The Object of His Desire (erotic romance suspense)

by PJ Adams

  §

  All of that... I really think it would have been fine if I hadn’t finished with that one final sentence.

  I can’t stand by and do nothing when innocent people are hurt.

  §

  He opened his mouth, he spread his arms again, he even took another step towards me but then stopped himself. He wasn’t going to fight for me.

  I could see that turning point, the moment when he stopped himself, when he drew back and retreated behind his protective layers. His face hardened, his stance stiffened. Like someone was twisting a dimmer switch.

  A single, small nod, then he looked past me, and said, “Maninder. I think Ms Parsons needs a lift home.”

  And then he turned away from me.

  Did I say dimmer switch? No, it was more clear-cut than that, more on-off.

  Over.

  Dismissed.

  §

  I turned and Maninder was waiting, a giant brick-wall of a man. White turban, black leather jacket, black t-shirt, black chinos. Looking past me. Anything but making eye contact with me as I walked away from Will, as I only slowly started to realize just how gutted I felt that a man who claimed to love me was willing to let me go like that.

  It seemed to take an age for the elevator to reach the penthouse floor. Finally, with a soft hiss of air the door slid open. I stepped inside, noticing for the first time that its floor was carpeted. In its mirrored interior I saw Maninder watching me, before following, and beyond him, Will stood on his balcony surveying the city, an eagle in its eyrie, watching over its domain.

  I don't really do relationships. They never seem to work out.

  He’d said that to me once, like some kind of self-fulfilling mantra, no chance for things to change: they just don’t work out.

  I almost went back to him, then. I felt the muscles in my arm tense, ready to reach out and stop the elevator door from sliding shut.

  But hesitation was the deciding factor, the moment slipping away just as the elevator door slid closed, and with a slight lurch we started to descend.

  Maninder was still studying me, more openly now. There was a sympathetic look on his face. I realized he must have witnessed that entire exchange. Of all people, he was probably closer to Will than anyone. How many times must he have seen his master pushing people away like this?

  As if to confirm this, he said to me, “He is a difficult man to know.”

  “That’s his choice,” I said, perhaps a little too harshly.

  “Sometimes choices are foisted upon us.”

  A short silence, then he went on: “You should not disrespect Mr Bentinck-Stanley and his family. They are good people. Sometimes they may be a little over-zealous, but would you not prefer the zeal of the good over the greed and depravity of the corrupt?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to talk, and I didn’t see why Maninder had chosen this moment to get all chatty. I much preferred his scary silent routine.

  That was when he reached across and pressed one of the buttons on the elevator’s control panel and we came to a juddering halt, somewhere between floors.

  41.

  I’d been standing sideways on to him, trying to make my body language show that I wasn’t keen on engaging in conversation. I watched him in the mirror, that arm rising, hesitating for a moment, and then reaching for the button.

  As the elevator came to a halt I turned towards him, and suddenly I felt very small. I peered up into his face, but it was impassive, hard to read. All around, in my peripheral vision there were multiples of the two of us reflected over and over again in the elevator’s mirrored walls, like some nightmare hall of mirrors that even as you dream you know you can’t wait to wake from.

  That hand, the one that had reached for the buttons to halt the lift, swung back and took me by the chin, cupping my jaw between forefinger and thumb, gripping firmly but not hurting. Controlling. Locking my face in position as I peered up at him.

  “What the fuck...?” I managed to say, before that grip tightened, pushing my head sharply up and back so that my throat suddenly tightened and the words were cut off.

  “They are good people,” he said, resuming our little conversation as if it had barely been interrupted. “They should not be disrespected”

  His grip eased, and then his hand fell away from my face.

  “Okay,” I said, fighting to make my voice somehow calming. “I know... Good people.”

  “It is disrespectful to start prying in order to find the dirt on them.”

  Yes, he’d heard everything...

  “They do not intimidate. They do not hurt innocent people.”

  My parting words to Will: I can’t stand by and do nothing when innocent people are hurt.

  “Okay,” I said. “I know. I was just upset, you know?”

  “Mr Bentinck-Stanley is a good man, a gentle man.” From his emphasis I knew that he meant that as two distinct words, a gentle man, not just a gentleman. “He is not a man who kills or hurts people. He travels the world doing the things his family have always done. He is a negotiator, a mediator. He is the glue that binds together. He frees hostages and prevents conflicts.”

  All these things... Why had Will been unable to tell me? Why did it take a bystander when it was all too late?

  Maninder was describing the Will I had longed to believe in... the Will I had never quite trusted in.

  “His work is important. His family are important.”

  I know. I know.

  “They must not be threatened. They must be protected.”

  That hand, raised again, but this time its grip was marginally lower, around my throat. It was a controlled grip, tight enough to restrain, but not too tight, not yet.

  “You will not have to stand by,” he said. His voice was quiet, so soft I could barely make out his words. His dark eyes bore into me, as if he were studying an insect.

  “You will do no more digging up of old stories. You will no longer threaten the Bentinck-Stanleys.”

  Was this just a threat? God, please let it just be a threat!

  I tried to swallow, but his grip was too tight for that. I tried to breathe deeply, calmly, but could only gasp.

  I should have known it was more than just a threat.

  These people... They were efficient. They didn’t leave loose ends like Sally Fielding, like me...

  With his free hand, Maninder reached across and pressed a button and the lift resumed its ponderous descent.

  “I am going to take you away, just as Mr Bentinck-Stanley requested,” he said, and for a moment I wondered if this was all planned, if Will had prepared his assistant for what to do if I proved troublesome.

  No.

  I knew that was not something he could do. And I wasn’t too far gone in my panic to appreciate the irony that finally I trusted in him.

  “But where he would give you the opportunity not to do any harm, I like to be more efficient. I take pride in my work.”

  “Your... work?”

  “I protect the family.”

  §

  The elevator stopped at the basement car park.

  We paused before emerging. Maninder held me with one arm twisted up behind my back, his other fist buried in my long hair, holding me tight against him. He smelt of citrus and spices. Will’s scent. Did that mean he sycophantically mimicked his employer, or stole his cologne? And why was my mind racing with such thoughts when my arm was burning with pain from the way I was being held?

  We shuffled forward, awkwardly. The car was parked two rows away, one sleek black Jaguar among an array of Jags, BMWs, Audis, a Porsche. More detail. More silly detailed thoughts, as if my mind was trying to distract itself from what was actually happening, which was Maninder half-marching, half-dragging me across to the car.

  The lights flashed as we approached, Maninder somehow holding me one-handed while he zapped the car unlocked.

  Passenger-side, he opened the door and bundled me in, and then he was leaning across me, doing som
ething clever with the seatbelt, and somehow I was secured, my wrists trapped in loops, the belt holding me firm. I twisted, pushed forward, tried to yank my hands free, but nothing gave and then he was lowering himself into the driver’s seat, engine gunning even as his door slammed shut.

  “The car is sound-proofed,” he said. “The windows mirrored from the outside. If you scream it is only your throat that will be damaged.”

  And then, twisting in his seat to see, he reversed out of the parking slot and headed for the exit ramp.

  42.

  It was over. I couldn’t squirm free of my restraints. I couldn’t draw attention from passersby. When we reached wherever we were heading, my only chance would come if I was able to break free of him, kick off my Jimmy Choos and out-run him in my bare feet.

  Or talk him round.

  “I don’t want to damage him,” I said. “Or his family. I–”

  “Please. In a situation such as this you will say whatever it is that you think I want to hear, and I will believe none of it because of this situation. Shall we skip that stage?”

  A last turn around a big four by four and we were on the ramp, the daylight harsh, dazzling.

  “Okay,” I said. “I just–”

  §

  Will stood there, waiting. Just standing casually in the middle of the exit, his hands on his hips, and those predator eyes trained on the car.

  With a squeal of brakes, we came to a halt, only inches from Will.

  Will shook his head, slowly, threateningly, and he mouthed the word “No”. This car really was sound-proofed.

  Maninder switched gears and reversed, then accelerated forward, trying to get round Will.

  The space was never going to be big enough.

  As we drew close we accelerated and then it was too late to pull out, too late to stop or swerve and Will’s expression changed to one of surprise, then a sudden flash of fear, his jaw flapping open, and then I blinked.

  I wanted to keep my eyes closed. I would have done anything not to hear the thud of impact, not to feel it.

  As my eyes opened, Will was in the air. Had he been hit already, or had he jumped?

  He came down on the hood of the Jag, his limbs spread to catch his fall, and then there was the thud, and a crunch as the near-side wing of the car hit a concrete bollard.

  The car heaved, straightened, and started to speed up again, heading up the ramp with Will still clinging on, one hand around the base of a windshield wiper.

  We swerved again as Maninder tried to throw him off, and then I watched as Will raised his free arm and brought his elbow down, hard.

  The windscreen crazed, frosting over in a network of tiny cracks.

  Another blow and Will’s arm was through, a hand fumbling blindly.

  We swerved again, and then Will’s hand found purchase on the top of the steering wheel.

  Next thing I knew, my chest felt as if it was exploding as the seat-belt pulled tight against the weight of my body.

  The car had stopped. We’d hit something, another bollard, maybe, or a wall.

  Maninder grunted, his words unclear, then he turned to me and raised one heavy ham of a fist.

  The windscreen shattered inwards, and Will was halfway through, both hands on Maninder, yanking him sharply forward.

  Maninder roared with rage and swung a hand, catching Will in the chest and knocking him back.

  As Maninder fumbled with his seatbelt, I watched almost in slow motion as Will’s fist swung through, and up, connecting with jaw, making Maninder shoot backwards.

  Another blow, and Maninder was bleeding – from his nose, or a cut, I couldn’t see.

  I squirmed and pulled, but still couldn’t free myself, and then Maninder had found his buckle and released his seat-belt. In a mighty surge he stood, leaning forward through the broken windscreen, reaching for Will, pushing him and then scrambling out after him.

  Will hit the ground first and was struggling to his feet as Maninder clambered over the car’s sprawling hood, and then as Maninder swung his legs forward Will hooked one of his opponent’s feet from under him with a quick kick to the ankle.

  Maninder fell hard on the concrete and turned, dazed, as Will followed through with another kick to the head... Just a single blow and Maninder lay motionless.

  §

  My ears were ringing, my heart pounding. I could barely breathe as I sat there, watching as Will straightened. He had been ruthless. This was no namby-pamby playground fight. It was no holds barred, whatever was needed. And somehow Will had beaten this man-giant and saved me.

  Just then, another man appeared, a security guard. As he approached, I recognized him from the lobby of the apartment building.

  Will stood there, peering in at me as if dazed, and then he realized we had company.

  He turned, nodded, and said, “Nasty accident, Danny. Would you mind tidying up? The keys are in the car. I wasn’t here, okay?”

  §

  I made it to the elevator. Right up until the door slid shut with that almost imperceptible hiss. Then I crumpled into his arms, adrenalin turning to release, to pathetic, sobbing tears as he held me close, one hand on my head, the other on my back.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I didn’t–”

  He silenced me with his mouth. A gentle, tender kiss. A touch that calmed me.

  §

  Always trust that first reaction, the gut response. That’s what I had believed.

  But when a man races down the service stairs of his apartment building, overtaking an elevator that had stalled while Maninder made his threats... when that man leaps onto a moving car to rescue you...

  When a man does something like that, it kind of makes up for things.

  43.

  I needed air, I needed to fill my lungs deep and not feel confined.

  I stood on the balcony, the Thames dark, its surface pricked by dancing reflections of the city’s lights, while Will made a call.

  Seconds later, he was there, standing behind me, his arms wrapped around my body.

  “I was just arranging for some help for Danny – the concierge.” The guy who Will had left to clear up.

  Then: “It’s me who should be sorry,” he said. “I had no idea... Maninder’s been with the family for years. He...”

  It was my turn to twist – awkwardly, painfully – and silence him with a kiss.

  “I’ve told you before,” I said. “Will you just stop apologizing?”

  “The family,” he said. “They’re not as peculiar as you seem to think. They’re not a bad lot.”

  “That’s what Maninder said, too.”

  “I hope you’ll give them a chance. But whatever happens, I know what I want. I know what I need. If anyone doesn’t like it, I don’t care. I’ll protect you. I’ll always protect you.”

  I turned.

  “Will you just join the twenty-first century?” I said, reveling in the way his arms curled around me. “I don’t need your protection, and I’m not going to come between you and the people you love. I know what it’s like to lose a family. How could I do that to you? And anyway, I hear that you’re a negotiator, the glue that binds together. Maybe you just need to use your skills a little.”

  He laughed at that, and pulled me closer, dipping his head to kiss me on the cheek, to drag his lips down across my jaw to the side of my neck, his touch electric, sending all kinds of sensations through my body.

  As I tipped my head back and his mouth found the top of my collarbone, I felt tugging at my blouse and then it was free of my little pencil skirt, and his hands slid up, finding bare skin, the narrowing of my waist.

  I found his belt loops, hooked my fingers in them and pulled him hard against me. I wanted him so badly then. I slid a hand round, in between us, finding hardness, the length of his shaft straining against his pants.

  He undid my top button, then lost all patience, and ripped at the front of my blouse like he had that time in his Alpine hotel.

  �
�So that’s how you want it, is it?” I asked.

  I took hold of his neck tie and jerked it sideways, back, pulling him away from me.

  “You like it rough, do you?” I said. “You like a bit of fight?”

  I let go his tie and pushed him back through the doorway, into the bedroom.

  Surprised, he staggered back until his legs hit the bed, and then I was on him, forcing him back, down onto the mattress, pinning him there while I ground hard against him.

  My skirt... Too tight for this. I stepped back and he lay there, watching me as I pulled my blouse clear, then unzipped my skirt and let it fall. Stepping out of it, I stood there, and let him look. Dark blue and black lace push-me-up bra to emphasize my cleavage, matching thong, sheer black hold-ups, and those utterly fabulous, sexy Jimmy Choo stilettos.

  I returned the look as he lay there, my poor, battered lover, his shirt ripped, a smear of blood on his face.

  “The shirt,” I said. “Take it off for me. Let me watch.”

  His eyes... those dark, predator eyes, locked on mine as he sat up, reached for his top button, the next, the next, as he paused with his shirt hanging open over that tight torso and then reached for a cuff, pulled, then the other, and the shirt came clear.

  That was a hard, fit body. The muscles almost sculpted, the chest rising and falling, a pulse visible in his neck. A fighter’s body. A body ready for action.

  “The handcuffs.”

  He twisted, leaned over, and slid open the drawer where he kept those heavy metal cuffs with the scuffed leather padding. Two sets, one for each wrist.

  I took one hand, turned it gently in mine, and then closed a bracelet around the wrist. The other hand, more roughly this time, more urgently... raising it so I could enclose the wrist in a cuff and snap it shut.

  “On your back.”

  This wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even about us, right then. It was about me: my wants, my needs, my desires.

  I spread his arms and snapped one cuff to the metal bed-frame. Leaning over him, my breasts crushing against his bare chest, I secured his other wrist.