Making a wrong turn toward the antiquities, I saw Ben Hunt’s office. The lights were on inside, so I decided to take a chance and give seeing him a shot. As I went to knock on the door, it slid open. The office was empty, but there was a teacup on his desk and it was still steaming. Clearly, Mr. Hunt wasn’t far away. I instantly regretted leaving my one photo of the statue I was seeking with the information desk, but there was no going back to get it now. I couldn’t help but look around the elegant office; I’m nosy like that. Ben Hunt’s masculine office was filled with objects from his exploits; a suit of armor stood in the corner and the walls were covered with works of art from all over the world. His desk was ancient and could easily have been sitting there for fifty years. The office had a pleasant smell, a combination of a spicy men’s cologne and antiques. On his large oak desk there was a mask on a stick, a beautiful and ancient-looking object that lured me toward it. I have no idea why I had to touch it that afternoon, but I did. My fingers ran across the sleek ivory porcelain, delicate but yet powerful. As I pulled my curious fingers from it, somehow I lost my balance and the exotic item crashed to the floor. I attempted to break its fall, but failed miserably.
Oh, shit, now you’ve done it Jane! My mind raced as I bent down to pick up the broken pieces—I had no clue what I intended to do with them, but leaving a crashed work of art on Ben Hunt’s floor wasn’t going to score me any points with him. Eventually realizing the futility of hiding my calamity, I instead decided to just leave. As I rotated around to stand up, I froze. A pair of shiny black wing-tipped dress shoes stood inches from where I was crouched on the floor. I followed the impeccable shoes up to the attached legs with my eyes—a charcoal suit, very expensive I guessed, even though I knew nothing about fashion. The spicy masculine smell from the office emanated from him; I felt like a pauper kneeling before royalty. I didn’t belong in front of him.
“Leave it.” His voice was sharp, far more annoyed than angry.
“Uh, I’m so sorry, I’ll pay for this Mr. Hunt…” His well-manicured hand reached down to help me up from my crouch of shame on the floor.
“That is, well that was, a rare seventeenth century Carnival mask from Venice.” His accent was smooth, educated and lovely; nothing like the sharp guttural way the solicitor and Mrs. Carr spoke. His refined accent reminded me of Uncle Stuart’s.
“Oh! Um, well…” He pulled me to my feet firmly so that I stood in front of him, but I avoided making eye contact. He let go of my hand and slipped his perfect one back into his pant pocket. I felt a warm blush of embarrassment rise from my chest up to my cheeks. My eyes refused to lift higher than his deep maroon tie. I’d assumed Ben Hunt would be old and gray, the sort of sage scholar who smokes a pipe and wears a wool cardigan. This Ben Hunt, however, was far from old and decrepit. He was young, not as young as me, but maybe in his mid-thirties. Not only did he smell like heaven, he was tall, solid, and beautiful.
I finally managed to muster the courage to look into his eyes, and then died a slow death when I was frozen there for several long, catatonic moments. His eyes were blue, but like no other blue eyes I’d ever seen. They were pale, but warm—the unnatural color of pure blue topaz. His eyes entranced me and I was completely incapable of coherent speech as he asked me why I was in his office causing mayhem. Yes, he really used the word mayhem.
“I’m sorry, I’m Jane Andrews. My great-uncle Stuart left me a work of art in his estate. I mean…he left me a photo of it. I’m to locate it and—”
“So you broke into my office and vandalized my possessions in order to get me to look at a photo of what?”
“I-I…they wouldn’t let me see you. She said to come back next Tuesday, I don’t have until next Tuesday…”
“Someone said they’d see you next Tuesday?” He chuckled, clearly getting the crude joke.
“Yes, um. May I sit down and talk to you for just a minute about the angel statue? My uncle said that only I could locate it, using clues from the stories he told me as a kid, but I’m not even sure what it is.”
He didn’t move from his position, his feet stoically planted a few feet in front of me, and didn’t invite me to sit down. The rich smell of his cologne was distracting, and my voice stammered as I spoke. He ran his large fingers through his spiky blonde hair in an impatient gesture. A long sigh slid from his perfect lips as his hands settled at his hips.
“The estate lawyer, I forget what they’re called here, he told me to find you—that you might be able to identify the statue and give me a clue as to where to begin looking for it…”
“A clue? Like a scavenger hunt, Jane?” When he used my first name, my legs buckled as I fought to brace myself. In a nervous habit, I began to chew my index fingernail.
“Don’t bite your fingernails, it’s disgusting,” he said with a sneer, as if I were picking my nose.
“Will you please just look at the photo? I have to get back to Toledo soon, I’ve lost my job and I can’t afford to—”
“Toledo?” He said the word as if it were some sort of curse; as if a modest city in America was the reason for his ruined piece of art—as if Toledo was wasting his time rather than me.
“Show me the picture,” he said dismissively, like a parent giving in to the temper tantrum of an errant child.
“Uh, well, I left it up at the information desk. I’ll go get it and bring it back…” Through the open door of his office, a woman glided in. She was stunning—tall with long wavy blonde hair drifting across her shoulders. Her skin was like flawless china, her lips a perfect pouty pink. She was staring at me; her tight red sheath dress gleamed above her matching red heels. She seemed amused when she asked, “Who’s your friend, Ben?” I was a joke to her, standing in front of these two perfect specimens of humanity in my ratty old cheap coat, soaked and tattered Chuck Taylor sneakers, and faded worn jeans. My hair wasn’t even dry yet, and once again my finger nervously found its way into my mouth as Ben snapped, “Don’t bite your fingernails.” The woman chuckled at his rebuke as he turned toward her, his long arm wrapping around her slender waist.
“Give her a break, Ben. She’s clearly had a hard day.”
She reached a flawless hand out to me, her nails painted bright red. “I’m Verity, nice to meet you.”
“Jane,” I managed to mutter as my shaky, sweaty palm found her firm, dry handshake.
“Right, Verity and I are late for an appointment. Miss Andrews, it has been…interesting. If you’d be so kind as to show yourself out? Thank you.” Just like that, I was dismissed from Ben Hunt’s superior world.
“Will you look at the photo, please, my contact information is on the back?”
“Of course,” he mumbled, his attention now fully on the beautifully perfect Verity.
I turned and left his office, the broken mask still in a pile on his gleaming wooden floor. As I pushed the heavy door closed behind me, I could hear Verity giggle loudly and say, “Ben, you’re incorrigible! Being harsh with a poor little waif like that!” Poor little waif…I should have told them both to kiss my American ass. I glanced at the Timex watch on my wrist; it was thirty minutes before the museum was closing, and Mr. Hunt said they were leaving—there was no way he would be able to see my photo that day if the witch at the front desk left. She didn’t seem like the type to stay after hours.
I found myself standing at the information desk once again, with Ms. Witch pretending not to remember me from an hour ago. “Can I help?” she chirped, her standard line apparently. “I left a photo with you earlier. May I have it back please?” She shuffled through her desk and slid my photo back to me as if she were relieved to have her workspace free of that pestilence. “Thank you,” I said as I turned to leave her desk with the photo tucked under my arm. “The Fitzwilliam closes in promptly thirty minutes, Miss,” she scolded as I walked toward the corridor to Ben Hunt’s office.
The lights were out in his office, the door pulled shut. I intended to slide the photo under his door in the hope that he
would see it first thing in the morning. However, as I leaned down to leave the photo, his door pushed open—it hadn’t fully latched shut. Verity was bent over his large desk, her red silk dress pushed up above her narrow hips. Ben Hunt was behind her, his suit pants at his ankles as he fucked her hard from behind, her entire body slamming into the giant oak desk with every thrust. His large hands held her hips as he thrust into her, his eyes locked not onto Verity but on the very thing that shocked me the most. In front of Verity, splayed out on the desk with legs wide open, was another woman. She was small, of Asian descent possibly, with bobbed black hair. Her navy blue shirtdress was fully unbuttoned, and her dark eyes were locked on Ben’s pale blue ones. As Verity eagerly lapped at the woman’s smoothly shaven sex, she moaned and writhed on the desk, the brown nipples on her tiny breasts rock hard. My level of sexual experience up until then had been very limited—I’d had two sexual partners in my brief twenty-five years; one was a boyfriend of two years, and the other had been a brief high-school young love type affair. I’d never seen a threesome before, not even in movies. As Ben grabbed a handful of Verity’s hair, growling at her to, “Fucking eat that pussy like the naughty slut that you are,” I turned to leave. I heard a loud slap of a hand to skin as Verity, I assumed, yelped. I’ve never made such a quick exit in my life. I was shocked, horrified, and ridiculously turned on. So turned on that I almost stopped by the restrooms to get myself off. It wasn’t until I was on the upper level of the bus on the way back to the B&B that I realized I’d dropped the photo at some point—I couldn’t find it anywhere and it was my only copy. Like Verity, I was thoroughly fucked.
Chapter Three.
I made it back to Mrs. Carr’s, soaking wet and freezing. She was standing outside her front door smoking and waved me into the main house. Sinking into the worn velvet sofa, a very fat gray cat immediately took up residence on my soggy lap. Mrs. Carr poured two tumblers of an amber-colored liquor and handed me one before sitting across from me on a small chair.
“Now dear, you must take better care of yourself. You need a proper mac.”
“A mac?”
“A raincoat, love.”
“Does the rain ever stop, Mrs. Carr?”
She shook her head at me as if the question was ludicrous. “No, it does not. The English should have webbed feet!” She laughed a loud belly-laugh, robust enough to startle the cat nestled into my lap.
“I’m supposed to find some work of art for my uncle’s estate, but I have no idea where to begin. The solicitor sent me to talk to Ben Hunt at the Fitzwilliam and he wouldn’t—”
“Ben Hunt! Now there’s a fine piece of man-meat. If I were thirty years younger I’d fuck that man sideways!” I gasped at her admission, surprised she even knew who he was.
“You know him?” I took a tiny sip of the strong-smelling liquor in my tumbler—I’m not much of a drinker. It was so strong that I nearly spat it out, but ended up getting it down and enjoyed the warm feeling it gave my chilled body as it slid down.
“Cambridge isn’t very big, and Ben is a wealthy, handsome man. Of course we all know who he is. On top of that, he’s an absolute kinky man-whore!”
I nodded, sipping more of the liquor in my tumbler, feeling less of the bite this time and more of the warmth. “Yes, I saw some of that firsthand, but he never even looked at the photo of the statue I’m supposed to find. I have no idea where to turn next. I don’t even have the photo anymore; I lost my only copy on the way back from the museum.”
“Ben’s mentor, Sean Devane, is a professor at King’s College here in Cambridge. If Ben won’t help, get your photo back and try Sean. He’s no Ben Hunt, but he’s a handsome old devil—I’d shag him.” She laughed hard again, causing the cat on my lap to flee as if shot at.
I started to feel lightheaded—I hadn’t eaten all day, and the liquor was causing my head to swim. I stood up and asked if she’d mind if I headed to bed. She nodded warmly as she drained her tumbler and refilled it. “Sleep tight, love. Don’t miss breakfast.”
Back in my tiny cottage, I was still freezing. I took a hot bath and put on as many layers of clothing as I could before crawling into the small twin bed and pulling the covers over my head. I really hoped tomorrow would be a better day. If I weren’t so tired, I would have cried myself to sleep. The rain tapped on the windows as if fighting to get in as I finally succumbed to the heavy cloud of exhaustion.
Deep into the night, I was dragged from the strong pull of sleep by a persistent noise. The rain was still tapping hard on the windowpanes, but this tapping was on the door. I rolled over, but the tapping turned into harder knocks. Damn it, Mrs. Carr, was she drunk? I finally gave in and crawled out of bed, pulling my favorite sweater around me as I opened the door. He stood in front of me, the charcoal suit I remembered peeked out underneath a sophisticated tailored black overcoat, the maroon tie visible just under the collar of the coat. He stood as if entombed underneath an enormous black umbrella, one leather-gloved hand wrapped around the handle, the other poised in mid-air, about to rap again on my door. As I opened the door, he pushed past me into the cottage, immediately collapsing the dripping umbrella and letting it sit at the entrance as if there were some unspoken wet umbrella etiquette in this odd country.
“It took you ages to open the door. We need to go; get packed up—we’re on the midnight train to Edinburgh.”
“Edin-burr-a?” I asked, trying to absorb his pronunciation of the place we needed to go. I was still groggy from sleep and the liquor—I wasn’t exactly sure if this was really happening or just a dream. He looked like a dream as he sat down in one of the small dining chairs, his gloved hand swiping through his silky blonde hair in a nervous gesture.
“Yes, Jane, Edinburgh, Scotland. We need to go—quickly. My driver, George, is waiting outside to take us to the train station. I’ve already settled your account here with the very randy innkeeper. She’s quite tipsy tonight, it seems.”
“Why…?” I managed to ask as I began to gather up my things. Why I was going anywhere with this man was beyond my comprehension, and yet I knew I’d do what he said. At that moment, he felt like all I had, and he was very sure of himself.
“The photograph you left of the sculpture…I saw it. It was in the hall outside my office door; you dropped it in your hasty exit from peeping at my guests and me. I think I know where the Cupid is—I recognize the room in the picture. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but I do know we need to retrieve it, and soon.” Cupid?
I didn’t have much luggage with me, so it only took me a few minutes to gather up my things and repack them in one small rolling bag and a backpack. I dressed in jeans and my favorite sweater. My sneakers finally dry, and I brushed my teeth before adding a quick swipe of eyeliner to my eyes before Ben was at the bathroom door. He glanced at me, then at his shiny Breitling watch, before picking up my small suitcase and waving me toward the door. “Quickly please, Jane!” I followed him from the cottage, nestled next to him under the large umbrella. On the street was a large car, and a uniformed driver stepped out and opened the back door for us to climb in.
Ben Hunt’s soft leather glove held my hand as he slid me into the car, climbing into the backseat next to me as his driver put my luggage and the wet umbrella in the trunk. As the car left the inn, Ben was silent. The passing streetlights partially lit his face with a warm yellow glow as we worked our way through the old city toward the train station—he was deep in thought, a slight frown drawing down the corners of his pink lips. As the driver parked at the train station, he glanced at his iPhone, then clicked it off.
The rain was still coming down in a cruel, cold shower as the driver took the luggage from the trunk and opened the door so Ben could climb out under the shelter of the large umbrella. Ben reached his black-gloved hand into the car to help me out, and kept hold of my hand as we walked toward the station together.
After George left, Ben gestured for me to sit on a nearby bench. I waited there while Ben went to the ti
cket window and purchased our train fare. I wasn’t sure if I should offer to buy my own ticket or not, but he didn’t really give me a chance and since this whole thing was his idea anyway, I decided to quietly yield to his direction. With tickets in his still-gloved hand, he once again reached his free hand to me to lead me from the bench to the train, already at the platform. The first class seating section was empty, and Ben gestured for me to choose a seat. It was clear he had impeccable manners, a gentleman, but there was no affection in his actions—they were more the product of his upbringing.
After stowing our bags, which he’d carried the entire time after dismissing George, he hung his coat up on a hook and slid into the seat across from mine, a small table spanning the space between us. He slowly peeled off his gloves and stowed them in his leather bag that sat beside him in the aisle. He hadn’t spoken a word to me since we left the bed & breakfast. As the train lurched forward from the station, he reached into his bag and pulled out my photo, laying it on the table. He pointed to the statue that sat on a table in an elegant yellow room.
“Jane, have you ever seen this item before?” He’d been quiet for so long that the lilting cadence of his melodic voice caught me off guard.
“No, never, and I haven’t even seen my great-uncle Stuart since I was fifteen.”
“How old are you now, Jane? Twenty-three?” How did he guess my age?
“Yes, twenty-three last January. Uncle Stuart was my father’s uncle, he used to visit us in Toledo when I was a kid and tell stories—sort of half-anecdotal, half tall tales, at least we thought so, anyway.”
The Hunt for Eros Page 2