Fuck.
I storm into the ball room, footsteps crashing around the huge expanse creating a rhythm of their own.
“Oh my word,” she says behind me. I look back to find her wandering into the middle of the space, looking up at the ceiling and spinning herself around slowly. “Have you actually held a ball here?” Yes, our wedding night. One I have little desire to remember with Madeline Cavannagh in the room. “It’s astounding. If there was just some music, I could practice my waltz. Do you have any?”
“No.” Waltzing is the last thing on my mind. Fucking is closer to the point, and the longer she speaks, moves, twirls, or is even alive, the closer I’m getting to just taking what I want.
Consequences be damned.
“I have,” she says, digging in her bag and producing a phone. “Can you dance, Mr. Caldwell?”
“No.” Fuck, yes. Dance, no. Only with my wife.
My dead wife.
I stare at her as she proceeds to flick through her phone and walk around the space, eyeing up the paintings and vases on display.
“So, which would you like me to sell for you?” she asks, unbuttoning her jacket and revealing her shapely frame as she drops her bag on the floor. My cock rears inside my pants, ready to cause damage, but then some music sounds in the room, followed by her heeled feet moving cautiously.
She suddenly springs into action, her hands in a faux hold as her body begins gliding around. “I’m sure this is inappropriate,” she says, quickening her pace a little and starting to circle. “But what girl gets the chance to dance in a proper ballroom, hey?” I stare in near disbelief as she continues on, her feet moving exactly, albeit whimsically on occasion, until she glides past me with a smile on her face and spins again. “I mean, the day is turning chaotic anyway because of your bog, so why not? Which ones, Mr. Caldwell?” she calls again, her body now spinning at the bottom of the room past the double formal doors, which lead to the spiral.
“The Shitzner, the Riechlebach and the Jones impressions,” I reply.
I don’t want to sell any of them, but the more I watch her, the more I need to watch her, nearly forgetting the reason we’ve come in here or my dogs above us.
“Okay,” she says, once more gliding past. I step back, giving her more room to circle the space. “Are you sure you don’t dance?” Yes. But something’s telling me I should. My feet bounce quietly, listening to the beat of the tune. I’m desperate to pull her into my embrace and fuck her until tomorrow comes.
“No.”
“Perhaps you could if I knew your name?” she laughs out, as she does another lap of the room. “That would make this more fun, yes? We could pretend.”
I watch a bead of sweat drip down her cheek as she comes by again, and halt the need to lick it from her skin, or at the very least create more of it. Fuck. The way her body moves, it’s everything Selma was. Lively, elegant, full of vigour and transparency. She oozes Selma’s very being, holds all of her in fingertips, and she’s not even aware of it. She breathes as Selma did, sharp intakes of breath on the correct note, and long sighs as the melody cruises by, her hair swaying in time with her shoulders.
I’ve snatched hold of her hand and waist before I know what I’m doing, drawing her close to me and resting her against my cock as we dance forward. She gasps, tightening her grip on my shoulder, and immediately moulds her body into mine. There isn’t one second of awkwardness or confusion; we just blend together, crafting a music of our own as we spin.
“Jack,” I mutter, half debating kissing her, or fucking her, perhaps even just continuing to dance all night to feel her back in my arms again.
Selma.
I close my eyes and remember our wedding dance as we continue spinning. I remember the feel of her in my arms, the way she said she loved me, and the moment she put my hand on her stomach, announcing our child. I can almost see the crowd around us now, hear their chants of congratulations and raucous calls for more speeches. I can smell her, too—blossoms and faint traces of freesias. Springtime’s freshness, all basking in one solitary person.
“Jack,” she whispers into my chest.
I tighten my hold to the point of bruising the woman, spinning us again as the chorus rouses me further. I’m never letting her go, never letting this sensation go again. She is Selma. At this moment, and for whatever reason, Selma has come home. She’s here in this room and dancing with me again.
My fingers begin to indent her skin, testing my resolve to remember the woman who is actually here. Even her flesh feels the same beneath my hands, malleable and ripe, ready for devouring, loving in my own way. I rest my nose above her hair, breathing in the scent of a newly formed Selma and relishing the thought of the first drive inside her. Just to feel her again, fuck her, be inside her so the world will right itself, and then we can bring Lenon back, too. All of us together again, living, breathing. “Jack?”
The sound of my name coming from her mouth again makes me smile, the tone resonating deeply and engraining itself. “Jack, please?” I know how she feels. I can feel it, too, this desperation to make love. To make us whole again so we can be free of the last year or so, be a family again.
I kiss the top of her head, circling us around the floor once more and readying myself to put her down on it. Just here. We’ll fuck right here and remember our wedding night so I can imagine the feel of white silk in my hands and tear at it. “Mr. Caldwell!” Something slaps out at me, bringing me acutely back to the present. “Jack, for God’s sake!”
I stop and frown, sliding us to a standstill and looking down at what appears to be an angry woman. Selma? No. Madeline.
I shake my head and let go, backing away instantly and wondering what the hell just happened, again.
“What the bloody hell is your problem?” she spits out, swinging herself away from me and heading for her bag. The music abruptly cuts off just as quickly, causing me to scowl. “Do you often hurt women for fun?” I scowl further at that, my feet backing away. “Let me give you some advice. Don’t ever touch a woman unless she asks.”
“You did ask,” I mumble, confused at the lack of Selma as I glance around the room. Where has she gone? Was she ever here? I move towards the windows, frowning some more as I listen for voices. “You asked me to dance with you. We danced.”
“I danced. I’m not sure what you ended up doing,” she snarls out.
I turn back to see her rubbing her arm again and snatching her bag from the floor. “And stay the hell back,” she snaps again, pointing at me and glaring some more. “This was a mistake, Mr. Caldwell. I’ll wait outside until my car’s out of the bloody bog.”
She storms out of the room, leaving nothing but irritating emotions, feelings, and hatred behind as she goes. I stare at my hands, not knowing what they’ve done and feeling widowed again for the lack of her gripping them. So much so that I fume after her, entirely disposed to get her back in my arms as soon as feasibly possible.
“Sel...” I halt my fucking mouth, shaking my head as I pass the kitchen and hurry on to the hall again. “Madeline, wait.”
All the response I get is heels clattering and an open front door, the house damn near rattling with her fury. I storm straight out to her, more than intrigued by what she thinks I’ve done. If she only knew what I could have done had I chosen to, or perhaps had more time to think of my dead wife, she might just be a little more pleasant with her fucking tone.
“Don’t touch me,” she says, her hands splayed in front of her as she backs down the steps and sniffs back tears. “I have mace. I’ll scream.” She’s right, she damn well will, but that will be at the moment I actually do something worth screaming for.
I hold my hands up and slowly put them in my trouser pockets, signalling the surrender of whatever evil she thinks I might become.
“I haven’t done anything, Ms. Cavannagh. Calm down,” I say quietly, walking down the steps towards her and giving her the room to breathe she’s asking for. “We just danced, which yo
u requested if you remember. You’re a beautiful dancer. I might have become engrossed in you.” Or the memory of Selma and the way she felt within my grasp.
She sniffs again, raising her hand to her face and wiping at the tears that are beginning to stream from her eyes. It’s at that moment that a smear of makeup is wiped clear, highlighting the blue yellow tones around her bloodshot eye. “Who did that to you?” I ask, infuriated by the vision enough that I move forward again thoughtfully.
She widens her eyes, her hands coming up to her face.
“It’s none of your business,” she snaps, shielding the bruise and turning to start walking off down the lane towards the garages. I follow and watch the swing of her ass again, intrigue now beginning to piss me off. “Please, Mr. Caldwell. Leave me in peace. I’ll just get my car and go home.”
I watch her pull her dark curls across her eye, trying to create a fringe to mask the bruising as she carries on, which causes resentment to well inside. Someone has done this to her, beaten her intentionally. Perhaps that was why she reacted so fiercely to me touching her.
I gaze past her, noticing the black Range Rover ramped up on the stands in the workshop, Bob beneath it and liquid pouring out all over him. Seems little Ms. Madeline won’t be going anywhere without support.
“You won’t be going anywhere,” I say, still watching her ass move. She turns and storms up to me, hovering her finger in the air and about to pounce with that attitude of hers. I hold my hands up again and nod at the workshop. “Your car, Madeline. It’s broken. I can assure you that’s not my doing. Quite the opposite.”
“What?” she squawks, spinning back around and hurrying over to where Bob is fucking about with bits of metal. “Oh god, what’s happened?”
“Oil coming from your suspension, lassy. You right crunched her up. It’ll take a while yet.”
“Jesus, it was just a fucking field,” she bites out, throwing her bag on the floor and sinking to her ass alongside it. “It’s supposed to go off road.”
I smile at her language, temper, and ire, and then stare at the bruising around her eye again as she gently runs her finger over the area in thought.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Oh, go away,” she whispers, dropping her head into her hands and resting them on her knees, only to pick them up and then knock them against her knees again. It brings back memories of Selma again, the same spit of annoyance coming from her on occasion.
“Madeline, this is my house, my road you’re sitting on, and thankfully my ass you’ll have to kiss to get yourself out of this mess.” Her head shoots up, first flushed with a frown of annoyance as she glares at me, and then suddenly brightening into one of her ill offered smiles. “Which cheek would you like?” She frowns again and wrinkles her nose, obviously disregarding the idea. “Then stay here by all means,” I reply, walking to Bob and levering myself down beneath the car to see the suspension. “I could use a distraction like you.”
I chuckle at the thought of using her as I check out the damage. Nearly destroyed is a fair analysis of the situation.
“How did she do this in the bog?” I ask Bob quietly, noting the mangling along the suspension rack. The man shrugs his shoulders and throws the last bit of metal to the ground as he begins wiping his hands. “The kitchen needs a good clean. You could work off your board and lodgings until the car gets fixed,” I call up, nodding my head at Bob to carry on as I climb back out.
By the time I’ve gotten out of the pit and back up onto the road, Madeline is nowhere to be seen. I swing my body round searching for her, eyes narrowed at where the fuck she’s gone as I scan the parkland. She can’t leave. Can’t.
Chapter 6
Madeline
I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is trying to order me around. Kitchen cleaning? I’m not playing that game anymore. The days of Madeline Cavannagh doing anything a man says are long gone, certainly after whatever the hell that performance was in the ballroom.
I felt the moment his hands latched on tighter than they should have, and I felt my own eager reaction to it regardless of the fact I didn’t want anything to happen. It was my need as much as his, pure and simple, like a freight train had charged its engine and was going to railroad me into something one way or another. My protest was infuriating and a lie if truth be told, but it did scare me. He scared me. His hands reminded me of Lewis’. Cool, calm, collected, and then like a bear grappling for its prey. Holding it still and readying it for the kill it deserved.
And Ballroom? What was I thinking? Dancing my way around like some queen in her little kingdom was stupid, and wholly unsuitable behaviour for a woman trying to act professionally. It’s just, it was beautiful in some ways, almost dream worthy. It reminded me of the hopes of adolescent children, my adolescent childhood, where dancing class was all I had to get me away from the chaos at home. Before Lewis, before battered limbs.
My hand flings the phone about, desperately searching for a signal as I amble around the fields. It doesn’t find one. It hasn’t done since I entered the estate. Wealth and phone signals don’t mix around here, it seems. Great. And here I was being all haughty and storming off again, thinking I could just call the breakdown response people and stick a finger up to Mr. Downright Edible. Seems I can’t even do that effectively on my own.
Looking up into the sunlit sky, I feel the tears threatening again. They came filled with joy when he took hold of me and started dancing, happiness mingling inside me for the first time in who knows how long. Then they came again when I felt his hands tighten on me, reminding me of bruised skin. And then again as I ran for the front door, scared and frustrated with my fervent response to the thought. And then one last time, filling me with feelings of self-loathing when he saw the bruising around my eye. He was judging me, thinking me weak and incompetent. Presumably the make-up wore off with the tears, or maybe the sweat we built up dancing loosened it. I don’t know, but one thing I do know is he made me feel incapable and alone, inadequate maybe. Confused definitely.
Callie was right; I don’t know how to be on my own. I’ve forgotten how. Whatever Lewis is or was, he was always there to bail me out of trouble, simply a phone call away when I needed him. I miss that about him, about us. I don’t miss his aggression or the constant worry of what was coming next, but I do miss the sense of two, a couple, being with someone who is always there.
I stare round the grounds, blinking my tears away and reaching into my bag for some foundation to hide my past. The last thing I wanted was the look of consideration he gave me. I’m a professional, here to do a professional job. No one who has the remnants of a shiner around their eye looks professional, let alone capable. I just need to get home and forget about this one, lucrative as it might have been. It’s over now. I’ll just have to find another job in the near future.
“Was one bog not enough for you?” his voice calls from somewhere. I instantly look down at the floor, wondering what he’s talking about, to find myself perilously close to blackening mud that bubbles at my proximity. I move on the spot, turning and trying to find the way I came in behind me, but there’s no path to see. “Stand still,” he shouts, still from an unknown position.
“Okay,” I call back, halting the stupid trampling of my feets and hovering in place.
A crashing noise followed by some swearing then huffs of annoyance rage through the air at me as I keep looking for a safe route out.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he mutters, pushing a branch out of the way so I can finally see him coming at me from the left though the wooded area. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to wander off?”
“I needed a signal,” I reply quietly as I watch him move toward me. “To call the recovery people.” I’m rewarded with another huff, hotly pursued by him battling another branch from his path. “For my car?” I’m babbling, probably because I don’t know what else to say given whatever it is that has happened between us.
It’s unfortunate how ha
ndsome he is, even more so since he appears to be coming to my rescue in his pristine suit. Tall, broad, brown eyes I could easily fall into without thought, and a face devoid of any warmth until he smiles, which he isn’t currently doing. He’s grimacing, probably at the fact that those highly polished shoes are having to tentatively find their way through mud to get to me. I wish I could say it wasn’t funny, but it is, and a small snort of amusement breaks from me before I can stop it as his feet slip further into the mud, making squelching noises.
“If you think I’m carrying you out, Madeline Cavannagh, you can think again.”
Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. I look down at my already pretty muddy shoes and shrug. What difference does it make? I couldn’t screw this up any more than I already have done anyway. It’s now just about me getting out of this quagmire and finding my way home, which I’m pretty sure isn’t in the direction he’s coming at me from.
I turn, taking a step out onto a patch of green grass that I think was behind me before I stopped. It holds beneath me so I take another step, too, hoping I’ve got this right.
“Madeline, stop,” he says anxiously, though I don’t know why. He’s the one sinking, not me. I jump over to the next clean bit I see, heading back out into the field and generally in the direction of the garage, I think. “Will you damn well stand still?” Seemingly not. My feet are almost skipping over the ground to patches that seem sound, suddenly feeling remarkably in control of myself. I can do this without him. I can. I don’t need a man to complete me. I’m not incapable at all. “Madeline, watch out for the…”
Oh.
My foot squelches beneath me, my heel disappearing into wet ground and rapidly sinking in over the arch of my foot. It causes me to lose balance, and my arms start flailing about as I try to pull it back out again. All that happens is my other foot starts to sink as I press on it for leverage, making me wobble further into a fall, my bag flying from my hand.
The Spiral Page 6