Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) (15 page)

He strides into the room, his thick and imposing frame as proud and forceful as I've ever known it, but his face a confused mixture of emotions. His hair is a mess; jet black tufts of hair sticking out here and there, and his eyes seem to have lost a certain sparkle.

"I'll be in my room" says my twin sister, hastily leaving, and closing the door behind her. And once more, I'm alone with the billionaire.

"I feel should -" he pauses, hesitating slightly, whatever he planned to say being caught on the tip of his tongue, before continuing: "- apologize."

I turn around and head to the living room, and he follows. Moments later, we're sat side by side on the couch, each sat straight with our hands on our knees, staring forward at the unusual sight of a clean and tidy room.

"It's tidy in here," he says, breaking the silence. I don't know what to say. I must admit, I feel the overwhelming urge to leap back into his arms. Superficial or not, I like it. I
love
it. But I'm stronger than that. Daniel speaks again: "I shouldn't have done that."

"Done what?"

"Throw you out like that. Naked." Funny, I don't even hate him for it. I guess when you've spent the last few days being tortured to within an inch of your pain threshold you'll make these curious allowances. "I panicked. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have acted so rashly. Forgive me."

He's spitting words at me quicker than my nervous, surprised, and agitated brain can process them. I haven't quite gotten used to the sight of him here;
here
, on my very couch! For a second I lose my mind to the idle relief that Carissa tidied this place before he could see it in its full squalid glory. There I go again; too eager to please.

"You know Carissa will recognize you?"

"I don't care."

We're sat only inches apart, yet it feels like a great expanse. He rests his chin on his palms there, dug neatly into his knees, and contemplates his next move. I'm used to seeing this from him, but the loss of that confident, controlled exterior is something remarkable.

"Let's go for a walk. I've a lot of things to tell you."

Before I can answer, he's already leapt to his feet, turned around, and extended a gracious hand out to me to aid my ascent. With aching knees and stinging wrists, I follow his lead, and try to keep pace as he flies out of the flat. Only when we're back outside, enjoying the shade of a deciduous in the courtyard does he stop, and prop himself against the trunk, reaching into that same black suit jacket for a pair of sunglasses. I stare into his stomach, mentally prizing aside the lapels of his jacket, delving deep into his hidden scars. I think he notices.

"Not many people know what you know."

Again, my self-righteous urge to please kicks in again; I grab the initiative and make my apologies.

"I'm sorry Daniel, I was uhm -" Too big for my boots? Forgetting my place? "I was having too much fun."

"What do you know about me?" he asks, completely ignoring my prior apology. Glowing orange rays pierce the canopy of trees above us, creating bright spots of gold upon his face, fluttering and dancing in the wind. His cheekbones are as prominent as ever, and his pearly white teeth are drawn to bite his bottom lip anxiously. His eyes, though, can't seem to look straight at me; always to my side, to the sky, or to the floor.

"Uhm, well, I know you're the biggest movie producer in town."

"But you'd never even heard of me beforehand, had you?"

He's right. I had no idea. Otherwise I might have recognized the quiet, complacent figure in the corner of that audition just a few days ago. As it happens, I don't even know what attracts me to Daniel. His looks? His subdued charm? His domineering and sadistic ways? He inspires a spark in me that I can't explain.

"No."

Finally, he turns his head slightly and looks into me, those small blue eyes restrained by his sunglasses, but staring deeply into me.

"I'm an imposter to this life. The fast cars, fast women, slow dining, whatever. It was never mine to have. It was never mine to live."

I still don't understand. I narrow my eyes, and scratch my chin without realizing it, inching closer to him by the shade of the trees. Seconds pass, and I'm still stood staring blankly.

"I haven't been completely honest with you yet, Miss Everett."

A tremor rumbles down my spine, and I brace my frame against an appropriately chilling gust of wind, sending those golden spots of sun on his face dancing angrily once again. I wrap my arms around myself, as another gust of freezing cold wind bites against my skin. My wax burns still ache and itch slightly below my shirt, a cruel reminder of this whole fucked up relationship. Suddenly, he shivers too, his body wracked by trembling in the harsh, cold shade.

"I've got a movie for you to watch."

Okay, that's
unexpected
. He pulls a black, coverless DVD case out of his jacket pocket, making me wonder just what else he might be hiding in there. Pushing it into my hands, he seems only too happy when he's finally rid of the thing, and breathes a visible sigh of relief, exhaling deeply.

"Watch it. You'll be surprised."

I'm speechless once again; he comes here to apologize, and ends up giving me a free movie?

"What is this?"

"A home movie."

I open the case, and find a blank, unmarked DVD inside; no print, no sharpie writing, nothing. Looking back at him, he's assumed my own pose; arms wrapped around himself, chin dug into the collar of his shirt. I guess it's getting cold out here.

"Watch it."

And with that, he leans in to me, and presses a kiss upon my forehead. I have a thousand questions; I want nothing more than to call his name, halt him in his tracks, and ask just what the fuck all this schizophrenic posturing is all about. I can't help but feel all of this is playing out like some bad thriller, and I'm the leggy brunette who's going to die in the end. He turns his back to me, and without dedicating another glance to my bemused expression, walks to the street.

"Daniel!" I cry, losing myself to the melodramatic mystique of this entire situation. He opens the door of a parked car - black, and shining blindingly in the summer's sun - and peels off his sunglasses, looking into me with those blue eyes for a final time.

***

I pull my bed sheets up to my cheeks, wanting nothing more than to disappear within them totally, before finally exposing one timid arm outside to grasp the DVD case once more. I toss over the possibilities in my mind; a secret recording of our times together? Would he really dare? Or perhaps a recording direct from his attorney's office, explaining the finer points of the contract I signed, and the various obligations I have to my employer.
The contract
; I'd forgotten about it until now somehow.

Eventually I kick up the courage to retrieve my laptop from the corner of my room, and after a few more nervous breaths, put the solitary, unmarked DVD into the drive, waiting for whatever devilish revelations await me. Home movies? What did he mean by that?

So far so good; darkness. No video, no sound. Two minutes of this, in fact.
You're really keeping me on the edge of my seat here Daniel
. Then, my train of thought is derailed by a flash of text upon the screen, white and faded somewhat:

Flowers Of Bosnia: Rough Cut (1993)

Dir: Alan Wilde, Produced by Conrad Grant

A rough cut of a movie? A movie produced by Conrad
Grant
? I pause it, quickly, pointing my browser to wikipedia, and immediately look up the names; Alan Wilde, a British documentary maker currently working in Europe. Conrad Grant is as I'd expect: the multimillionaire producer, who died some seven years ago, the avowedly reclusive father of Daniel Grant.

I listen out for a moment, thinking I hear Carissa traipsing around outside my door. She isn't, but I enjoy the silence nonetheless. Why is Daniel showing me one of his father's films? And what the fuck does this all have to do with the horrific scars he's been hiding from all of us for so long?

With more than a moment's hesitation, I drag my mouse back to the big 'PLAY' button in the middle of the media player menu, and draw my knees back up to my chin, wrapping my arms around them lovingly. It's too hot in here - the last shivers of California sun are rifling their way through my blinds, creating a sweaty, humid atmosphere in here - but not that I'd notice right now. I gulp loudly, and as the screen turns back to black, my mind begins racing once more.

"The Bosnian War started little over a year ago,"
begins the voice-over, a deep and heavily accented tone.
"There is no end in sight."
 

Roughly shot scenes of battle; tanks, howitzers, and other such machines of destruction crawling across patchy, grass-strewn roads and grey landscapes. Grainy, under-lit scenes of women, children, and forlorn looking men, some staring straight into the camera, some staring right past it. Buildings aflame. Chunks of parking lots and tower blocks blown clean off in mortar fire, and debris scattered over tiled town squares. I've seen this kind of thing before; war documentaries on the History Channel, although I never dedicated much thought to them.

Heavily overexposed scenes follow; scenes shot so brightly I wonder if this actually ever actually made it to editing. I take my eyes off the screen for one moment to sink my head between my knees, resting my eyelids from the effervescently bright shots. When I pick my head back up, and stare back into my laptop, I can't believe what I see.

"
Danjel Subotic is 10 years old. He has nothing. No parents. Not anymore. No home. Long blown off the map
."

It's him
; as clear as the day, as sharp as the moon. Daniel Grant, in picture: a tall and emaciated boy, with jet black hair, tanned skin, and a rather misplaced mischievous grin, staring directly into the camera from no more than two feet away. Ten years old.

"Like a lot of Bosnian War victims, Danjel has his share of scars."

He lifts his shirt with some encouragement from the director, to reveal a set of snake-like blood-red wounds, curving up and down his chest like writhing, slithering worms. Shrapnel injury, the voice-over says. Daniel Grant; ten years old. I couldn't mistake those sharp cheekbones, giving him a certain look of incongruous confidence.

"I want to see America!" he yells with a empty smile. Then, as if nothing was wrong, the movie takes its next turn, a profile of a set of refugees, walking tirelessly across the plains.

I'm so engrossed I don't even realize my fingers pressed deeply into the fleshy skin of my thighs, gripping myself so tightly that I have to pry them out one by one before I can fidget. My heart is thumping again; my mouth dry and wordless. Daniel Grant. Danjel Subotic? The Bosnian orphan and refugee?
It can't be.
 

I brave the blinding rays penetrating my blinds, and search the floor for my cell phone. When I get there, he's already beaten me to it: one missed call, one voicemail message. I'm back in the producer's trap; entwined within his suspenseful story, gripped by his mystique. If this is all one big test of my loyalties, I've fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

"Miss Everett," he says as formally and businessman-like as ever, speaking in a deep, Los Angeles accent so far removed from that skinny ten-year-old that I can scarcely believe it. "Why don't you come back to my penthouse suite tonight? Come when you're ready, I don't have any commitments until the morning."

It's an offer I really should think about, but ultimately one that I know I can't refuse. I scoop the DVD out of my laptop, put it back inside its anonymous, blank case, and fly out of the house as quickly as my creaking knees will take me. It's rush-hour, and the streets of LA are choked with black, foreboding smog, but I take the car anyway, wasting no time to see my employer once more.

I still can't get the image out of my mind; the blackened, burnt out buildings, legions of tall, gangly men in camouflaged fatigues, and one ten year old boy in the centre of it all. Nothing but a face, a name, and the tattered clothes on his back.

Chapter Thirteen

The same skyscraper shining in the evening sun; it almost hurts me to look at. I avert my eyes to the floor, careful not to crash into anyone in my urgency. The same rude receptionist, and the same sturdy palm on my shoulder, surprising me from behind, and shaking me out of my mindlessness.

"It's okay," he says, showing more than a delightful set of teeth to the receptionist, still shooting dirty looks at me from behind that empowering desk of hers. "She's mine."

It's true
. I'm his
. But I feel different now. All of a sudden, the dynamic between us has changed. As we walk, his hand still perched upon my shoulder, and my head turned to the side, watching the outline and contours of his square jaw and chin as we make our way to the elevator. In my pain-cleansed, burn-scarred body, I feel somehow pure. Like I have no secrets.

"Thanks for coming," he says to me behind the closed elevator doors, sounding genuinely appreciative. Part of me wonders just what he'd have done with himself tonight if I hadn't showed. I try to put the thought out of my mind.

"It's okay."

And not another word is muttered between us until we make it back to Daniel's penthouse 'office'. A large, thick mahogany oak door is unlocked, and inside I'm surprised yet again. The entire place has changed. The room of my prior imprisonment is filled to the ceiling with ornate decorations; somber paintings, movie posters hung behind glass frames, and sculptures filling the floor - a mixture of small marble statuettes, and strange wooden artifacts - so many I can barely stretch my legs in here. One thing is the same: the armoire still stands, its doors ominously closed. I'll admit I feel a misplaced twinge of excitement between my legs upon seeing it again.

"What happened to this place?"

"Character, uhm, personality" he replies, distracted somehow. I turn to him quick enough to see him withdrawing a fingernail from between his teeth. "I thought you were right. No personality."