Everything You Need: Everything For You Trilogy Book 1 (44 page)

The waiter glances up as if he knows he’s missing something. “Can I get wine to go with that, sir?”

“A Chavignol Sancerre.” Again Jack does not need to inspect the list. He inspects me instead.

“Very good, sir.” He gathers the menus and departs.

“Wild?” I enquire. It’s almost a moment for an elevated eyebrow but I know he’ll spoil it with a growl, if I give in to the impulse.

Wild. He mouths the word again as if daring me to try so I crush my lips together and try not to laugh. It’s like our own special language which consists of one word and no raised eyebrows. Or else.

We’re surely both thinking of Friday night and the scallops in miso and wild ginger butter that started all this nonsense. Less than two days but a lifetime ago. And am I any better informed today of exactly what I’m doing? I doubt it.

The wine arrives and the cork is popped at the table. Jack is invited to taste.

He lets it swirl over his tongue. “Perfect. Just leave the bottle. I want to pour some for my beautiful girl.”

“Very good, sir.”

His beautiful girl? cailín álainn. My heart thuds at the stupidly false connection I want to manufacture. Just because I want something doesn’t make it so. It’s a lesson Jack doesn’t need to teach me again. God knows, he probably named his boat for Amanda or suggests to every woman he beds, it might be all about her. I’m in for a lot more anguish if I let myself fall for that one.

I really, really mustn’t.

Chapter Twenty

The food is incredible and I eat every last bit. I’m not surprised Jack comes here. By the time I polish off the sea bass with potato galette, edamame bean puree and that amazing mango salsa I’m stuffed fit to pop.

Jack settles the bill and escorts me outside, suggesting, “Perhaps a little walk.”

After half an hour, with me getting sleepier and sleepier, hanging onto his arm, he hails a taxi and proposes a visit to the National Gallery. I come alive. He remembers it as one of my favourite places to while away a Sunday afternoon. I haven’t done it in forever, probably because it only served to remind me of losing him. The taxi drops us on the right side of Trafalgar Square and we run straight up the portico steps. Jack suggests we wander the Barocci exhibition and we engage in a lively discussion of the brilliance of the artist’s colours.

“Show me some of your favourite paintings,” he asks as we leave the display.

I stop to think for a moment. “It’s been a while.”

“You must always make time for pleasure.”

Is that what he’s doing with me? I’m not unhappy with the prospect. I’d rather be Jack’s pleasure than his retribution and instantly I know the artists I want to show him. He lets me lead him by the hand and the years melt away as I recall these corridors and take him to my special places. The ones that remind me of him.

I halt suddenly, spotting a painting I remember from the Tate Gallery. “It must be on loan to the National,” I whisper. And how timely a reminder. The last time I saw it was right after I’d offered my innocence to Jack and he’d declined the offer and abandoned me. I was devastation and shame personified.

We stand in front of it and I’m as mesmerised by the awful truth now, as I was back then. I stare at the young woman in the painting. She remains exactly where I left her, face down on a velvet sofa weeping into her hands and I’m helplessly caught up in her misery.

Jack is silenced by the impact of the piece. She has the power to shock the unwary and today she does her job exceptionally well.

“What is it about this one?” His frown reveals his puzzlement.

“All pleasure comes at a price,” I whisper. I’m not sure who I’m warning.

“After the Misdeed, 1885 - 90, Jean Béraud.” Jack reads the label. “The fallen woman.” He sums it up succinctly.

The moralising tone and message of the work is abundantly clear. Women who fall prey to their own passions and to the passions of men are destined to suffer. I understood the message so clearly when I was eighteen. It’s a judicious reminder.

Although she hasn’t changed, I have and I’m struck anew by the vivid colouring of the sofa, on which her torment endures. It’s the colour of the ball gown I wore last night. Jack’s promise to me.

I need to leave. “Can we go now?”

He nods, takes my hand in his and finds the way to the exit. We don’t acknowledge our silent thoughts on the taxi ride back to Belvedere as I stare out of the window and Jack contemplates me.

Only when the elevator arrives in the penthouse does he finally speak. “You’ve done enough for the first weekend. I want to make you forget.”

I don’t know what he’s saying but he drops to his knees and removes each of my shoes in turn. Taking hold of the hem of my shift dress, he pulls it over my head as I stand meekly before him in my lace underwear and string of pearls, accepting of my fate. He scoops me into his arms and carries me to bed.

He isn’t rough and he isn’t fast. He doesn’t make me wait. He makes gentle love to me over and over with such slow, exquisite tenderness that tears roll down my face as each crisis builds and intensifies until it overwhelms everything in its path.

He takes me on my back. He turns me and takes me on my stomach. He sits me astride him and urges me to ride him until we both come, locked together in one embrace. He rearranges my body so he can make love while looking into my eyes again and I’m a compliant puppet in his hands. His tongue persuades my body to respond to his each time he needs to recover. Every inch of him compels every inch of me.

He fucks me into mindless exhaustion.

“I can’t get enough of you.”

At some point I find myself begging with little conviction. “Please don’t make me come again, Jack.”

“You’ve changed your tune,” he murmurs breathlessly against my skin as I collapse, almost drained of sentient awareness.

“You annihilate me.”

I escape into deep, deep sleep beneath tender lips and caressing hands.

* * *

I wake to someone raising the blinds in the bedroom and screw my eyes against the sudden harsh glare of light.

“I bring you the coffee, Miss Caid.”

I don’t recognise the voice. A woman’s voice. I clutch the bedcovers to me and force my heavy eyes to focus on the figure standing before me.

“Mr Keogh instructed me to wake you at seven o’clock. It is seven o’clock.”

I must look confused.

“Monday morning.”

“Thank you.” I’m disturbed at being discovered naked in Jack’s hideously dishevelled bed by a stranger and definitely at a disadvantage. “Who are you?”

“I am Lenuta. Mr Keogh’s housekeeper.”

Oh, the woman with the exquisite taste in table decoration. She has an interesting Eastern European accent but I can’t place it. “Pleased to meet you,” I croak.

“There is orange juice beside the bed,” she says. She doesn’t miss much although it’s hard to miss a throat that sounds like it’s been sand-blasted.

I lean over, take the glass and gulp down its contents, gratefully, in one go. She bustles about the room, picking up abandoned clothing. She doesn’t appear to be put out in the slightest to find a strange woman in Jack’s apartment this morning, lying naked in his wrecked bed. And I can guess the reason why.

A woman who feels pretty sore right now, I realise, which would probably make Jack feel very satisfied with himself after all his efforts last night. If he was here. I wriggle down under the covers and try not to wince. “Where’s Jack?”

“He leaves for work early. He is boss, you know.”

“I know.” I experienced quite a lot of her boss over the weekend. “I have to get to my work too.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this.

“Mr Blackstock drives Mr Keogh but he returns for you. Mr Keogh leaves the instruction to drive you to your work when you are ready.”

“I’d better get up then.” I struggle to sit upright.

“I leave you to dress.” She carries the laundry out in her arms and I collapse back onto the mattress for a couple more minutes before forcing myself to rise.

I have to go into the spare room for my clothing so I grab another of Jack’s t-shirts and pull it over my head. I ache all over, remembering why. He’s insatiable. I never knew a man could do it so many times in one go. I never knew I could. Not that he gave me much choice. Not that I was complaining. At least before the very end.

I’m mortified. He has well and truly marked his territory.

I scoot across the main room into the guest bedroom while the coast is clear and plunge under the shower to wash every trace of our sexual marathon from my body. I’m not sure if I feel so sore internally due to the repeated friction or because of the internal workout of a hundred orgasms.

I rough dry my hair upside down and finger it into some sort of order which I spin up into a chignon. I put my usual bit of make up on and slaver lip gloss over kiss-roughened lips. Well Jack isn’t here to wipe it off again and besides, weekdays belong to me.

I choose a knee-length black wool and silk A-line dress with matching length jacket. Looking at my made-over self in the mirror I think I might just blow their minds at work today. They’ve never seen me power dress before. I find heeled black shoes, tie a statement pale blue silk scarf – to remind me of the colour of Jack’s eyes – around my neck and I’m ready to face what the day brings.

I pop my head round the kitchen door to say goodbye to Lenuta and find out where Blackstock is hanging out.

“I have made the breakfast for you.”

The kitchen is a marvel of brushed copper, teak and marble. It’s huge. “No time. Where’s Mr Blackstock?”

“Mr Keogh said I was not to let you leave until you had the breakfast.”

“He’ll never know, Lenuta.” I raise my eyebrow at her cheekily, knowing Jack will never know about that either.

“He will know, Miss Caid.”

I freeze. “How will he?” I glance about the room as if he might have hidden cameras trained on my every move.

“Because I tell him.”

“Oh.” A spy in the camp.

To be fair, she looks apologetic. “He will ask me and he will not be happy if I do not tell truth. Please eat the breakfast.”

I don’t want to get her into trouble so I perch on a kitchen stool. “Nothing heavy,” I tell her. “It’s a bit early for me.”

“Fruit and yoghurt?” she suggests.

“Perfect.”

She winks at me. “He won’t ask what you eat. Just that you eat.”

I laugh. I like her already.

Actually it’s a good move. I haven’t eaten since brunch yesterday and Jack certainly made me burn some calories last night before he was satisfied enough to let me sleep. I picture him warm and sated, all fluid muscle and focused intent.

I get up to clean my teeth again as Lenuta tells me Blackstock is waiting in the underground garage. She sees me to the lift and smiles as I leave. I wonder if she sees Jack off with a smile every morning too and straightens his tie. The thought amuses me no end. Very domestic.

I realise on a wince, as I walk to the car, that Jack has also seen me off with enough friction burns to last me until next Friday. Has he ensured I don’t let anyone else come within sniffing distance until I return? I remember his anger over Benn Gunn and the comment that any woman he’s with, better not be playing the field. She’s with me. Only me. She doesn’t seek pleasures elsewhere.

It reminds me I still have to put him straight about that conniving devil, Gunn.

“Good morning, Miss Caid.” Blackstock opens the Bentley door for me to climb in the back.

“Good morning, Mr Blackstock.”

“Would you like a little music?” he asks me.

“Do you have
Born to be Wild
?” I recall our silly word.

“No, I don’t believe so, Miss.” He doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Would you like me to acquire it for you?”

I consider all the crazy things he must have witnessed working for Jack. “Never mind, Mr Blackstock.”

I sit back and close my eyes. Most days I drive myself, starting the day hyped up with traffic congestion. This is definitely a more relaxing way to travel and I’d better not get used to it. By the time Blackstock pulls the Bentley into the car park at CaidCo, Brent Tapper’s Range Rover is in my space yet again. I sigh even though I don’t have my own car with me.

I scrabble to open the door before Blackstock emerges to do it for me. I’m not used to being chauffeured and I’m hoping no-one is looking out the window either. They don’t need to know the details of my walk of shame. I plan to announce that as I’ve organised us another chance we need to start making preparations for a presentation to Zee-Com that will kick Advance’s big backside.

“Thank you, Mr Blackstock, for driving me.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Caid.” Blackstock departs as I head into the building.

I hear raucous voices and belly laughs and my hackles rise instinctively. Most of the noise is coming from Brent’s office, needless to say.

Libby’s voice rises shrilly above the mayhem. “This is completely unnecessary. Frankly it’s despicable and you should all know better.”