Everything You Need: Everything For You Trilogy Book 1

by Bailey, Orla

  He isn’t rough and he isn’t fast. He doesn’t make me wait. He makes gentle love to me over and over with such slow, exquisite tenderness that tears roll down my face as each crisis builds and intensifies until it overwhelms everything in its path.

  He takes me on my back. He turns me and takes me on my stomach. He sits me astride him and urges me to ride him until we both come, locked together in one embrace. He rearranges my body so he can make love while looking into my eyes again and I’m a compliant puppet in his hands. His tongue persuades my body to respond to his each time he needs to recover. Every inch of him compels every inch of me.

  He fucks me into mindless exhaustion.

  “I can’t get enough of you.”

  At some point I find myself begging with little conviction. “Please don’t make me come again, Jack.”

  “You’ve changed your tune,” he murmurs breathlessly against my skin as I collapse, almost drained of sentient awareness.

  “You annihilate me.”

  I escape into deep, deep sleep beneath tender lips and caressing hands.

  * * *

  I wake to someone raising the blinds in the bedroom and screw my eyes against the sudden harsh glare of light.

  “I bring you the coffee, Miss Caid.”

  I don’t recognise the voice. A woman’s voice. I clutch the bedcovers to me and force my heavy eyes to focus on the figure standing before me.

  “Mr Keogh instructed me to wake you at seven o’clock. It is seven o’clock.”

  I must look confused.

  “Monday morning.”

  “Thank you.” I’m disturbed at being discovered naked in Jack’s hideously dishevelled bed by a stranger and definitely at a disadvantage. “Who are you?”

  “I am Lenuta. Mr Keogh’s housekeeper.”

  Oh, the woman with the exquisite taste in table decoration. She has an interesting Eastern European accent but I can’t place it. “Pleased to meet you,” I croak.

  “There is orange juice beside the bed,” she says. She doesn’t miss much although it’s hard to miss a throat that sounds like it’s been sand-blasted.

  I lean over, take the glass and gulp down its contents, gratefully, in one go. She bustles about the room, picking up abandoned clothing. She doesn’t appear to be put out in the slightest to find a strange woman in Jack’s apartment this morning, lying naked in his wrecked bed. And I can guess the reason why.

  A woman who feels pretty sore right now, I realise, which would probably make Jack feel very satisfied with himself after all his efforts last night. If he was here. I wriggle down under the covers and try not to wince. “Where’s Jack?”

  “He leaves for work early. He is boss, you know.”

  “I know.” I experienced quite a lot of her boss over the weekend. “I have to get to my work too.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this.

  “Mr Blackstock drives Mr Keogh but he returns for you. Mr Keogh leaves the instruction to drive you to your work when you are ready.”

  “I’d better get up then.” I struggle to sit upright.

  “I leave you to dress.” She carries the laundry out in her arms and I collapse back onto the mattress for a couple more minutes before forcing myself to rise.

  I have to go into the spare room for my clothing so I grab another of Jack’s t-shirts and pull it over my head. I ache all over, remembering why. He’s insatiable. I never knew a man could do it so many times in one go. I never knew I could. Not that he gave me much choice. Not that I was complaining. At least before the very end.

  I’m mortified. He has well and truly marked his territory.

  I scoot across the main room into the guest bedroom while the coast is clear and plunge under the shower to wash every trace of our sexual marathon from my body. I’m not sure if I feel so sore internally due to the repeated friction or because of the internal workout of a hundred orgasms.

  I rough dry my hair upside down and finger it into some sort of order which I spin up into a chignon. I put my usual bit of make up on and slaver lip gloss over kiss-roughened lips. Well Jack isn’t here to wipe it off again and besides, weekdays belong to me.

  I choose a knee-length black wool and silk A-line dress with matching length jacket. Looking at my made-over self in the mirror I think I might just blow their minds at work today. They’ve never seen me power dress before. I find heeled black shoes, tie a statement pale blue silk scarf – to remind me of the colour of Jack’s eyes – around my neck and I’m ready to face what the day brings.

  I pop my head round the kitchen door to say goodbye to Lenuta and find out where Blackstock is hanging out.

  “I have made the breakfast for you.”

  The kitchen is a marvel of brushed copper, teak and marble. It’s huge. “No time. Where’s Mr Blackstock?”

  “Mr Keogh said I was not to let you leave until you had the breakfast.”

  “He’ll never know, Lenuta.” I raise my eyebrow at her cheekily, knowing Jack will never know about that either.

  “He will know, Miss Caid.”

  I freeze. “How will he?” I glance about the room as if he might have hidden cameras trained on my every move.

  “Because I tell him.”

  “Oh.” A spy in the camp.

  To be fair, she looks apologetic. “He will ask me and he will not be happy if I do not tell truth. Please eat the breakfast.”

  I don’t want to get her into trouble so I perch on a kitchen stool. “Nothing heavy,” I tell her. “It’s a bit early for me.”

  “Fruit and yoghurt?” she suggests.

  “Perfect.”

  She winks at me. “He won’t ask what you eat. Just that you eat.”

  I laugh. I like her already.

  Actually it’s a good move. I haven’t eaten since brunch yesterday and Jack certainly made me burn some calories last night before he was satisfied enough to let me sleep. I picture him warm and sated, all fluid muscle and focused intent.

  I get up to clean my teeth again as Lenuta tells me Blackstock is waiting in the underground garage. She sees me to the lift and smiles as I leave. I wonder if she sees Jack off with a smile every morning too and straightens his tie. The thought amuses me no end. Very domestic.

  I realise on a wince, as I walk to the car, that Jack has also seen me off with enough friction burns to last me until next Friday. Has he ensured I don’t let anyone else come within sniffing distance until I return? I remember his anger over Benn Gunn and the comment that any woman he’s with, better not be playing the field. She’s with me. Only me. She doesn’t seek pleasures elsewhere.

  It reminds me I still have to put him straight about that conniving devil, Gunn.

  “Good morning, Miss Caid.” Blackstock opens the Bentley door for me to climb in the back.

  “Good morning, Mr Blackstock.”

  “Would you like a little music?” he asks me.

  “Do you have Born to be Wild?” I recall our silly word.

  “No, I don’t believe so, Miss.” He doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Would you like me to acquire it for you?”

  I consider all the crazy things he must have witnessed working for Jack. “Never mind, Mr Blackstock.”

  I sit back and close my eyes. Most days I drive myself, starting the day hyped up with traffic congestion. This is definitely a more relaxing way to travel and I’d better not get used to it. By the time Blackstock pulls the Bentley into the car park at CaidCo, Brent Tapper’s Range Rover is in my space yet again. I sigh even though I don’t have my own car with me.

  I scrabble to open the door before Blackstock emerges to do it for me. I’m not used to being chauffeured and I’m hoping no-one is looking out the window either. They don’t need to know the details of my walk of shame. I plan to announce that as I’ve organised us another chance we need to start making preparations for a presentation to Zee-Com that will kick Advance’s big backside.

  “Thank you, Mr Blackstock, for driving me.”

  “You’re
welcome, Miss Caid.” Blackstock departs as I head into the building.

  I hear raucous voices and belly laughs and my hackles rise instinctively. Most of the noise is coming from Brent’s office, needless to say.

  Libby’s voice rises shrilly above the mayhem. “This is completely unnecessary. Frankly it’s despicable and you should all know better.”

  Brent’s voice booms over hers. “Better than Brunhilde? It’s a red letter day, Libby. We’ve caught the lady red-handed. She’ll be red-faced when she knows, we know all about her exploits. The coarse male laughter continues.

  Each hideous emphasis Brent makes on the word red makes my heart sink further. I feel the urge to turn straight round and leave again but I don’t have my car and there’s nowhere to hide. I have to confront this. I stand in the doorway.

  Libby rushes over and tries to push me back outside. “You don’t need to go in there, Tabitha.”

  “Thanks, Libby, but I do.” I give her a weak smile. My heart pounds. My throat hurts. I try to control my breathing but fail miserably. The power outfit isn’t doing its job.

  I distinguish copies of several daily newspapers strewn all over Brent’s desk. It doesn’t take long to realise they’re open to reveal photographs of Saturday night’s Commerce Ball. I know already what has caught their attention but I refuse to give them the satisfaction of pretending I’m bothered about a red dress at a Black and White ball.

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do?” I try to hold Brent’s gaze.

  He bellows with false laughter. “Like work?” he counters. “Your work is already done, I see. It’s made headlines.”

  I’m really desperate to assess just how awful things are; to start work on some damage limitation but I try to act like I couldn’t care less. Just keep breathing, I tell myself commencing my 5-2-5 routine. It’s harder when I’m fighting my corner.

  “You’ve never been invited to the Commerce Ball, Brent. Such a pity. It’s very enlightening.”

  “You’re being thoroughly enlightened in a few of these pictures.” He holds them up to even more laughter.

  Hell.

  I wonder exactly what pictures he’s got there. “Grow up.” I spin around to leave. I have to. Tears threaten and I won’t give Brent the satisfaction of knowing he’s made me cry. “At least I’m trying to do something to keep this company current.”

  “You’ve clearly never heard that sometimes no news is good news,” he calls after me. “You’ve embarrassed everyone. Yep, nobody will forget CaidCo in a hurry, after this. Painting the town red, were you?”

  I really don’t want to get into a slanging match with Brent and an avid audience of staff. I have to work out what to do first. As I march down to my office, I’m sure I hear red herring mentioned. This is all Jack Keogh’s fault. He knew this would happen. He’s media savvy enough to have thought the whole thing through.

  Wearing that red dress wasn’t about people remembering my name. He wanted me in my place and he’s certainly achieved that. No wonder he screwed me senseless last night. He knew that would be his last opportunity. No wonder he didn’t wait around to face me, this morning. How he must be laughing at my foolishness.

  I decide I’m not going on with this farce. I log into my computer determined to email Jack. It won’t take long to let him know the deal is off. This time it will be my call.

  Libby comes through the door.

  “I’m sorry Tabitha. Brent is a complete pig.”

  “Not your fault.” My decision to walk away from the confrontation calms me a little. Five more minutes and this nightmare will be over. I’ll never have to see Jack Keogh again and I’ll find my own way of dealing with Brent somehow. Perhaps I should hand over leadership. Or let the whole ugly house of cards collapse around me. That would serve them all right.

  I glance over at Libby’s worried face. It wouldn’t be fair on her and the other decent members of my team. They need their jobs and it’s my job to make sure they keep them for as long as they possibly can. I owe it to them and I owe it to Harry. He trusted me.

  He wouldn’t be so impressed with me now.

  “I’ll make you some coffee,” she offers. “I’ll never make Brent coffee again as long as I live.” She leaves.

  My screen saver comes up and I gape in disbelief. Someone has altered it and I’m pretty certain who that someone is as I stare at a picture of me and Jack. He’s kissing me up against the wall and that’s the polite way to put it. It looks like I’m practically humping his leg whilst trying to swallow his tongue. God almighty. Who the hell took that photograph? And how did it find its way onto my computer? I fumble my way into network administration with shaking hands and wipe it but I’ve no doubt it’s not gone for good.

  The desk phone rings. My hand is still trembling as I answer it and Libby’s tentative voice tells me I have a call.

  “I’m not in. Take a message. In fact, hold all calls.” I slam the phone down. I don’t care if it is a client. I can’t deal with anyone else’s shit right now.

  It rings again. I huff and lift the phone again. “Libby?”

  “It’s Jack Keogh.” Even she can’t hold back the note of fascinated horror that wobbles in her voice.

  Holy hell. I especially want to hang up on him but I know I’ll have to face this some time. It will save ending things by email, I reason. Show us both I have some backbone. “Put him through. Thanks, Libby.”

  “Tabitha.” I hear urgency. The Boss. It isn’t a social call then. “Don’t read the newspapers. Don’t answer your phone.”

  That strikes me as funny. “I already answered my phone. To you.”

  “Don’t answer it again. I’m on my way over.”

  “No!”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He’s not listening. I can’t handle him coming here. Not with Brent and the newspapers strewn all over the place. It will make Brent’s day and Jack will go ballistic. I think quickly. “Let me come to you.”

  “Not here.” That was definite.

  I’m almost afraid to ask. “Why not?”

  “I’ve got reporters crawling all over the place.”

  It’s worse than I thought. “What do they want?”

  He snorts cynically. “We make a lovely couple.”

  He’s seen that awful picture too. “That’s not funny, Jack.”

  “Gallows’ humour.”

  That cheers me up no end. I hear him talking to someone in the background before he comes back on the line. “Blackstock is on his way. He’ll know how to lose anyone who might follow you.”

  Follow me? “Where am I going?”

  “To Belvedere. I made the mess. I’ll clean it up.”

  I’m less than happy I’m being referred to as a mess but I’m not feeling any choices here. “Okay.”

  He pauses. “Don’t panic. I’ll sort things out.” His voice gentles. “Tabitha? Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine.” I’ve no idea why I’m reassuring him. Or lying. I’m anything but.

  He hangs up.

  And I forgot to tell him I’m going to cancel our deal. Libby appears with hot coffee.

  “I’m going back out shortly, Libby. Can you handle things here?” I feel guilty leaving her with that lot.

  She puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be fine, honey. Don’t you worry about me. You go do what you need to do.”

  I jerk my chin in the direction of Brent’s office. “If it gets too crazy, you head off too.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Libby murmurs, leaning in and giving me a quick reassuring hug. “I’d have snogged his face off too.” She slips out the door.

  I almost laugh. Thank God for Libby.

  I watch out the window for the entire twenty minutes it takes for the Bentley to arrive back in the car park. I grab my handbag and rush outside.

  “If you need me, get me on my personal cell,” I tell Libby. I’m certainly not answering the work mobile if it rings
.

  “Take care, honey.”

  “I’ll be in touch. Stall any clients that call.”

  On the way, I notice Brent has already pinned a couple of the pages to the general office notice board. Several copies of the daily newspapers are lying on the coffee table in reception too. I rip and gather and throw it all in the bin on my way past, not even stopping to look at them. I’ve seen all I want to see.

  Blackstock has the car door open and I dive in. As we drive off I glance up to see the face of Brent Tapper smirking at the window. I wish I could just fire his sorry arse and have done.

  I head straight to Belvedere. I do not even pass go. Lenuta is expecting me but she knows not to crowd me. This time it’s me pacing nervously, frowning, waiting for Jack to arrive. It isn’t going to be a comfortable meeting. He sounded pretty angry on the phone.

  I sense his presence long before I hear the ping of the elevator arriving. Like the effects of Sirocco winds, it hits me. I’m warned by the dry scorch that flares down the back of my throat while the tension of an impending hurricane builds deep inside my body. I turn and face the elevator doors to watch them slide open.

  Jack bursts out like a tornado. His sharp, black three piece suit has the jacket and waistcoat buttons open to reveal his pristine white shirt, as if clothes can’t contain such explosive energy. He strides towards me. The knot of his silk tie is dragged down and the top button of his shirt collar open and I picture those huge hands yanking at them in aggravation in the taxi on the way over.

  I catch the waft of Clive Christian No.1 and the sandalwood, cedar and vetyver notes which smoulder off his over-heated skin. But it’s his eyes that seize mine.

  He floors me.

  Like cold winter sunlight pouring through the depths of an Arctic blue ocean, they reflect his steely focus onto me.

  Even this much separation from him feels lonely. I want to throw myself into his arms; beg him to hold me tight, soothe me, stroke me, calm me. I need him to protect me and tell me that everything is going to be alright. Every muscle in my body tenses preparing to run to him.

  Then I see her.

  Amanda Devereaux. She emerges slowly out of the elevator like a black widow spider and I freeze as if I’ve been slapped.