Besotted (5 page)

At the lift he hits the call button and waits. A staff member comes to stand beside us. He lets his eyes slide off Blake and rest on me a while before lowering them to hide his expression. My dignity is in tatters and I am certain everyone is looking at me. Blake enters the lift with me in tow.

‘Would you mind waiting for the next one?’ Blake says coldly, when the man tries to enter behind us.

The man nods and hurriedly steps backwards. The doors close. I pull my hand out of Blake’s grasp and rubbing my wrists ask, ‘What the hell was that all about?’

He lets his eyes swing down in my direction. His voice is a tightly controlled don’t fuck with me. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

‘What exactly are you suggesting?’

The doors open and, taking my wrist in his hand again, he drags me into our suite. I whirl around to face him.

‘What’s the matter with you, Blake?’

‘What the fuck do you think is the matter with me?’ he roars. ‘I leave you for a few hours and you start picking stray men up in the hotel lobby?’

‘Are you mad? Picking stray men up? It wasn’t like that. I
told
him I was with someone. He just wanted to have some company while he was having tea.’

‘You’re not a child so you must be stupid.’

My jaw drops. ‘You’re crazy. It’s not like I went up to his room.’

His eyes glitter dangerously and his jaw hardens even further.

‘For God’s sake, Blake, Brian was there. We were just going to have some tea. He wanted me to tell him about Britain. He’s going to do business there. That’s all.’

‘You let him touch you.’

‘On my elbow!’

He comes towards me. ‘How can I put this politely? If I catch you trying to have tea with strange men or letting them put their hands on your elbow or any other part of your body again I will put you over my knees and tan your backside.’

I gasp. The unfairness of it is unbelievable. ‘So I can never again have tea with any other man even under the most innocent context?’

He crosses his arms. ‘Exactly.’

I begin to laugh. ‘This is madness. No, I don’t accept. Don’t try to make out I was doing something wrong. He was just a nice guy.’

‘Ah, why didn’t you tell me? A nice guy? In that case, go ahead. Go down now and have tea with him. I’ll call down to the pretty receptionist and have her come up for some tea with me.’

A fire roars into my belly. Fucking bastard. He wants other women. The cheek of it. I stare at him open-mouthed with shock while he simply looks at me with a smug expression. I exhale the breath I am holding. Fuck him.

‘All right, I will,’ I snarl, and stride towards the door. A hand shoots out and catches my wrist. I am slammed into his body. His face is inches away from mine and his eyes are dangerously stormy. We glare at each other.

‘Are you trying to drive me crazy?’ he growls.

‘No.’

‘I don’t want any man near you, let alone to touch you. God, I can’t even bear it when I see them looking at you. You’re mine.’

‘He wasn’t trying to bed me.’

He closes his eyes in exasperation. ‘You don’t understand men. Whenever one approaches you he has already thought of bedding you.’

‘So you think the receptionist is pretty.’

‘Maybe.’

‘What?’ I gasp.

He laughs. ‘I was teasing you. There is no one else but you, Lana. You’ve got me so I can’t even think straight.’ His eyes move hungrily over my face. ‘I crave your mouth, your skin, your hair. Every morning I wake up ravenous for you, then I pace around during the day starving for you, and at night just after I’ve had you I start to crave your hot, sweet body all over again. Do you really believe any other woman could nourish me? The last thing on my mind is having sex with another woman.’

Inside I melt. ‘But you think she is pretty?’

‘Not really. Sorab is better looking.’

‘But you must have noticed her to mention it.’

He groans. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Lana, I just said the first thing that came into my mind.’

‘I just want you to know that I don’t appreciate being dragged through hotel lobbies like some recalcitrant child.’

He runs his knuckle tenderly down my cheek. ‘Then don’t flirt with strange men in silly hats.’

‘For the last time, I wasn’t flirting.’ 

In response he cups my buttocks.

‘I’ve really missed you today,’ I say a little breathlessly.

‘I bet you say that to all the boys,’ he says, as his mouth moves down to crush mine with such passion that my feet lift off the ground.

Six

I
am given a choice between the four-starred Le Bernadin with its formal dress code and its prestigious three Michelin stars or a red sauce joint in Greenwich Village called Carbone, where, Blake tells me, excess is de rigueur and the diner must abandon any hope of moderation. After staying inside the hotel all day, of course, I choose Carbone. They book thirty days out, but, of course, Laura, who seems forever on the job, swings us a table.

‘Doesn’t that girl ever sleep?’ I ask.

‘I never thought to ask,’ Blake says, shrugging into his jacket.

I look at him standing there in a charcoal suit and a black, turtle neck sweater and—gorgeousness overload—my stomach does a little flip-flop.

Carbone is packed, lively and loud. Designed to look like the stage set of an old-fashioned Mafia movie, it carries that instinct for entertainment throughout. From the floor pattern to their choice of music—songs my grandmother used to listen to: Sinatra, the rat pack—and strutting, jovial waiters dressed in shiny Liberace style maroon tuxedos. They show us to our table in the VIP section: a rear room made to look like the kind of place where powerful Godfathers might have met—red and black tiled floors, brick walls and no windows.

Deeply fragrant shellfish reduction stock wafts up from the next table as we sit. My eyes are drawn to four flushed men tucking into their food. On other tables the waiters seem to be character actors who have perfected the art of the flashy, bossy restaurant captain. I watch them, with cocky smarminess, lean in conspiratorially, improvise dialog, and kiss the tips of their fingers, as they make wildly exaggerated promises of excellence to sell their wares and smile approvingly when their recommendations are taken.

We are handed menus that are at least three feet long.

Blake orders the veal parm and I am ruthlessly cajoled into having the lobster fra diavolo (the best you’ll taste in your lifetime). A four hundred dollar bottle of Barollo is opened with flourish, the cork sniffed appreciatively, and offered to Blake to try. He arches his eyebrow at me. My glass is filled. We clink glasses.

‘To us,’ Blake says.

‘To us,’ I echo. The wine is big and rich and very strong.

‘What was your day like then?’ I ask.

‘Grim. I spent all day with people I’d rather not ever see, and then I come back to the hotel and catch you flirting with some hick in a cowboy hat.’

‘I wasn’t flirting.’

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘So, what did you do, besides flirting with strange men?’

‘I wasn’t flirting!’ I say forcefully.

He smiles. ‘I love it when you are fierce.’

‘Well, I don’t like it when you are. You are downright scary.’

‘Then don’t piss me off.’

I sigh. ‘I went downstairs because I couldn’t read. I was worried about you.’

A waiter comes with appropriate cutlery for us.

‘I wouldn’t like you to get bored while I am at work. Is there anything you’d like to do with your time?’

‘I want to set up a charity to help children,’ I say, quite timidly.

‘Really? What sort of charity?’

I lean forward eagerly. ‘I haven’t decided yet, but I do know that I want to make a huge difference.’ I take a sip of wine. ‘If you were me, what would you do? What is the most significant thing I can do for the children of the world?’

‘If it is the children of the poorest countries, then I’d give them the most precious commodity in the world—water,’ he suggests quietly.

‘Water?’

‘Yes, clean fresh water from tap spigots. Currently two million children die every year from drinking unsafe water, but those figures are about to go through the roof.’

‘Why?’

‘There is a global water crisis and water is being privatized.’

That surprises me. I know so little. I had much to learn before I could set up my charity. We are still deep in discussion about the mechanics of starting a trust fund when the food arrives. I lean back and finally understand what Billie meant when she said the food portions in American restaurants are the size of garden sheds.

Blake’s veal is shock-and-awe huge and served with a fried shaft of bone, ovals of browned buffalo mozzarella, and bright red, fresh tomato sauce. Mine is a two and a half pound lobster that has been de-shelled, cooked with Calabrian chilies and Cognac, and piled back into the shell. It is polished and glistening and reeking of garlic butter. Bread like Mama used to make arrives.

Blake and I tuck into the delicious food. It
is
the best lobster I have tasted.

For dessert we order zabaglione. It is prepared using the yolks from goose eggs in a round-bottomed copper pot over a flame at the table. Afterwards, I have homemade limoncello and Blake knocks back a fig grappa. By the time we leave the premises I am feeling decidedly tipsy.

‘Can’t wait to get you into bed,’ I mumble into his neck.

He looks down at me indulgently and chuckles. ‘I’m so glad you’re such a greedy little thing.’

We get back to the hotel and fall into each other’s arms.

‘You are my dream,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘You have made me who I am.’ Neither of us mentions the father he dispatched into the next world for me, or the funeral that must be attended tomorrow, but it is there, silently watching, its long shadow falling over our entwined bodies.

Stay if you must, but I will never pretend I am not glad a predator like you is gone from this world. And that because you are gone, my son is safe.

That night I wake up to sudden movement beside me. I sit up and in the light from the moon I can make out that Blake is caught in a nightmare and thrashing about in distress.

‘I killed him!’ he yells.

I shake him awake urgently. His bleary eyes focus on my face, and for a micro-second he looks at me with fear and horror, and then his brain gets into gear, and he recognizes me. With a look of relief he clasps me to his body with such force that my lungs can’t expand to take the next breath.

‘Hey.’

He loosens his hold. ‘Oh, Lana, Lana, Lana,’ he sighs.

‘Were you dreaming about your father?’

‘No.’

A cold hand comes to clutch my heart. No. I close my eyes with anguish. I cannot not love him. But oh God! Oh God! Has he killed someone else? Who is this man that I love?

‘Who then?’ I ask fearfully.

‘I don’t know him. He is covered in blood.’

My body sags with relief. It was just a nightmare. How incredibly frightened I had been as I formed those two words, ‘Who then’. Tears of relief start running down my face. He feels them against his skin and pulls me away from his body.

He touches them with wonder. ‘Why?’

I don’t tell him the truth. Because for a moment I thought I was in love with a monster.

‘Because I love you,’ I say. But that, too, is the truth. I loved him even in that corrosive, soul-destroying moment when I thought he was a monster.

Seven

I
t is Brian who gives me the exact time the funeral will be shown on TV. I tune the TV to the appropriate channel and settle myself in front of the large flat-screen to wait. The film clip is remarkable for two reasons: its brevity and the fact that it is filmed in church. A suitably sober woman’s voice announces that the funeral of an industry leader was held that afternoon.

The camera rests for a moment on the widow and I see Blake’s mother properly for the first time. In those few seconds it is obvious to me that Blake is her favorite son. Wearing a matt black coat she stands very close to him and seems almost to lean on him. He appears very tall, broad, and unapproachable. Almost I don’t recognize that stern, imposing man!

A little farther away Marcus stands beside his immaculate and totally expressionless wife. They are flanked by their two children. I look for Quinn and I think I recognize him. The family resemblance is strong. He is the one standing a little to the left of Blake. Blake seems very protective of him. Then there is a quick shot of the casket and the news item is over and the Barringtons slip seamlessly into their manufactured obscurity. The entire news clip is another carefully crafted PR exercise from a notoriously secretive family.

I switch off the TV and time seems to stop as I wait for him to return.

I try to read, but cannot arouse any interest in the words before me. I put on some music and try to relax in the bath. But I am too wound up and after a few minutes I get out and dress in a blue blouse and black skirt. I hear him at the door and run out to greet him.