Close Up and Personal (11 page)

He pushes his hand faster, building up a rhythm, in and out, with his thumb sliding over my clitoris. I gasp. The feeling of him moving inside me hurts, but only a little. And the light movements of his thumb are exquisite.

The combined sensations are more than I can bear.

It feels as though he is stretching me open. His fingers shift a little and begin thrusting hard into an unbelievably pleasurable place inside me.

“That’s your G-spot,” he murmurs, looking into my eyes
and pushing again. Then he moves his thumb again, sliding it fast over my clitoris.

Pleasure and pain have mingled in one, and his hand forces me wider and his fingers work on my clitoris.

The heat builds up until it explodes in a rain of golden light, coursing warmly through my entire body.

I arch my back and gasp as the pleasure rolls over me.

And then the heat subsides and I’m lying, gasping on his bed, reeling the sweet aftershock.

Berkeley
raises his hand to his mouth, and sucks his fingers.

“You taste delicious,” he says, “and you look unbelievably sexy in the throws of orgasm.”

I stare up at him, aware that my cheeks are flushed and I am panting.

He looks confused suddenly.

“I didn’t realise you were such an innocent,” he says, almost to himself. “Words can’t describe how much I want to fuck you at this moment, Isabella.”

He looks torn.

What the hell? One minute he’s taking my orgasm to another level and the next he’s saying he doesn’t want to have sex with me?

“Have dinner with me,” he says suddenly.

“What?” I sit up on the bed, more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

“Stay,” he says. “Have dinner with me here. I’ll order in whatever you like. We’ll talk about the screen test.”

“What else will we talk about?”

“What do you mean?” he looks surprised.

“I mean, are we going to talk about what the hell is going on?” I say. My temper is rising. “You tell me we shouldn’t have a relationship. Then you tell me you do. Then you give me the best orgasm of my life, and then you say you won’t have sex with me?”

He looks apologetic. “I’m sorry
, Isabella,” he says. “I’ve never been in this situation before. You’ve taken me by surprise. And the last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

Hurt me. Is this a goodbye speech?

“But I don’t want you to get involved with me without knowing what you’re letting yourself in for.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Today…” he stops, runs his fingers through his brown hair, and then peers up at me through his green eyes. “It has been so long before I’ve felt what I felt today.”

Is he talking about love? Lust?

“Sex isn’t usually like that for me,” he says. “I don’t usually find myself able to engage in the way we’ve just experienced.”

Lust then. I knew it.

“You have to understand,” he says, “that if we are to see more of each other, it might not be on terms you find agreeable.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean sexually, Isabella. You are very different to the usual person I relate to sexually. You have something… unique. But I am an old-fashioned man.”

He sighs and his face looks older, suddenly, and world-weary.

“What do you mean?” I am staring at him.
Old-fashioned?

“My sex life and the way I work are very closely related
, Isabella.”

“But I thought you didn’t get involved with actresses?”

“I don’t. But the way I relate in my sex life is the same as the way I produce and direct. I require obedience, at all times.”

Obedience? What does he mean?

“What sort of obedience?” I manage.

His mouth sets in a hard serious line.

“Total obedience.”

Chapter 10

Total obedience? My mouth is dry, and suddenly his enormous bedroom feels unbelievably small.

“Let me fix you dinner,” he says, and his eyes are soft,
conciliatory. “And I can explain things better.”

He offers a hand to pull me up off the bed, and I take it, feeling powerless to resist. I realise suddenly I’m sat on his bed wearing only my bra, and my face begins to burn.

“Go out of the room,” I mumble, “and let me get dressed.”

Berkeley
gives an easy laugh.

“Ok,” he says, getting up. “Though there’s no reason for you to be modest. There’s nothing you have to be ashamed of.”

He gives my naked body a meaningful stare, and I squirm under his gaze, crossing my legs.

“Fine!” he puts his hands up in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll go out and work out what’s best to order for dinner.”

I’m shaking my head. It’s all become too much suddenly. I can’t deal with all these feelings. I need to be away from him.

“I need to go,” I say, throwing on my clothes.

“Really?” As he says the words, I realise I am only half sure of them.

“I need to know what’s happening,” I say.

“It’s complicated.” He looks haunted.

I sigh, pushing my hair off my face. “I’m not sure I can do complicated,” I say. And I mean it. These last few days have been the most exciting and the most tiring of my entire life. I’m not sure I have the energy for any more James
Berkeley.

He moves towards me, and just his proximity is like
fire running through my nerves. Then he gently pulls me to my feet and leads me back into his enormous lounge.

“Please
, Isabella.” He tilts my chin up so my eyes meet his. “Stay with me,” he whispers. “Just for a few hours. So we can talk.”

Talk. Right.
After what just happened in the bedroom. But a man offering to talk has to be a rarity.

I stare back at him, not sure how to answer.

“You are mesmerising,” he says, staring into my eyes, “on and off camera.”

I smile, blush, and tug my chin free of his hand.

“So you’ll stay?” he asks.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“I’ll fix us something to eat. Make yourself comfortable.”

He gestures to the open lounge, filled with beautiful designer furniture. Night has closed on now, and the huge glass windows show a sweeping panoramic of the dramatically floodlit St Pauls Cathedral, and the Southbank.

I eye the furniture uncertainly. It may look beautiful, but it sure as hell doesn’t look comfortable. It’s hard to pick out a single piece which even looks like it could be sat on. A woman’s touch, I think, is much needed.

I choose a chesterfield-style chaise
lounge which has been finished in thick faun covered leather and take a seat.

James vanishes into the studio room, and I hear a muted conversation on his telephone.

Then he returns.

“I’ve asked my driver to pick us up a selection of food from Harrods
’ Food Hall,” he says. “I trust that will meet with your tastes.”

I nod. I’ve only ever been to Harrods once, and that was as a wide-eyed window shopper. The food hall is piled high with the most incredible fresh produce and handmade dishes prepared by London’s best chefs.
I remember seeing a TV presenter buying a prepared side of beef for £200.

“In the meantime
, perhaps we might have a glass of Champagne?” he adds, “to celebrate your success today?”

“My success?”

“Behind the camera.”

I blush and look down.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Isabella,” he says, moving across the room, and seating himself next to me on the chaise lounge. This close I can feel his body heat.

“It’s just that I don’t think I’m cut out for a movie role,” I say. “I was only ever considering theatre. And even that was to make me better educated as a script writer.”

“In my experience, there are two kinds of actors,” says James. “There are the actors like Marilyn Monroe who everybody recognises. They are charismatic and compelling, and they play the same character over and over. There are plenty of those actors around and they get all the major movie parts.”

He leans in a little closer and meets me eyes.

“Then there are the actors who really become the thing they act. Those people are team-players. They work with everybody else to bring a performance together. And they are humble. Because they don’t mind that they are not recognised when they play different parts. All they want is to make the act real.”

I nod. That makes sense.

“You are the second kind, Isabella, and a very rare and special kind you are.”

I give him a shy smile. I had never thought of it that way before. But now I consider it, he’s right. Most of the students at drama school wanted to be big names. When they acted, it was all about them. I don’t act that way. But it never occurred to me that could be a good thing.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You should know that behind the camera you are the
sexiest and most fuckable thing I have seen in my entire life,” he says. “It’s all I can do not to rip those clothes off you again right now and have you on this couch.”

I blush.
How can he say these things?

“Champagne.” He says, his voice changing as he stands up.

“I don’t drink.”

“Do you have a physical difficulty with alcohol?”

I shake my head.

The tone in his voice changes.
“Did something happen to you?”

I nod, and for some reason tears come into my eyes. I blink them away, furious with myself.

“What happened?” asks James. “Can you tell me?” His voice is full of concern. He sits back on the chaise lounge and takes my hand.

For some reason this makes it easier to tell him the truth.

“I had my drink spiked,” I say. “In a bar on Trafalgar Square. I was there at a party with my friend Lorna. Someone must have put something in my drink. I had a few sips and before I knew it, I could hardly stand.”

I close my eyes for a moment
, remembering the dreadful frightening feeling of my legs going out from under me.

He nods, looking grave.

“Then someone grabbed me,” I continue, “and tried to drag me out of the club.” The horrible mental picture flashes back. The hands under my armpits. The sense of powerlessness as my limp body offered no resistance.

His
eyes are on mine, his hand squeezes my fingers. I notice his free hand is balled into a fist and the knuckles are white.

“What happened next?” he asks. His voice is tight.

“He didn’t manage to get me outside,” I say. “Someone must have stopped him, or he must have got spooked. The bouncers found me in the entrance hall.”

Berkeley
lets out a breath, and I realise that until that moment he had been holding every muscle in his body tense.

“Isabella.” He stops and for a moment
, I think he is lost for words. “I don’t know what is happening between us,” he says. “I hope at the very least you will agree to share your talent in the role I have in mind for you.” He stops again, squeezing my hand.

“But whatever happens
, I will never let any harm come to you, do you understand that?” He’s staring fiercely into my eyes, and the intensity in them is frightening. “Nothing or no one will ever hurt you, Isabella, so long as it is in my power to prevent it.”

It’s strange, but I really believe him. And it feels like a relief.

“But you must put your faith in me and trust I have your best interests at heart,” he continues.

I nod again, wondering what just happened. Did James
Berkeley just make a pledge to always protect me? I feel like a fairy tale heroine.

“And today it is in your best interests to drink a glass of Champagne with me,” he says with a
sudden boyish grin. His lighter mood is infectious and I grin back. He looks his real youthful age suddenly, and I wonder how often this younger Berkeley has a chance to shine.

He bounds to his feet and
, in a moment, is opening a large refrigerator which is tastefully secreted away behind one of the ultra-modern kitchen cabinet doors.

“There are two ways of drinking alcohol,” he explains as he pulls free a golden bottle of Champagne and two iced flutes with a flourish.

“One is to drink for the sake of getting drunk. The other is to savour only the finest available, as one of life’s pleasures. I indulge in the latter.”

His strong fingers ease out the cork with a loud
pop
and he tilts the glasses and lets the golden liquid flow.

“I think you will like working on a movie-set Isabella,” he says, returning to my side of the room and handing me a glass.

I take a sip of the chilled liquid. The fizz is intoxicating. I smile up at him. But I am not so sure I agree about the movie-set thing.