by Mandy Lee
‘It’s not nice, is it?’ he asks at last.
‘What?’
‘Wearing the wrong clothes?’
I can feel a frown coming on. What on Earth is he going on about now?
‘No, it’s not,’ I scowl back at him. ‘So, why are you doing this to me?’
He leans back, examining me closely, and then his face seems to relax.
‘You did this to yourself.’
‘If you’d told me why I had to wear a dress, I might have worn a dress.’
‘I thought you didn’t have any dresses.’
‘And I would have bought one if I’d known you were bringing me here.’
‘So you were simply defying me for the sake of defying me?’
‘Defying you?’ I gasp. Oh Lord, he really is one of those tie-you-up-and-dominate-you types. ‘That’s control freak talk.’
‘Maybe it is.’
‘And maybe I don’t like control freaks.’
‘Really? Why ever not?’
‘Maybe.’ I pick up the menu. ‘Maybe,’ I sneer. ‘It’s because this is the twenty-first century and women are generally viewed as equals. Maybe it’s because I actually have a brain and I don’t need to be controlled.’
‘And maybe you should relax and let someone else make the decisions for a change.’
‘And maybe I shouldn’t.’
‘And maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here,’ he whispers, knocking me off balance for a split second. Was that remorse?
‘No, you shouldn’t. But seeing as we’re here now, we’d better get on with it.’
I snap open the menu and stare at a bunch of things that I don’t really understand.
‘May I order for you?’
‘I think you’d better. I don’t have a fucking clue what any of this is.’
‘You know …’ He leans forwards and rests his chin in his hand, allowing a twinkle back into his eyes. ‘You may be angry with me right now - and I’m angry with you too, just for the record - but you really don’t have to swear like a builder. Not here.’
‘I’m so fucking sorry,’ I sneer back at him, and there’s that twinkle again. Shit, I’m being feisty, and that’s exactly what men like him enjoy. I remind myself of Lucy’s words. I’m presenting myself as some sort of challenge, although why he’s interested in it, I have no idea. No, this definitely isn’t the way ahead. I shake myself into action. It’s time to get all boring on his ass.
‘So, tell me about yourself,’ he says after an age.
‘I already did that in the coffee shop.’
‘And is that all there is to you?’
‘Yep.’
I fold my arms and stare across the room at an expensive dress.
‘Oh cut the crap, Maya.’
‘You know, you don’t have to swear like a builder,’ I admonish him.
‘And you don’t have to be difficult with me.’
‘You asked for it.’ I mentally slap myself for my feisty tone. Be boring, woman! Be boring! It shouldn’t be too hard. After all, you are boring.
‘Come on, tell me about yourself.’
‘There really is nothing to know.’
‘What does your dad do for a living?’
‘Nothing,’ I snap. And then I can’t help myself. ‘He worked in a shoe factory but some rich, up-his-own-arse twat shut it down.’
‘You say that as if you think I’m responsible.’ He runs a finger up the stem of a wine glass. ‘Can I remind you that this particular rich, up-his-own-arse twat has never owned a shoe factory in his life.’
I glare at him and find the twinkle has returned. For God’s sake, I don’t know where I am with this man. Twinkle or cold stare? Just pick one and stick to it, please.
‘No, but you do own a concrete mixer factory.’
‘I’ve explained about that.’
‘Whatever.’ I seethe for a few minutes, staring at anything and everything. Finally, I stare at Daniel Foster only to find that he’s pushed himself back in his chair, folded his arms and stretched out his legs. And he’s staring back at me, a grin playing across his face. Instead of desperately trying to move the conversation on, he’s simply been sitting there enjoying my discomfort.
‘Why did you insist that I come to that meeting?’ I hear myself ask.
‘I like to meet my staff.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
‘Somebody’s been spreading rumours.’
‘And why have you asked me out to dinner?’
He chews his lips and gazes around the restaurant, as if he’s trying to find inspiration. At last, he sits up straight, draws his chair back to the table and finally leans in towards me, his face perfectly serious.
‘Because I think you’re beautiful.’
I can’t help myself at that. I begin to laugh. Not a quiet chuckle. No. A loud belly laugh. The clatter of cutlery comes to a halt. But Daniel Foster doesn’t seem to mind.
‘I am not beautiful.’
His forehead creases. He seems genuinely confused.
‘You don’t think so?’
‘No.’ I suppose I’m alright. But beautiful? Come on.
‘Well, you’ve turned heads in here tonight.’ He waves his hand around the restaurant.
‘That’s because of this,’ I hiss, pulling at my T-shirt.
‘Oh no.’ He tuts. ‘It’s because of your long blonde hair, your incredible green eyes, your amazing figure and, of course, your stunning little ass.’
‘Excuse …’
‘You’re quite a catch.’
‘I’m not a bloody fish.’
‘And before you accuse me of being a sexist pig, I’ll throw in the fact that you’re obviously a talented, intelligent and spirited woman. I could go on.’
‘Please don’t.’
I don’t like blowing my own trumpet, and I certainly don’t like anyone else doing it for me.
‘You studied at the School of Art in Edinburgh.’
I stop full on in my tracks. I’m blindsided. Where has that come from?
‘I said don’t go on. And how do you know that?’
‘I’m your boss. I’ve seen your CV.’
‘Well, fine …’
‘But what stumps me is this … you get the highest accolades from Edinburgh, and then you end up working as a secretary.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with working as a secretary.’
‘Of course not. But wouldn’t you be happier if you were making use of your talents?’
‘I’m fine as I am.’
‘Are you?’ He stares at me for a moment or two and I’m lost in his eyes. And worse than that, some sort of fluttering sensation seems to have kicked off in my knickers. Damn the man. How is he doing this to me? ‘You’re twenty-six. You left art college at twenty-one and you seem to have been drifting ever since.’
‘I’ve not been drifting.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I was in a relationship.’
‘But you didn’t paint.’
‘How do you know that? It’s not on my CV.’
‘A quick look on the internet …’ He takes a swig of water. ‘I see no mention of Maya Scotton the artist, Maya Scotton the talented oil painter.’
No, you wouldn’t see that, I muse to myself. Because Maya Scotton the artist and Maya Scotton the talented oil painter ran away from a controlling bastard and fell in love with a twat. And somewhere along the way, she pushed the painting to the side. And now … now … she can’t seem to get back to it.
‘How did you know about the oils?’
‘A quick call to your old tutor at the School of Art.’
‘You’re stalking me?’
‘Researching you.’ He leans forwards and begins to sketch out the last few years of my life. ‘After Edinburgh, you disappeared off the face of the Earth. At some point, you undertook a little secretarial training. Typing. The basics.’
‘And?’ I virtually spit. He has no business poking his nose
into my business. This is beginning to feel like a job interview, and I’ve already been through all of that. I don’t need to justify myself again.
‘And then you took on a lowly job as a secretary at my company.’
Jesus, he’s not about to give up. And I’m not about to make it easy for him.
‘Do you do this with all of your new employees?’
‘No.’
He smiles, a self-satisfied sort of a smile and takes another sip of water.
‘So why me?’
‘I’ve told you. I think you’re beautiful.’
‘And I think you’re wrong.’
I reach out, grab hold of a ridiculously heavy piece of cutlery and begin turning it in my hands.
‘So, why don’t you tell me about you?’ I gripe, laying the fork back down. Yes, go ahead! Why don’t you tell me what made you the biggest fucking arrogant prick to walk this planet?
‘There’s nothing to know,’ he says.
‘Cut the crap.’
An eyebrow twitches.
‘Where did you grow up?’ I demand.
‘Surrey.’
‘Brothers and sisters?’
‘Only child.’
‘Parents?’
‘Dead.’
Shit, I’m stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I already knew that. The conversation could come to a crashing halt right now. I need to indulge in some damage limitation.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘What do you do when you’re not at work?’ I ask.
‘I’m always at work.’
‘Oh, come off it. Not now, you’re not. You must have hobbies.’ I should really shut up now because I’m sure he’s frowning. ‘Come on, what are your hobbies?’
‘Knitting,’ he grins.
So, there is a playful side to him after all. I laugh out loud and he seems to smile appreciatively. And then I groan to myself. I’m clearly not going to get a straight answer to any more probing questions. But I carry on regardless.
‘Women?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean yes?’
‘I mean yes.’
‘Relationships?’
‘Not sure.’
‘What do you mean not sure?’
‘Not sure.’
‘This is pointless,’ I growl.
‘Then allow me to take over.’ He leans forwards, picks up a fork and mirrors my actions. ‘Do you get on with her?’
‘Do I get on with who?’ I sigh.
‘Your sister?’
My sister? Why is he asking about her again? And what is it with the strange question? Wouldn’t it be better to ask how many children she has, or how often I see her?
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’d like to know everything about you. Do you get on with her?’
It’s clear that he’s not backing off. I think of Sara. She’s mellowed with age, but when she was younger she could be a right cow. An ‘it’ girl, the leader of the pack, all self-assured and sassy right from the start. She always knew that she was superior and she was never slow in letting the world know.
‘We’re fine now.’
Oh, shit, where did that come from?
‘What do you mean now?’
I shake my head and glance towards the door. This conversation is throwing me all over the place and I’m feeling way too hot in his jacket. I really could do with getting out of here now.
‘Maya.’ His voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I look him straight in the eyes. He seem earnest now. He really wants to know. ‘I’ve touched a nerve. I’m sorry.’
Yes, he has. I have no idea why he’s getting in so deep so quickly.
‘Aren’t you supposed to talk about music and films and holidays on a first date?’ I ask.
‘I’m not entirely sure. All I know is this. Music and films and holidays are just the window dressing. I’d much prefer to start at the centre and work my way out. And now I know I’ve touched a nerve, I want to know more. You can tell me about your sister.’ He lays down the fork. ‘I’d like to know.’
I stare at him. My lips twitch. My eyes begin to sting. He examines my face. A hand slides its way across the table and covers my own. It’s a small action, and it’s clearly intended to be comforting. And it works. I can’t help myself. There’s something about those eyes, something about that touch. Everything around us seems to have fizzled away. I can hear nothing, see nothing, apart from this man in front of me. And suddenly, I just want to open myself up.
‘When she was younger, she wasn’t particularly pleasant to be around,’ I explain, and I don’t know where this confession is coming from. ‘She was better looking than me. She was better at sport, better with the boys. She had more friends. She was just … better. The only thing I was good at was art. I used to sit in my bedroom painting and drawing for hours, sometimes all night. I got into art college and that’s all there is to know.’
His hand squeezes mine. He stares at the table cloth, deep in thought.
‘Dan, I don’t want to talk about this any more.’
He looks up at me and smiles, a full on, warm-me-to-my-soul smile, and I think that I might just like this man.
‘Why are you smiling?’ I ask.
‘Because I’ve just peeled back a layer.’ He lets his fork drop to the table, pushes back his chair and stands up. ‘Come on,’ he says, holding out a hand. ‘Enough of this dinner crap. I’m taking you home.’
Chapter Eight
So, he’s had enough already. He’s given up on wining and dining me, and he’s simply going to take me home. Oh well, it’s my own stupid fault. I set out to be queen of boring and it seems that my mission has been well and truly accomplished. So, he’ll dump me back on my doorstep and I’ll slink back inside and throw myself into an evening of Lucy and wine and slushy DVDs. I’m slumped in the passenger seat, feeling distinctly disappointed when I notice we’re heading south and I seem to be listening to Bob Dylan, telling his lady to lay herself across his big brass bed. Another message? Or simply another random choice of song? I peek at his face. His eyes are fixed on the road again and there’s no hint of emotion, no trace of a clue.
‘This isn’t the way back to mine,’ I murmur, nudging myself into action.
‘I know.’
Trafalgar Square gives way to Whitehall.
‘I live in Camden.’
‘I know.’
‘You said you were taking me home.’
‘I am. I’m taking you to my home.’
‘Pardon?’ Now, that must be adrenalin pumping its way through my body because my heart begins to thud and there’s a distinct fluttering in my stomach. Yes, he does want me to lie across his big, bloody brass bed. And I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for those sorts of shenanigans. Suddenly, I’m in fight or flight mode. Blood is pumping. I’m on high alert. ‘But I don’t want to go back to your house.’
‘Actually, it’s an apartment.’
‘And I don’t want to go back to it.’
The Cenotaph flashes past us in a blur.
‘And I think you’ll find that you do.’
‘But why are we going back to yours?’
He sucks in a breath and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the road. His big hand reaches down and changes gear. We speed up slightly as we pass by the Houses of Parliament. The thudding has increased threefold, and I’m currently wondering if my heart is going to burst its way straight through my rib cage. I can barely hear the next words, but I’m pretty sure of what he’s just said.
‘Because I’d like to fuck you.’
‘I beg your …’
My mind is a mess. Less than twenty minutes ago, I was sitting at a dining table in a posh restaurant with an apparently caring and sensitive man. He listened patiently to my story and pulled all the right faces, made all the right noises. And now that man’s gone. He’s mutated once more, back into an arrogant, albeit eminently sexy bastard. The big hand moves from t
he gear stick and lays itself gently on my leg, sending a shimmer of warmth skittering up my thigh and straight into my special bits. I grit my teeth against the sensation. Oh Lord, this is bad. He only has to touch me and I’m an overheated, brainless, horny mess of sex. I really need to get out of here.
‘This is a bit quick,’ I snap.
‘You want me to slow down?’
He takes his foot off the accelerator.
‘That’s not what I mean. You know what I mean.’
‘Of course I know what you mean. But what’s the point of waiting?’
I can feel my breath coming in short gasps. Good God. He’s gone from first to third base without so much as a by-your-leave. I scowl at him and he must know that I’m scowling at him because now he’s grinning.
‘Take me home.’ I growl. ‘To my home. I don’t want this.’
‘Oh yes you do.’
‘I …’
The car rolls to a stop at a red light. Removing his hand from my lap, he turns and gives me a full on dose of his glorious face. And it’s amused. Yes, very amused.
‘Listen, Miss Scotton. I’ve been watching your every move and you’ve already given yourself away. Your cheeks have been flushed all evening and you’ve been shaking like a leaf. Every now and then you’ve even had to catch your breath. And you must have seen a similar reaction in me.’
A similar reaction? I’ve seen nothing of the sort. His bloody face has been playing with me all night. He’s a master of self-control.
‘And let’s face it; you drew a sketch of me. I think that says something.’
I wince and feel the heat rising in my skin. Oh God, I’m blushing.
‘Normally I wouldn’t even bother with dinner, but you’re a special case.’
‘A special case?’
He nods. ‘Very special. So, let’s just get on with it. It’s my full intention to take you back to my apartment and fuck you in every possible way I can imagine.’
‘And what if I don’t want you to … do that.’
‘Then you should persuade me to turn this car around now. But just to let you know, it’s going to take quite a bit of persuasion.’