TIED TO YOU
Copyright: Bronwyn Paterson
Published: 31 October 2014
Publisher: Bronwyn Paterson
Kindle Edition
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Tied to You
is dedicated to two amazing people;
the purveyors of far too much information.
I always said it would end up in a book one day.
Prologue
He stands at the back of the room watching her, his impassive expression belying the intrigue he feels when he is near her. Olivia Walker is nervously fiddling with the auction brochure as she waits for the next lot to come up, and he can sense the desperation rolling off her. Her posture is stooped as if she is carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. He runs his eyes over her whole body, taking in the messy brown hair that seems to have a life of its own, the face bare of makeup, the large brown eyes that are the same shade as Oreo cookies and seem to show every emotion she feels. Her small frame is clad in clothes that have clearly seen better days. Today her eyes are haunted; the usual warmth that he has seen in their depths is entirely absent.
For months now he has watched her patiently, waiting for the opportunity to present itself. And today is the day. His cock twitches in his pants and he takes a deep, calming breath, reminding himself that there will be none of that with this girl, this woman. Despite her age, she is clearly more innocent than most, and from the research he has done on her he knows that she is definitely not into the lifestyle. He may be attracted to her—shit, from the first day he noticed her, something about her has called to him—but he is thinking about the bigger picture, and that means keeping things purely platonic.
In all his life, he has never felt a need like this. To most people he comes off as a complete control freak, affable and business-like, but cross him and he will be your enemy for life. At heart, he is a family man; his parents and siblings are the only ones, though, who know just how generous, thoughtful and even protective he can be. To anyone looking at the situation, he would appear crazy, stalkerish even, but she calls out to every protective instinct he possesses. Never before has he felt a stirring to take a relationship with a woman beyond sex, and here he is, stepping into the abyss and doing something he knows is completely bizarre and out of character. Just like the wolf-kid in those vampire movies his niece, Kayla, insisted on making him watch…all he wants is to be there for her, be whomever she needs him to be, do anything for her. She is magnetic, pulling him into her gravitational field, and she doesn’t even know it.
But what she needs most of all is a friend. Through his observations of her, he has noticed how independent she is and how there is no one in her life taking care of her. She is working three different jobs just to make ends meet and at night she returns to a shitty little flat in the worst part of Stratford, all so that she can support her mother. All he wants to do is wrap his arms around her and tell her everything is going to be okay. And that scares the fucking life out of him; he doesn’t do feelings and that shit with anyone other than his family.
So today he is going to make his move, and he is going to have to do it in a way that she thinks she is making the decision in all of this. She will be his, in whatever way she finds acceptable. The auction is about to start, so he steps forward, taking his place off to the side of Olivia.
Chapter One
The pace of the auction is fast and furious, as I surreptitiously check out my main competition. The bids start to slow, but we remain engaged in a battle of wills; this is a fight I cannot afford to lose. Charles Ridings made it abundantly clear that my job was on the line if I did not deliver.
I have no idea why this particular 12th-century manuscript is so important to him, but this is the first time since I started working for Charles twelve months ago that money has been no object. When I first applied for the position, the job description was particularly vague, and the only thing that stood out was the need for a background in rare books. Well, that fit me to a tee. I had just spent the last ten years working as a curator of rare books at the London Museum and, well, circumstances meant that I needed the money this new role was offering. It broke my heart to think about leaving my little cubicle and all the colleagues I had made over the last decade, but the opportunity was too important to pass up.
When I was interviewed for the role, which was never given a formal title, I discovered that it was a rather obscure one. The Ridings, it turned out, were an old family dating back to Anglo-Saxon times and, in the ensuing centuries, had accumulated an enormous amount of wealth and status. But it would seem that, in the last hundred years, luck was not on their side, and much of their wealth dwindled as a result of bad investments and sheer stupidity, as Charles told me in a long-winded monologue about his family’s less than illustrious past. To maintain their livelihood and to remain in their family ancestral pile, Charles’ ancestors began selling off the contents of the family’s library. And essentially that is now my role: to track down and buy back those lost titles, all marked up in detail in beautiful script in an old-fashioned leather-bound ledger, making sure that they are authenticated originals. So, in essence, I am a glorified bounty hunter for books.
Which is why I am now standing in the Christie’s auction room, battling it out against some guy who seems as intent as I am on winning. For a moment, I think the guy is going to fold, but then he suddenly ups his bid by an amount that makes the room gasp collectively and I am forced to respond in kind. I glance in his direction, and I can see the muscles working in his jaw as he maintains his concentration. Just then, I feel the soft vibration of my phone in my pocket. There is only one reason that my phone would be ringing at a time like this and my stomach drops. The world spins as I try to catch my breath, my vision tunnelling as I attempt to pull out my phone with shaking fingers. I glance at the screen, only to see that the call has been dropped, though the number is one that I instantly recognise. I let out a small sigh, dreading whatever message will be currently filling my voicemail. All it takes is that momentary loss of concentration for the gavel to come down and the auctioneer to declare the other guy the winner.
/> I feel myself going pale, the blood draining from my face as I stare across at the man standing there with a smug smirk. The next lot is about to start and I see him glance at me before heading out of his nearest exit. Great, I think to myself as I try to push through the crowd. I finally make it into the corridor to see the man walking away with purpose, and I rush to catch up, trying to smooth down my flyaway locks with my hand as nerves take hold of my body.
“Excuse me, sir?” I call out. The man whips his head around and pierces me with a laser-like glance, and for the first time I really take a proper look at the man I am about to plead my case to. The first thing that strikes me is his height; at five-five I am pretty much always towered over, but this guy is well over six foot. His broad shoulders are encased in a beautifully tailored charcoal suit that seems to be moulded to his body, but the messy, just-too-long-for-corporate hair makes me think he would be just as comfortable in a pair of jeans. But what really grabs me are his eyes; the flint grey colour gives his expression a dark, inscrutable countenance that gives little away.
I keep walking towards him as he waits for me to catch up, his eyes roaming across my body. “Excuse me, sir,” I repeat, and at the word “sir,” a strange expression crosses his face. But as soon as I blink, it is gone, only to be replaced by a completely neutral expression.
“Yes?” His tone is abrupt, and a little harsh, as he runs a hand through his hair.
“S…s…sorry,” I stutter. I wring my hands, desperately trying to summon up the courage I need. I am not a confrontational person in the slightest, nor a particularly forward one, so I am completely out of my comfort zone. I have always been one to fade into the background, waiting for opportunities to present themselves rather than grabbing what I want with both hands. I have heard myself described as passive, but my back is against the wall, and it is now time to sink or swim. “Is there any chance you would be willing to sell the manuscript? My employer, well, money is no object, so I can offer you more than what you just paid.”
“No,” comes the reply. “If you had been paying attention, then perhaps you would have won, but the auction room is no place for amateurs.” I pick up a faint Aussie accent, but the delivery is as cold as ice, and I feel like I am five years old, being told off by my mum. Still I get the weirdest feeling that his reluctance is a ploy, that there is something else going on, like there is a joke somewhere in all of this and I am the last one to be let in on it.
“Please,” I implore, dignity going straight out the window. “My job is on the line. I need that manuscript…” I trail off, my mind spinning as I try to school my thoughts into a persuasive argument that will let me obtain the document and preserve my job.
“Well, you should have thought of that before you started playing with your phone in the middle of the auction.” I feel like I have been slapped. I have never been talked to like this and part of me wants to tell this arrogant arsehole to go fuck himself, but the saner part of me realises that that would get me nowhere. I have too much riding on this to mess it up.
“Please, I’ll do whatever it takes.” Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say, but I suddenly see a slight shift in his expression as he reaches into his pocket and draws out a small card. He quickly writes something out on it and then hands it across to me. “Meet me at the address on the back at seven tomorrow evening and we’ll discuss this further.” With that, he turns on his heel and stalks off before I can say anything more.
I stare down at the stark white card with the name Alexander Davenport embossed in dark grey. I turn it over and see ‘1 Lombard Street’ written in bold script. Hmm, the address rings a bell and I guess that it is somewhere in the City.
I take a deep breath before picking up my phone and clicking on the voicemail icon to retrieve the message that is waiting for me. When the voice informs me that they are calling from Ravenscroft care home, my heart starts to pound rapidly, imagining the worst. Well, the news is almost as bad…my payment didn’t go through and now they are requesting that I pay it straight away. I close my eyes knowing that there is no way I can pay the bill, and since I have not managed to secure the manuscript, there won’t be any more money coming in until next month. I had been banking on my finder’s fee from Charles to pay the bill, and now the only way I can see myself getting out of this mess is to persuade Alexander Davenport somehow to sell me the manuscript before Charles returns from his business trip to Singapore. Hopefully, I can persuade the accounts people to give me a couple of extra days to pull the funds together, so for the second time today I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself to plead my case.
Chapter Two
I am trembling as I walk into 1 Lombard Street, a restaurant that is located in the heart of the city of London. I have a vague idea of the man with whom I am about to come face-to-face. My go-to reaction when faced with something, or someone, I am unsure about is to do my research. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say, and the Internet is a marvellous invention. It took a few Google searches to narrow down my Alexander Davenport, but when I finally tracked down the website for Davenport Wines, I was able to confirm that the person I had met was the same guy in the picture on the page of company directors.
From his short biography, I learnt that he is thirty-six and originally from Western Australia. His family own a couple of vineyards and export their vintages globally. Interestingly enough, there is very little about his personal life documented online, which I found a little odd. He is clearly wealthy and from a prestigious family, so I would have thought he would have had some sort of presence online, but apart from pictures at the corporate events that his company sponsors, there is nothing. Obviously a man who keeps his private life just that.
I try to smooth down my wind-tousled bob, very much aware that, despite my efforts at dressing to impress, under my camel-coloured trench coat my black wrap dress has seen better days, and my heels are scuffed. Thank heavens I managed to find a pair of stockings with no holes. I am not sure exactly where I need to go, so I make my way over to the hostess and let her know that I am here to see Mr Davenport.
With a smile, she leads me across to a partially hidden door, informing me that he is waiting for me in the private dining room. I’m not sure what this all means, but when she opens the door and leads me in, announcing my arrival, I can’t help but be impressed by my surroundings. Before I can take in much of anything, though, I see Alexander standing expectantly, apparently waiting for me to make my way across to the table. I reach the table and take off my coat, which is swiftly whisked away by the hostess, and Alexander motions me to take a seat. I smile nervously, feeling thoroughly intimidated by the surroundings and the man sitting across from me.
“Thank you for meeting me, Ms Walker.” Alexander’s voice is smooth but deep, and weirdly, I feel instantly at ease in his company. I have no idea how he knows my name, but I guess he is the kind of guy who is always in control and so, of course, would have found out my name somehow.
“Mr Davenport,” I begin, before he interrupts me.
“Alex, please. I always look around for my father when I hear someone say ‘Mr Davenport’.” Alex smiles at me, and immediately his face is transformed, giving me a glimpse of the man beneath the suit.
“Alex, thank you for seeing me. If we are being informal, then please call me Olivia. As I said yesterday, I need that manuscript.”
“Yes, I understand that, Olivia. You have been very insistent about that. I have a proposition for you,” Alex says, his voice having returned to the carefully controlled tone he used when I first walked in. Yet again, I get the impression that there is something going on that I am not privy to.
“Okay…” I say, nervously playing with my hair. “I am all ears.” My heart is thumping in my chest, but I am desperately trying to appear calm. A proposition, he said. Well, at this point I am plain out of options so have no choice but to hear him out. I have five days before my mother becomes homeless and that is just not somet
hing I can allow.
“Before we go into the details, I need you to be aware that what I am about to tell you is private, so I want your assurance that the details will not leave this room.” I nod and wait for him to continue. “I have something you want and I am willing to give it to you, but in return I am going to need something from you.”
Okay, I feel slightly on edge at the sound of this, but I am not really in any position to argue. “I understand that.” My voice is almost a whisper and I am really starting to wish that I was one of those take-charge kind of people.
“A bit of background on me then. I was born and raised in Perth in Western Australia. My family owns several wineries in Western Australia, as well as various investments throughout Australasia. Basically, we are very wealthy.” Okay, nothing I didn’t know, or guess, already, but I don’t want to give away that I have looked into Alex, so I just nod and stay silent, waiting for him to continue.
“For years, my mother and grandmother have been trying to set me up with the various daughters of their friends, and for the most part, I have managed to avoid it. But now there is real pressure with one particular girl, as both families seem to have gone all nineteenth century. They own the vineyard next to ours and bringing them together would have a huge financial impact on both families.”
I raise my eyebrows but stay silent, wondering how this all affects me. “The difficulty, though, is that I partake in a, shall we say, alternative lifestyle, and this means that the marriage is not a possibility. Where I come from, well, let’s just say this is not something I could keep under wraps, which in turn could cause problems for the family business, and besides, I could never go into a marriage without being honest about who I am. Plus there is some history there…” Alex trails off, looking uncomfortable for the first time.
“And what does this have to do with me?” I ask curiously, my mind already latching on to this mysterious ‘lifestyle’ and spinning out in a thousand directions.
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