Everything You Need: Everything For You Trilogy Book 1

by Bailey, Orla

  A few silent tears roll down my cheek.

  “Hey, what’s all this?” Jack pulls back frowning and erases my tears with the pads of his thumbs. He looks concerned but what man wants to screw a woman only for her to cry about it afterwards? It’s male ego.

  “Just emotion. It’s hard to hold on when you don’t want to.” Poker face. I’m a fast learner.

  “You did it to please me.” He gives me a smile of pure satisfaction.

  I hold back my tears like I held back my orgasm. He’s an arrogant jerk. Sometimes I hate him and I almost love him and I don’t know which feeling is stronger. Both destroy me.

  Jack moves carefully upright and pulls me right behind him. He turns me in the direction of my own bedroom. “Shower and pretty dress.” He sends me on my way. He’s satisfied and sexy as hell and had enough of me for now.

  I grab his grey t-shirt and put it on and he doesn’t complain as I walk away. Despite the orgasm, I feel more frustrated than ever. I realise Jack is screwing me on his own terms and how can I settle for that?

  In my heart I realise I still want something from him he’s never going to give me. I want the man’s love.

  Pretty dress? I contemplate shoving jeans on in defiance but decide on a very short white tube dress with a Chanel label instead. Very Karl Lagerfeld. I suspect Jack won’t be taking us to eat in any old diner and I’ve never had so many fabulous new clothes to play with, it’s bringing out my girly side. As I’m going to be paying for them anyway, I don’t see why I shouldn’t indulge.

  I start with a pair of skimpy, pale-coffee lace panties and matching bra, remembering Meredith’s edict about the necessity for good foundations. The contrast of the stark white dress against my still tanned skin and long, dark hair looks chic. I ponder the matching cut-off jacket but leave it as it’s a warm summer’s day. Rummaging in the accessories drawer, I find a single string of pearls to cover the bare expanse of neckline on show. That boutique proprietor thought of everything. I slip on nude kitten heels and opt for a natural make-up after the excesses of last night and am happy with the final effect.

  When I emerge, Jack is pacing up and down outside. He does as much pacing as he does frowning, I’m beginning to notice and guess it’s because he’s such a doer he hates waiting for anything. Particularly me. He gave up waiting for me four years ago. I cast the memory from my mind before it sours my mood entirely.

  My stomach lurches when he turns. Smart casual Jack stuns me. He wears navy slim-fit pants, a soft white button-down shirt with a great tie and a sports jacket. He smells of Clive Christian.

  “You’re not going out in that!” He looks me up and down and his frown deepens.

  I expected him to like it. “Whyever not?”

  “It’s far too short. And low cut.”

  The way it was designed. “You ordered it,” I point out.

  “Mmm I did, didn’t I? Well that was before I saw it on.”

  He really is a caveman. It looks fine. My face reacts before I have a chance to think.

  Jack scowls even more. “I’m really going to have to sort that out.” He states it like he’s planning to eradicate a patch of mould on the bathroom wall. I’m beginning to regret having my eyebrows threaded to winged wonders. No-one’s ever complained about them before.

  “Is that any better? I look like you now.” I glower at him, my eyebrows as knotted as I can manage them. He’s becoming more controlling by the minute. “When am I going home?” Straight after brunch before he has a chance to sort me out, I hope.

  “I’m keeping you here tonight. Blackstock will drive you directly to work in the morning.” He doesn’t miss a beat. I’m sure adapting fast works well for him in business, but this isn’t exactly business. It’s meant to be, but it’s not.

  “You can’t change rules just like that.”

  He grins at me. “Only one rule, baby.” He’s got it all covered in that one little clause and I wonder when he decided on that adaptation. I’m starting to see what he means by making sure you understand the deal you’re making.

  I turn and head for the elevator. My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline at his utter and unapologetic cheek. Happily my back is turned to him and he can’t see it.

  “We’ll work on a strategy to teach you how to school your expression when we return.”

  What? I hold my back ramrod stiff. I haven’t fallen for smoke and mirrors. Just mirrors. They’re all over the walls. He must have seen my reflection.

  “I know when you’re doing it.” Jack punches the button and the elevator doors slide open. He grabs my hand and draws me inside. “I know you too well, Tabitha.”

  “You’re not going to change me overnight.” I think that’s a very reasonable response under the circumstances.

  “Fortunately I have lots more overnights.” He smiles at me in the mirrored walls but I’ve no idea what he’s so happy about until I remember all the sex he expects he’ll be getting.

  “You do, don’t you.” Suddenly the time seems interminable and finite all at the same time. What am I doing to myself? What will I do when the four weekends are up and Jack leaves me again? I won’t allow myself to care, that’s all. Then it won’t matter.

  We exit into sunshine.

  “What a lovely day.” Jack smiles down at me.

  I can’t keep up with how fast his mood changes.

  “We’ll walk. It’s not far.” He leans over me placing his lips against my ear. “You look beautiful in that dress but you’re only wearing it because you’re with me. That one stays here.” He pulls me against him and wraps his hand possessively around my hip.

  I sigh. I thought he’d forgotten about it being a bit sexy but he forgets nothing. “It’s a pretty ordinary dress.” He obviously hasn’t been to some of the club nights I’ve been to.

  “Not when you’re wearing it, it isn’t.”

  I’m not about to argue with that.

  Jack strolls me around Chelsea Harbour and surprises me by showing me his motor yacht moored there. “We can take her for a spin up river next weekend, if you like.”

  I would like. “That sounds like fun.”

  Being with Jack certainly has its compensations. I think about what I’d be doing on any normal Sunday. If I wasn’t still hung-over, probably slobbing out in my PJs and catching up on housework, before getting out my laptop and working. This is infinitely preferable to that, even if I have to put up with a few unreasonable demands. I halt my runaway thoughts. This is supposed to be for work too, I caution myself.

  “cailín álainn.” I read the name of his yacht out loud.

  He laughs at my pronunciation of the Irish gaelic and puts me right. “Beautiful girl.” He informs me of its meaning too.

  “She really is beautiful.” I shield my eyes against the sun as I inspect her sleek lines riding high and proud in the water.

  I think he enjoys my approval. “Totally.” He stares from under hooded lids then gathers my hand in his again. “Come on. I’m starving.”

  We saunter up the King’s Road and down to the restaurant. The owner comes out to shake Jack’s hand. They greet each other on first name terms and the owner politely welcomes me when Jack introduces us. I wonder how often Jack brings women here to eat after an appetite-inducing marathon of weekend sex in his apartment but crush that depressing thought.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  I nod warily. It’s the wrong thing to ask me just then.

  He orders us both a Clementine Crush Cocktail at the bar. He’s definitely a regular customer. The bartender says he’ll bring them to our table so we wander into the garden and sit on the sofas. “You’ll love this cocktail,” he tells me.

  “Is that conclusion based on past reactions to it?”

  His gaze constricts. He knows what I’m suggesting. “I like it,” he states. He isn’t planning to tell me what I want, yet dread, to know. How many other women?

  The drinks arrive swiftly and the waiter hands us a menu. I can tel
l Jack receives devoted service here. But then, he is a big tipper.

  “Try it.”

  Somehow the cocktail comes to represent all Jack’s former conquests. In a short cone-shaped glass, it’s a shameless vivid orange colour. Slices of fresh clementine hang around the sides of the glass with a short bent cocktail straw trapped firmly in the crushed ice beneath. I lift it and sip as he waits. My eyes turn to his.

  “Good, huh?” He laughs at my reaction. It’s exactly what he expected it to be. Am I as predictable as every other woman he’s invited?

  I really don’t want to like it if they did but can’t help myself. It tastes fresh and fruity yet potent and spicy too. Very Jack Keogh. “Ginger?”

  “Yes. And the alcohol?” He invites me to guess. I can’t help liking these traces of my old Jack.

  “Has to be Cointreau.”

  Jack nods and smiles. “Smart girl. And Clementine Vodka.”

  “They make Clementine Vodka?” I never would have guessed that. My eyebrows shoot up in a dead giveaway but I make a swift plea for clemency. “You have to allow me one, for Clementine vodka.”

  He’s in a good mood. “I always allow one for Clementine vodka. Just one, mind.”

  I smile back, forgiving him his conceit. Why can’t he be like this all the time?

  “But don’t even try to get off the hook when you discover they make bacon vodka. Wouldn’t want you getting a taste for that at breakfast-time.”

  “Not even naked breakfast?” I counter. “Or when I return to drinking breakfast all alone?” I challenge his dig at my excessive habits.

  Jack’s face sobers. I think he almost might be regretful about something. He deftly changes the subject. “How’s the charity programme running at CaidCo?” Perhaps he doesn’t want to fight after last night.

  I’m immediately responsive. My first real innovation at CaidCo still means the world to me. “It’s doing great. I renamed it the Harry Caid Foundation.”

  “He would have liked that. He was very proud of you, Tabitha.”

  He was. “I miss him.”

  Jack’s voice gentles. He reaches across the table to take my hand in his. “I miss him too.”

  It surprises me although I don’t know why it should. They were close. I sometimes wonder if Jack was the son Harry never had. I pick up my cocktail in my free hand and sip through the straw. It really is delicious.

  I can understand Jack was nice to me when I was young because he wanted to make Harry happy. He never wanted me at all but I was far too unworldly to see that. I pushed Jack to give me something he couldn’t. Feel something he never felt. No wonder he ran.

  “Do you still play the violin?”

  “Only when I’m sad.” I don’t know why I say it. I try to lighten the mood again. “Harry’d kick your backside if he knew what you did to me last night. And again this morning.” I grin provocatively. He would have too. Harry was so protective of me it’s a wonder he ever let Jack within a mile. It’s why I never saw the rotten side of Brent Tapper until Harry was gone, I suppose. That, and the fact Brent fully expected to take over as CEO if anything should happen.

  Jack looks sheepish. “I reckon he would too,” he admits, squeezing my hand hard. He raises his glass to the heavens and to Harry’s memory. “Sorry, Harry. But you can ask a man so much and no more.”

  I wonder what he means by that.

  Jack picks up my menu and holds it out to me. “You choose the starters and I’ll choose the mains. I already know what we’re having.”

  I enter into the spirit. I can’t help liking the man. I read all the options aloud, under the guise of considering their worth. Really I’m sounding out Jack’s preferences and suspect he knows it. His expression shows he’s pleased by my thoughtfulness. Stupidly, I find I want to please him.

  He teases me, leading me up blind alleys of old favourites and retracing his steps again. Not that I should be so considerate of his wishes. He hasn’t bothered to run his choice by me. When the waiter arrives to take our order, Jack raises his eyes to me as if the first course really is my decision. He’s so good at deception.

  “We’re having the grilled asparagus wrapped in Serrano ham,” I announce.

  “With poached eggs and hollandaise?” the waiter confirms.

  “That’s the one,” Jack tells him, amused.

  “Both of you?” He addresses Jack.

  “Today, we are in total harmony.” Jack stares across the table at me.

  I nod, feeling warm inside.

  “And for the mains?”

  “The Roasted Wild Sea Bass.” Jack stresses one word only. He mouths it again at me. Wild.

  I find myself mouthing it back at him in high amusement, my heart thumping like a bird beating his wings, getting ready to fly.

  “The fish is particularly good today, sir.”

  “Wild.” Jack just had to go and say it. I smother a giggle.

  The waiter glances up as if he knows he’s missing something. “Can I get wine to go with that, sir?”

  “A Chavignol Sancerre.” Again Jack does not need to inspect the list. He inspects me instead.

  “Very good, sir.” He gathers the menus and departs.

  “Wild?” I enquire. It’s almost a moment for an elevated eyebrow but I know he’ll spoil it with a growl, if I give in to the impulse.

  Wild. He mouths the word again as if daring me to try so I crush my lips together and try not to laugh. It’s like our own special language which consists of one word and no raised eyebrows. Or else.

  We’re surely both thinking of Friday night and the scallops in miso and wild ginger butter that started all this nonsense. Less than two days but a lifetime ago. And am I any better informed today of exactly what I’m doing? I doubt it.

  The wine arrives and the cork is popped at the table. Jack is invited to taste.

  He lets it swirl over his tongue. “Perfect. Just leave the bottle. I want to pour some for my beautiful girl.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  His beautiful girl? cailín álainn. My heart thuds at the stupidly false connection I want to manufacture. Just because I want something doesn’t make it so. It’s a lesson Jack doesn’t need to teach me again. God knows, he probably named his boat for Amanda or suggests to every woman he beds, it might be all about her. I’m in for a lot more anguish if I let myself fall for that one.

  I really, really mustn’t.

  Chapter Twenty

  The food is incredible and I eat every last bit. I’m not surprised Jack comes here. By the time I polish off the sea bass with potato galette, edamame bean puree and that amazing mango salsa I’m stuffed fit to pop.

  Jack settles the bill and escorts me outside, suggesting, “Perhaps a little walk.”

  After half an hour, with me getting sleepier and sleepier, hanging onto his arm, he hails a taxi and proposes a visit to the National Gallery. I come alive. He remembers it as one of my favourite places to while away a Sunday afternoon. I haven’t done it in forever, probably because it only served to remind me of losing him. The taxi drops us on the right side of Trafalgar Square and we run straight up the portico steps. Jack suggests we wander the Barocci exhibition and we engage in a lively discussion of the brilliance of the artist’s colours.

  “Show me some of your favourite paintings,” he asks as we leave the display.

  I stop to think for a moment. “It’s been a while.”

  “You must always make time for pleasure.”

  Is that what he’s doing with me? I’m not unhappy with the prospect. I’d rather be Jack’s pleasure than his retribution and instantly I know the artists I want to show him. He lets me lead him by the hand and the years melt away as I recall these corridors and take him to my special places. The ones that remind me of him.

  I halt suddenly, spotting a painting I remember from the Tate Gallery. “It must be on loan to the National,” I whisper. And how timely a reminder. The last time I saw it was right after I’d offered my innocence to
Jack and he’d declined the offer and abandoned me. I was devastation and shame personified.

  We stand in front of it and I’m as mesmerised by the awful truth now, as I was back then. I stare at the young woman in the painting. She remains exactly where I left her, face down on a velvet sofa weeping into her hands and I’m helplessly caught up in her misery.

  Jack is silenced by the impact of the piece. She has the power to shock the unwary and today she does her job exceptionally well.

  “What is it about this one?” His frown reveals his puzzlement.

  “All pleasure comes at a price,” I whisper. I’m not sure who I’m warning.

  “After the Misdeed, 1885 - 90, Jean Béraud.” Jack reads the label. “The fallen woman.” He sums it up succinctly.

  The moralising tone and message of the work is abundantly clear. Women who fall prey to their own passions and to the passions of men are destined to suffer. I understood the message so clearly when I was eighteen. It’s a judicious reminder.

  Although she hasn’t changed, I have and I’m struck anew by the vivid colouring of the sofa, on which her torment endures. It’s the colour of the ball gown I wore last night. Jack’s promise to me.

  I need to leave. “Can we go now?”

  He nods, takes my hand in his and finds the way to the exit. We don’t acknowledge our silent thoughts on the taxi ride back to Belvedere as I stare out of the window and Jack contemplates me.

  Only when the elevator arrives in the penthouse does he finally speak. “You’ve done enough for the first weekend. I want to make you forget.”

  I don’t know what he’s saying but he drops to his knees and removes each of my shoes in turn. Taking hold of the hem of my shift dress, he pulls it over my head as I stand meekly before him in my lace underwear and string of pearls, accepting of my fate. He scoops me into his arms and carries me to bed.