by Unknown
And she knew she was living up to her name of Hot Pepper. The first few times she’d given men lap dances she’d cringed inwardly, but then something in her changed when she realised they saw and lusted after Hot Pepper. They didn’t see Marianne Rousseau, who took off her heels and cleaned her face of make-up after each night. Marianne, who, although she knew Brett would offer her a lift home, could now afford to pay one of the metered taxis to pick her up outside the club and drop her at her door. It became something of a game to her, vanishing before he could offer.
Having moneyher own, and enoughmade her walk with confidence, look people in the eye. She dyed her hair flaming red with gold highlights. Coloured contact lenses made her eyes a brilliant emerald green. After some of Sherry’s make-up tips, Marianne hardly recognised herself in the mirror.
Hot Pepper was a vixen, a femme fatale, everything Marianne wasn’t, and it felt good to step into this other woman’s shoes and to cut loose a bit. She almost relished encountering Carl, in fact daydreamed of the day he visited Imperial House with his friends so she could give him a lap dance without him knowing it was his mousy ex.
Marianne couldn’t help but sneer when she thought of Carl now. Two weeks and he still hadn’t contacted her. He must be aware of her movements because, on two occasions, she’d returned home from shopping to find more of his stuff missing. Still, she resisted the urge to phone him or send a bitchy e-mail.
Sure, he made her gut-wrenchingly mad, but she wouldn’t budge. Let him sleep in the bed he’d just made. All this time, up until now, she’d been the one to run after him, to acquiesce whenever he hadn’t liked some of her suggestions. She sure as hell wasn’t backing down now. Whenever a small flickering of unease stirred, she’d twist the ring she’d bought for her index fingera chunky silver serpent with garnet eyesand Marianne asked herself: What would Hot Pepper do?
This thought invariably brought a stupid grin to her face. Hot Pepper would give the stupid boy hell. She gave doughy sacks of shit like him hard-ons every night. She made them cream their trousers.
* * * *
It was a dark winter morning a mere few hours before dawn, like any other Marianne was fast becoming used to. The taxi driver waited for her to unlock her security gate before pulling away, and Marianne hefted her bagconsiderably fuller now that she’d invested a number of outfits for each nightand slipped off her heels now there was no one to see her pad up the stairs in only her stockings.
She knew something was wrong when she inserted her front door key into the lock and the door swung in on its hinges. Marianne sucked in her breath, the shock of the situation making her take a step back. Someone had broken into the apartment.
What was the best course of action? She fumbled for her cell phone, tempted to call the police, all the while straining to hear whether an intruder still loitered within. Apart from the wind mourning along the passages of the block, and a lone car making its way down the street, not a sound betrayed any potential danger. Whoever had been here had come and gone a long while ago.
Prudence suggested that she call the cops, but hell, they’d ask questions if they saw what she was wearing, took note of the amount of make-up, and started asking other questions.
What do you do for a living, Miss Rousseau? Where’s your boyfriend, Miss Rousseau?
The door revealed no sign of forced entry. Whoever had been here either had a key or knew how to pick locks, which made her think of Carl. Surely he’d not stoop to breaking in when he’d already been coming and going? Unless…
Marianne’s conviction had her switch on the light and stride into the apartment, ready to do grievous bodily harm to any individual she caught lurking in a bedroom or bathroom. She paused the moment she reached the lounge. The place had been trashed, the couchwhich had belonged to an aged aunt of hersslashed, its stuffing leaking out in white tufts like cotton wool. Every breakable item had been shattered, books strewn about with their pages ripped out. CDs and DVDs had been snapped into bits. When she reached her bedroom, the stench hit hersomeone had smeared human faeces on the walls.
Retching, she staggered back out to dry heave over the wall. Nothing came out of her stomach, but the sheer atrocity of the destruction to her possessions left her shaking, whether from fear or outrage, she couldn’t be sure. Just the blatant fact that someone had entered her sacred space to do so made her ill.
Growling deep in her throat, she called Carl, only to receive the service provider’s mechanised voice coldly informing her “…The number you have dialled is no longer available on this network.”
The dumb fuck had gone so far as to change his number. A strangled scream escaped Marianne’s throat, which she quickly suppressed lest her neighbours wake and investigate. Tears blurred her vision, and she sank onto her haunches. Who could she call? With a pang she remembered she hadn’t spoken to anyone other than the people at Imperial House for ages. In fact, she hadn’t bothered calling Judith back since that night she’d been asked to fill in for Delia.
How could she explain? The ground grew cold beneath her buttocks, so she crawled back into the flat, avoiding the patches of broken glass until she reached the bathroom. Numbly she scrolled through the names. Not one jumped out at her as someone who’d tolerate a late-night call. She’d been a terrible friend, just dropping off the radar since her retrenchment. She didn’t deserve pity.
But she couldn’t keep sitting in this flat for the rest of the night, either. Marianne checked the time3:47 in the morning. Someone should still be there, she hoped, maybe Katja, who often was the last to leave. She’d know what to suggest. Even Errol was a better bet than sitting here on her own, lecherous bastard that he was.
Holding back on the need to cry, Marianne rose to her feet, leant against the wall, and dialled the number for Imperial House. The phone rang once, twice, three times. She tried to avoid looking at her reflection in the mirror, scared of the apparition she would see. When the phone rang for the eighth time, she suppressed the sob at the back of her throat and was about to kill the call when Brett answered.
“Hello?” He sounded rather puzzled.
Fighting the urge to break down completely, Marianne tried to speak without letting her emotional state slip through.
“Sorry to bother, Brett. I was hoping to catch Katja. She’s not in, is she?”
“What’s wrong? You sound upset.”
Damn. He was perceptive.
Unfortunately this did not help Marianne’s composure. She started shaking, and the tears followed soon after, difficult to mask as she explained to Brett about the state of apartment when she’d arrived at home. Added to that was her knowledge that she’d been teasing the guy for the past fortnight, avoiding him as much as possible, yet flaunting herself the entire time whenever she knew he was watching.
She half expected him to end the call along the lines of Well, what do you want me to do about it? but he didn’t.
“I’ll be there in less than five. Grab some things. You’re not staying there tonight.”
He killed the call before she could argue, leaving Marianne standing somewhat taken aback in her bathroom.
She made the mistake of locking eyes with the woman in the mirror. A stranger with wild bright red hair stared back at her, eyes a startlingly green accentuated by the raccoon-like smudged mascara and eyeliner.
Marianne stumbled from the bathroom and grabbed her sling bag. She could not stay here one moment longer. Although she was sure it didn’t matter whether she locked the front door, she did so anyway, glad to not have to deal with the mess until she had had a chance to get some rest.
Brett’s Z3 growled around the corner not long after Marianne reached the sidewalk, but she hugged her arms to her chest in any case. This time of night was always the coldest, the cloud cover scant, and the stars rained down their distant light, making Marianne wish she could rather be holed up in her apartment than be thrust into an unfamiliar situation.
The BMW’s headlights all but blind
ed her, and Marianne lifted her arm to protect her eyes from the glare. Brett kept the sleek black car idling, and threw open the door.
“Get in.” His voice was a low growl, and for a moment Marianne was tempted to run back to her flat. He sounded angry.
But running back to her apartment wouldn’t change the situation. The man was here, now, and she may as well face him for the trouble she’d caused.
Marianne climbed in, trying to make herself as small as possible.
His expression softened as she closed the door.
“I’m sorry for causing you tr”
“Nonsense! You’re not hurt, are you?” He reached toward her, but hesitated, putting his hands back on the steering wheel and turning the car back onto the road.
“I’m fine. Just shaken. Thank you for fetching me. I could have spent the night, I guess, but I’m just a bit freaked out.”
They rounded the corner so hard she had to grip the armrest and hoped her nails didn’t score the leather upholstery.
“I’m glad you called. I’d hate to have found out about this after the fact, especially if whomever trashed the place came back to finish the job. Tonight you come home with me. Later…” He sniggered, gesturing at the digital display. The sun would be rising soon it was so early. “Later we come back here with a locksmith and get you sorted out, okay? If I find out…”
He let the words hang, leaving Marianne in no doubt he’d plot some sort of grievous bodily harm for the person who had broken into her apartment.
“I think it could have been Carl,” Marianne said.
“Who’s he?”
“My ex. I think. We haven’t broken up, officially, but I reckon the relationship is over. He refuses to take my calls and hasn’t spoken to me since he stormed off a month or so ago.”
The way Brett over-revved the car and took off from intersections alarmed Marianne. She imagined that his anger radiated off him in waves.
“If it is him, the bastard better beware. I don’t tolerate anyone threatening one of my girls.”
The way he growled “my girls” sent a shiver down Marianne’s spine. Should she feel flattered at his possessiveness?
“Never mind you, he’s trashed my apartment. It’s definitely mine now. I’ve paid the rent for this past month. He’s been slipping in and out sneaking away his stuff when he’s sure I’m not home. Spineless bastard.” There she’d said it, and it felt good to utter those two words out loud.
“All the more reason to get new locks put on. You should have done that sooner.”
“I was kind of hoping he’d get his stuff out first so I wouldn’t have to deal with him.”
Brett glanced at her briefly, the orange streetlights making his features garish. “You’d have to deal with him at some point.”
“I’m not one for confrontation.”
He gave a low laugh. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me since I gave you a lift home the other night?”
Damn. He’d caught her out. A slight sneer curled his lips, and his attention remained focused on the road ahead. They were driving back into the centre of town, where the streets were deserted. The only signs of life were the rats that rushed across the road as the car roared along the tar.
“Where are we going?”
“My place. Does that bother you?”
“Yes. No.”
“I intimidate you, don’t I?”
Marianne sucked in her breath. “I’d be lying if I said you don’t. But don’t take it the wrong way. We hardly know each other. I wasn’t banking on rushing things.”
“I don’t roll that way, honey,” he drawled. That infuriating smile didn’t falter.
They turned into an underground parking garage, pausing long enough for the gate to slide aside to allow their passage into the subterranean refuge. Pillars marched in regimented rows, but only a few cars were parked here.
“Where are we?” Marianne asked as she stepped out of the car. Her voice echoed back at her.
“Here is beneath the old Wellington building. You know where the fruit seller’s used to be?”
“I just remembered hearing about the rats they sometimes found at the bottom of the vats of dried apricots.” Marianne pulled a disgusted face at the memory.
Brett laughed, retrieving a leather trench coat from the behind his seat. “Aye, I heard the stories too. But the vermin’s long gone.”
He ushered her into a lift that had an old-fashioned trellised sliding door. The mechanism whirred into action, and they accelerated up, the floors slicing past in vertical rectangles of light.
Although Marianne was desperate to talk, to create some sort of diversion, her words had dried in the back of her throat. She remained all too conscious of Brett’s bulk next to her, his near-overwhelming musk-like cologne making her weak in the knees. She should be screaming and getting the hell out of here. What if the guy was some sort of pervert who’d want her to do sick things?
Being with Brett made her feel as though she walked in the company of a predator that had stopped prowling to fix its attention on her. She knew very well she had much point for concern, but, oddly, that natural sense of flight had abated. She couldn’t tear herself away because she wanted, no, needed to know what happened next.
They exited the lift in a tiled hallway, music filtering up from the stairwell to their right. He held a blank white door open for her, motioning for her to enter a lobby. Two doors faced them: 7A and 7B. He unlocked the latter, his hand pressed lightly on the small of her back.
She’d never have tolerated this kind of chivalry from Carl. Not that he’d have volunteered to play the gallant prince. Marianne paused as she entered the apartment, unable to hide her awe.
Composed in minimalist lines of red brick and white walls, as well as parquet flooring, unit 7B’s passage led to a lounge area where a large, shaggy white carpet and an oxblood leather couch stood. Here the walls were lined with more books than she could ever conceive reading. A cursory glance revealed titles such as Paradise Lost, The Naked Lunch, Tropic of Cancer…books she’d heard spoken of but never read or bothered to look up.
“I read. A lot.” He stood so close to her the small hairs on her arms rose.
She turned, stepping slightly to the side. “What’s up there?” She pointed at the metal staircase running up another floor.
“Master bedroom, but we’re not going there…yet.” Brett winked before striding toward the series of glass panels forming a wall. He flicked a switch, and squares of LED lights on either side of the outside walls beyond the doors illuminated an enclosed courtyard.
Marianne could barely suppress a gasp. Another large room featuring a large twelve-seater table and open-plan kitchen was revealed on the other side of the open space.
With barely a shudder, Brett pulled at the sliding doors, which concertinaed open. He stepped across the courtyard and did the same to the next set before turning to face her.
“Welcome to my castle, fair princess.”
Marianne had to laugh. “More like the dragon has captured the princess and swept her off to his lair.” She walked past him to the second interior space, admiring the abstract paintingsmassive canvases of swirled reds, blacks, and golds.
“These must have been a bitch to get up here?” She gestured at the art.
“Assembled and painted here, by the artist. When I sell this place one day, the paintings are part of the bargain.”
Rectangles of light filtered through the heavy white canvas drapes on the far wall. Marianne approached, fascinated to see the view.
Anticipating her intent, Brett parted a section for her so she could peek out. The windows faced the Central Post Office. The offices directly opposite were illuminated but stacked full of furniture.
“They never switch off their lights?” Marianne marvelled.
“Waste of electricity, but you’re right.”
A quick glance down made her wish she hadn’t. Below, the street seemed almost unreal, the few cars pa
rked like miniature toys. Marianne staggered away as a wave of dizziness assailed her senses.
“Did I mention that looking down is rather horrid?” Brett’s dry laugh echoed in the room.
“No wonder you cover the sight.”
“Also for the noise. This isn’t the quietest place in the city.”
“Then why do you live here?”
“I like the feeling of living in an eyrie. There’s a certain degree of privacy in such an obvious location.”
Marianne rubbed at her arms, discomforted. The cold of the night had lodged itself in her marrow. “I’d like to have a shower. If I may?”
“Of course. And something warm to drink?”
Marianne nodded. Brett showed her where the bathroom was, a red-tiled walk-in shower combined with toilet. He handed her a fluffy white towel, and she couldn’t help but bury her face in the softness to inhale, the fabric softener hinting at lavender.
Mercifully, he left her alone to strip off her clothing, and she noted, with some relief, that a black bathrobe hung behind the door. Satisfied that Brett was busy in the kitchen, for she heard a tap open and shut, Marianne stripped and got in beneath the shower. The water was a blessing, soothing away the stress of earlier, allowing her to forget her present precarious situation in this near stranger’s home.
She grinned when she helped herself to Brett’s bathrobe, pausing long enough to slip into the crimson satin G-string she’d worn on arrival but not bothering with anything else. Dangerous ground, but the bathrobe trailed along the floor, and she fastened it tight so her form was lost in swathes of satin.
The mirror was too steamed up for her to see what she looked like, which perhaps was a blessing. Without her make-up remover, Marianne was pretty sure she’d not been able to get rid of the traces of mascara, which no doubt would make her look like a racoon. Her hair would be a mess, and she wrung it out and twisted it behind her head, grimacing at the remaining red dye still running down the drain.
Pausing long enough at the door to count to ten, Marianne pushed into the hallway and padded down to the lounge. Brett had slid shut the majority of the doors now that he was done trying to impress her. Instead a tall heater that looked as if it belonged on the set of Star Wars gleamed red-orange in a corner, emitting enough heat that she could feel it from where she’d paused, a few paces from the voluminous couch.