by Mandy Lee
‘There it is.’ Lucy’s voice snatches me out of my dream world. Unusually serious, she waves a hand towards the living area.
Following the direction of her wave, I turn and catch sight of it: hanging above the fireplace, the colours shimmering with life, it’s my painting of the woods in Limmingham. It looks so different to when it was propped up in my bedroom, or on display at Slaters. I take another step forwards, amazed by the way the light catches the branches. I’m about to take another step when I hear the door slam. Swivelling round on my heels, I find myself alone.
‘Lucy?’
No answer.
‘Lucy!’
Nothing.
A whirlwind of panic spirals into life. I stumble back to the kitchen, my eyes raking pointlessly across the cupboards, the counter, the sink. And then some tiny, still fully functioning region of my brain registers what’s just happened. That was Lucy slamming the front door.
Racing over to it, I tug at the handle, but nothing moves.
‘Lucy!’ I’d lean down and call through the letterbox but there is no letterbox, just a solid mass of wood. I run a hand over it. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ I shout. ‘I can’t open the door.’
‘I know.’ Lucy’s muffled voice comes from the other side. ‘I’ve locked you in.’
I gape at the door, my thoughts reeling. Locked me in? But why has she locked me in? And then my brain lands on the only possible answer.
Shit.
Resting my forehead against the wood, I close my eyes, desperately reminding myself to breathe. The stupid bloody woman. She’s come up with a last-minute, hair-brained plan to get me back with Dan. Of all the ridiculous ideas she’s ever had, this has to take the biscuit.
‘Lucy, for fuck’s sake! Let me out!’
‘Sorry, Maya.’
I give a start. That certainly wasn’t just Lucy’s voice. In fact, it was Clive’s voice, muffled too. He’s here? Blood pounds through my brain. I’m in full-on flight-or-fight mode and I know it.
‘What are you doing?’ I plead.
‘It’s an intervention,’ Clive calls back.
An intervention? A bloody intervention? Has the world gone mad? I’m starting to shake now, furious at the interference.
‘Let me out,’ I shout. ‘I’m perfectly capable of making my own mistakes, thank you very much. I don’t need your help.’
‘No!’ Lucy shouts back. ‘Sometimes, drastic actions are called for.’
‘If this is your stupid fucking idea of how to get me back with Dan, you can take a fucking hike.’
‘It’s not my idea,’ Lucy shouts. ‘And it’s not Clive’s either.’ She pauses before she springs the next surprise on me. ‘It’s Dan’s.’
Dan’s idea? How can it be Dan’s idea?
‘Shit.’ I’ve been a complete idiot.
‘And if you don’t like it,’ Lucy goes on, ‘you can tell him yourself.’
‘What?’
I stare at the door, somehow knowing what I’m about to hear.
‘He’s in there with you.’
‘Shit,’ I breathe. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.’
This is a trap.
And I’ve walked right into it.
Chapter Four
I hold my breath as I turn. Don’t ask me how I already know he’s close by. I just do. And sure enough, there he is, right in front of me, wearing faded jeans that hang loosely from his hips and a white T-shirt. In an instant, I register it all: the ruffled blond hair, the perfect face, the soft lips, the glimmer in those bright blue eyes. With his hands in his pockets, he stares at me, all mean and hot and moody. And it hits me immediately: the full-on Daniel Foster effect. It’s like standing in the path of a freight train and watching a beautiful sunrise and launching into a bungee jump, all rolled into one. I freeze, shortly before I gasp, and then the adrenalin takes effect. My stomach goes into a spin, my heart beat triples and all manner of sensations kick off between my legs. I curse my body to hell and back. I might have decided to get this man out of my life, but Jesus, he still manages to set off the sex fairy. And dear Lord, don’t let him come anywhere near me because if he does, I’ll be half way to oblivion.
He takes a step forwards and I flinch.
‘You took your time,’ he murmurs.
The first words he ever spoke in my presence, on my very first day at Fosters. All part of the evil plan, I’m sure, to remind me of where we started. But I’m not playing his game. Oh no. In fact, I’m going to scupper it. And bearing that in mind, I’d better come up with something pithy and intelligent in return. I scramble through my head for something fitting. Finding nothing, I opt for the easiest route.
‘Piss off.’
‘You know …’ His lips curl upwards. ‘You don’t have to swear like a builder.’
And that sets me off.
‘Really? I’d say I’ve got every right to be swearing like a builder. What the fuck’s going on?’ I wince at my own foul mouth. Making a mental note to cut back on the cursing, I fold my arms and squeeze my legs together. I’m going to get through this in one, unsweary, respectable piece if it kills me.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He gives me a classic Daniel Foster eyebrow arch.
‘Of course it’s fucking obvious.’ Damn it. So, I’m not doing too well on the swearing front, but never mind. ‘Open this door.’
He tilts his head to one side, ever so slightly. ‘I can’t.’
Seriously?
‘Yes you can. Just get the fucking key.’
He shrugs dismissively and walks over to the fridge. And I can’t help myself. In amongst all the anger and confusion, there’s a distinct ground-swell of lust. I take a second or two to take in his sexy backside and his even more sexy walk before I give myself a quick mental slap. No, no, no. Don’t get sucked in by all that again. Firm buttocks should be the last thing on your mind right now, woman.
‘I don’t have the fucking key.’ As if nothing particularly interesting is going on at all, he opens the fridge and helps himself to a bottle of water before sauntering over to the counter and sitting down. ‘Clive’s got the fucking key.’ He unscrews the bottle top and takes a swig. ‘And he’s got the spares.’
My mind sifts through this new information. In the lift at his office, in the garage, even in my own bed: he’s trapped me plenty of times before. But locking me into his apartment, well that really is going that extra mile. As if it’s going to make the slightest bit of difference, I glance at the door again.
‘You’ve locked us in?’
‘Yup.’ He takes another swig of water.
‘For how long?’
‘Until Tuesday morning.’
‘Tuesday?’ My bottom lip takes a dive.
‘I think that should do it.’
He may still be turning me on, but his arrogance is nothing less than a spark in a tinder box. I sense a flare in my gut, a rush of blood, a sudden urge to lash out.
‘That’s false imprisonment,’ I seethe. ‘I could have you done for this.’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so, seeing as it was Lucy who locked us in … with Clive’s help.’ He takes another swig of water, places the bottle on the counter top, folds his arms and leans forwards. ‘Now, I’m sure you don’t want to land our friends in trouble, do you?’
No, I don’t, Mr Foster, but this was your idea and they’re simply accomplices. And if you think you can wriggle out of it that easily, you’re very much mistaken. That would be the best thing to say, the only sensible thing, but when I open my mouth, I hear nothing more than another dose of profanity.
‘Bollocks.’
‘And can I get arrested for falsely imprisoning myself?’
Another rush of blood. Another urge to scream and shout.
‘This isn’t funny.’
‘I know.’
I’m about to turn and kick the door when I make the mistake of locking eyes with him. Firm and determined, those whorls of blue are totally fixed on me,
drawing me in like a ruddy tractor beam. I’m already half-mesmerised when I finally manage to snap myself into action. Looking round the room, I fix my attention on the floor-to-ceiling windows.
‘I’ll go out there and yell. Somebody’s going to hear me.’ Running over to the windows, I tug at a handle. Nothing moves. ‘Open this,’ I growl, wheeling round.
‘I can’t. Clive’s got the …’
‘Yes, I know,’ I cut in, losing it now. ‘Clive’s got the bloody keys. Fuck it, Dan. I’m sick of this.’
‘So am I.’ He pushes the bottle away and rubs his hands. ‘And that’s why nobody’s running any more.’ Placing his hands on his thighs, he watches as I slink back over to the front door. ‘Neither of us.’
Okay, so it’s time for a glare. And I give him one: a top-of-the-range, you’re a total bastard glare. Unwavering and unbothered, he stares right back at me and try as I might, I can’t detect a trace of weakness in him. No nervousness. Nothing apart from sheer determination and a good dose of lust. His eyes are hooded, his lips parted slightly, and I know exactly what he’s after. A delicious shimmer of want pulsates between my thighs. Fuck it, no! Determined to get through this in one piece, I squeeze my legs together.
‘Why would you run?’ I demand.
‘I’ve got my reasons.’
He gets up and I shiver. Whatever happens next, I need to avoid contact at all costs. I’ll cave in at the first touch. History has taught me that.
‘So, I cooked this up.’ He takes a step forwards. ‘Lock the pair of us in, and no one backs away.’
‘You deceived me. It’s over. Just accept it. Locking us in here is going to achieve nothing.’
‘Three things.’ Giving me a slow, languid smile, he runs his eyes up and down my body. He’s back to being the cocky bastard I first met. And why wouldn’t he be? After all, over the last few years, it’s been his way of getting exactly what he wants.
‘Number one.’ Holding up an index finger, he takes another step. ‘I didn’t mean to deceive you.’ Another step, and now there are two fingers in the air. ‘Number two. I’m not going to accept that it’s over. Ever.’ Another step. A third finger. I flinch again, sense another twinge. ‘And number three, locking us in here is going to achieve everything.’
He’s close now, so close I could reach out and touch him. Instead, I stare at his face, flabbergasted. The corners of his lips curl up a little further, setting off a thousand tiny electrical charges in my groin. I close my eyes and shut him out. There’s only one way to go about this.
‘Coffee,’ I mutter. My eyes flip open.
He stares at me blankly for a second or two, processing the words, obviously deciding on the next move.
‘Fair enough.’
With a shrug, he strolls over to the coffee machine and begins to fiddle with the jug. At first, I’m relieved. He’s backed off and I’ve been given a few precious moments to gather my senses. But then again, why the hell is he making me a cup of coffee? Does he actually think this is funny? If he does, I’m determined to put him in his place.
‘I don’t want a fucking cup of coffee, Dan. I’m using my safe word.’
‘Why?’ I watch as he takes the jug out of its holder and makes his way over to the sink. And yes, bugger it, the way he moves is still causing my lady parts to do a special dance. Just the sight of his pert backside threatens to have me slavering within the next few seconds.
‘Because I want out of here.’
‘Oh.’ He turns on the tap.
‘Coffee,’ I repeat. ‘Let me out.’
‘Didn’t you hear me, cloth ears? Clive’s got the keys.’
When the jug’s filled, he saunters back to the coffee machine, pouring the water into the top. Taking his time, looking all cool, calm and collected, he sets about making me a cup of coffee that I don’t even want. I sense a knot of anger in my gut.
‘Right,’ I growl, realising that there must be some sort of intercom. ‘I’ll call the concierge.’
I find it almost immediately, right next to the door. But the small silver box has clearly been tampered with. Dangling at an angle, it’s attached with a single loose screw. I pull it away from the wall and hold it in my hand. The wires have been cut.
‘What have you done?’ I demand. ‘You’ve ripped it out.’
He opens a cupboard and produces a couple of mugs.
‘I had a little accident.’
‘An accident?’ I let go of the ruined intercom and leave it to bash against the wall. ‘You’re a conniving shit.’
He smiles at that and I’m fuming and panicking and, yes, bloody turned on. ‘Fine, I’ll just call Lucy.’ But seeing as she’s the one who lured me here, she’s hardly likely to let me out. ‘Or the Steves,’ I add, knowing that I’m sounding ridiculous now. Stomping over to the counter, I rummage through the contents of my bag: tissues, receipts, my purse, more receipts. ‘Where’s my mobile?’
‘Downstairs.’ He pauses, leaning back against the counter. ‘In my car.’ He pauses again. ‘Along with my mobile, and my iPad. I’m afraid you’re non-contactable. There’s no escape.’
My brain struggles to process this new piece of information. Every single time he’s ever trapped me before, he’s always offered me a way out. But not this time. This time, I’m a prisoner.
‘So, all of this …’
‘I think it’s called an elaborate ruse.’
‘You were behind all of it? Everything?’
‘Pretty much. I sent Lily over to soften you up. Did it work?’
‘Did it work?’ Suddenly, my fingernails seem to be digging into my palms. ‘Did you tell her what to say?’
‘No, but she was more than willing to help. And as for Lucy and Clive, I left them to come up with their own ideas.’ He reaches into a cupboard for a packet of coffee. ‘How did they do?’
I stare at him, dumbfounded by his attitude. For all the world, he sounds like he’s having a harmless little chat.
‘I’m guessing it was an Oscar-winning performance.’ He spoons the coffee into the top of the machine. ‘After all, they got you here.’
‘This is ridiculous. I’m going.’
In a frenzy, I grab hold of the door handle, tugging at it for dear life. Suddenly, a hand appears to either side of me, palms flat against the wood. I feel the warmth of his body against my back. And while my brain fires up in anger, just about everything from the neck down fizzles with lust: muscles, veins, sinews, nerves. Shit, shit, shit. I’m in trouble.
‘Let me out!’
‘I can’t.’
‘I want to get out.’
‘No you don’t.’
And that does it. Hasn’t he learned anything over the past few days?
‘Stop!’ I swing round to find myself caged in by his arms. ‘Just stop telling me what I want.’
‘Why?’ His eyes bore into me. ‘I’ve been right so far.’
‘Arrogant fucking arse.’
This seems just about the perfect time to give him a good hammering. Balling my fists, I hit him hard on the chest, over and over again, growling like a mad dog. Keeping his hands in place and bracing himself, he simply takes it. No gritting of teeth. No wincing in pain. I barely make an impact. I don’t seem to be making much progress here so I move on to his face, slapping it once before he grabs both of my hands, pinning them above my head. With his face close to mine, breathing unevenly, he fixes his attention on my lips.
‘Don’t you dare ...’
Before I manage to push out the final words or turn away, his mouth is on mine. And now that he’s kissing me, I should resist. But I don’t. In fact, I can’t. His lips are as smooth and warm as ever, and I cave in straight away. Kissing him back with a passion, I let his tongue twist and turn against mine, lapping up the taste of him, listening to my brain as it nags me to get a ruddy grip. Enjoying the absolute perfection of a Daniel Foster kiss, I waft it away. As ever, physical contact reduces me to a wanton hussy. A hand slides around my b
ack, pulling me in tight as he practically devours me. At last, when he’s finally had his fill, he pulls back, waiting for me to open my eyes before he speaks.
‘Feel that, Maya? That’s attraction. The strongest fucking attraction I’ve ever felt in my life. And you feel it too.’ Releasing my hands, he runs a finger across my neck. ‘That’s why you’ll be wearing the necklace again before you step out of this door. You and me are made for each other.’ He presses his crotch against mine. ‘Capiche?’
‘No,’ I squeak.
‘Never mind. You will.’ He takes a step back. ‘So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get started.’
‘Started?’ I gasp, still struggling to get my lungs back under control. ‘On what?’
‘My agenda. We’re going to talk things through. And then we’re going to sort things out. And then I’m going to fuck the living daylights out of you.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ I straighten my dress.
‘I would.’ He withdraws another step. ‘Now, why don’t I make you that coffee?’
I glare at his self-assured smile for a good ten seconds before I push past him, huffing my way over to a sofa, muttering obscenities under my breath. While he sets about making me an unwanted cup of coffee, I take off my shoes, tuck my legs under my bottom and fold my arms across my lap. Watching the rain lash against the windows, I listen to the sound of water gurgling, the chink of a teaspoon. At last, he appears in front of me and offers me a mug. Reluctantly, I take it, holding it in both hands and curling my fingers around the sides.
‘Well?’ I probe.
‘Well what?’ With a mug of his own, he positions himself on the coffee table, right in front of me.