Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel) (18 page)

"I'm sure there's a lot I need to tell you" he adds, hesitantly. I nod to myself, fully aware that he can only see my faint outline in the reflection on the window. A plane passes in the distance, drawing both of our attentions for a moment.

"It's okay" I say, rubbing his palm between my fingers. "Slow."

He says something -
how am I, how do I feel
- that sort of thing. I only get the gist of it, consumed in my own little world as I am. I'm timid, anxious, maybe a little bit scared. In truth, I've never had a real romance before, let alone one as
strange
as this. Part of me wonders if I'm making a mistake. Part of me just wants to give myself back to him, wholly and absolutely, and never rely on myself to make a conscious decision ever again. Another part of me wishes I could leap into that head of his, and experience all of the fraught worries, tensions, and bitter thoughts he seems to harbor, given the scarring of a war he doesn't even remember. But mostly, I'm just dazed; shocked in myself that I could ever get into this sort of love.

"You've changed" he says again, looking back out of the window, speaking softly. "You're different from when we first met."

I guess that's right. I feel we've come through a lot together; the sex, the pain, the submission, the domination, the shameful, overeager actions of my impetuous hands, and the revelations that he had to bring.

"You've changed too." I put my head on his shoulder, and close my eyes, seeing the bright imprint of the clouds inside my eyelids.

"Maybe."

There are so many questions I want answered; I want to know whether those sex games are an expression of his love, a simple desire to control, or a sinister urge to redeem his own scars somehow. I want to know how he truly sees me. I want to know just
what
he sees in me. But most of all, I think I just want to know that I'm loved. I'm not interested in his money, or his power, or his penthouses, restaurants, cars, or private limousines. He fascinates me.

"I have to go to work soon."

I'm sorry to hear it; I take my hand away from his, and wrap it around myself, feeling the warm, loving glow we shared evaporate.

"And so do you."

Work
? What's he talking about? I open my mouth to speak, and question just what variety of work he's talking about; the kinky kind? Would I refuse? Would I dare? Before I can utter one word, however, he turns himself around, and answers my question for me.

"An audition. A minor role in a film I'm promoting, but a meaty role nonetheless. We have unfinished business together, wouldn't you say?"

My first gift from my billionaire benefactor? I'm speechless yet again, I don't know whether I should accept it without any questions asked, or make some moralistic plea not to be considered differently from any of the other, gorgeous young woman who'd undoubtedly apply. But again, Daniel's a step ahead of me; he puts a finger to my lips, silencing whatever protest I was planning to make.

"An audition, Chloe, not a contract."

Chloe
. He called me Chloe. I'm stunned. I never thought I'd actually hear it said to anyone but my sister by mistake. I'm still standing, my cheeks burning a blushing red, as he breezes past me and picks up his keys from the side, preparing to leave. In a haze, I follow, implicitly following his command, again becoming the silent servant I was always destined to be.

Chapter Fifteen

Life has a funny old way of turning when you least expect it. My father used to say that people's lives worked as a wheel; revolving, carrying on, slowing occasionally, only to speed up to compensate for it. It was easy enough for him to say, he was a defense attorney, adept at keeping these silly little adages in his pocket, only to pull them out to excite a watching jury. What's more, I don't know what Daddy would say right now, watching me sat in the exact same place I started, my knees huddled up to my chest, looking out of the window wistfully.

The clouds have subsided, replaced in kind by the hot, dazzling, remorseless Sun. Another baking Hollywood summer. I strain my eyes peering through the glass, watching the heat rise in dancing, effeminate streaks from the tarmac car lot outside. My heart is pounding away, the same rambunctious percussive rhythm I've grown used to. But, I don't feel the same. The audition isn't even on my mind right now; all I can think about is the future. My visions of a loving, warm life with Daniel Grant are propelled by my raging blood flow around my body. I'm not nervous, or anxious, or hesitant, or feeling that this is the last place I want to be. I'm
excited
.

"Bree Oscarsson, you're up."

The blonde, tanned, and skinny receptionist barks to an equally blonde, tanned, and skinny girl sat opposite me. With a nervous twitch, she puts aside her magazine, and jumps to her feet, swallowing loudly, and starts her slow walk to the room behind us. A nervous picture of my previous self.

Will he be there? I don't know. He had the usual private driver pick me up from outside his building, and drop me off here. As much as I'd love to see him sat quietly in that corner, watching my every move from behind the script, seeing just how far I've come out of my anxious, edgy shell, I don't know if it will come to pass.

I don't even know what sort of film this is. Another one of Daniel's teen horror flicks? Some cowboy western drama about a quiet, secretive man and a timid, dainty woman? I have to admit, I do expect some sort of sordid test, as is Daniel's way. Still, I can only do my best. A few days ago I'd have died for minor film role.

I close my eyes, thinking back to our time back in that penthouse bedroom, overlooking the streets and cars below. I soon have to avert my mind, feeling the hot, tingling memories go straight back between my legs. When I finally do open them again, five minutes have passed and the receptionist is barking my name, signaling my time before Hollywood's own judgment. I climb to my feet, and make my way through the double doors.

"Hi Chloe," says the guy in the middle. Same face, same sunglasses, same bristly chin and cheeks, but a different baseball cap. Next to him sits a woman, perhaps a little older than myself, who I'm sure I've seen there and about; blonde hair, red lipstick, and a thick layer of eye-shadow that surely can't withstand this heat. Was she in that crappy sci-fi comedy I saw last year? I daren't linger upon her with my eyes long enough to check. And then, of course, sat to the baseball cap guy's left, is the producer. Daniel Grant. Blue suit, pink shirt, hiding his gorgeous and calculating face behind a script.

"Hi there."

He looks up briefly, establishing eye contact with me, and sharing a knowing, gleeful glance. I watch him raise an eyebrow quizzically, as if to state his confidence in me, before dropping his eyes back to the lines held before him.

"How do you feel?" asks the woman, presumably expecting me to be as nervous and tired of the whole audition process as every other applicant that comes through those doors. "Good? Bad?"

"I feel fine. My head is clear."

"Good."

And so, we begin. I pick up a pearly white sheet of paper from their desk, and take a moment to process the lines upon it. I look to Daniel one final time, and announce that I'm ready to begin.

Chapter Sixteen

I get back home to be welcomed by an almighty mess; twenty-four hours away and she's already found the time and effort to return this place to its squalid self. I wouldn't expect anything less. My mind clear, and my conscience cleansed, I walk to the living room, and find her waiting for me on the couch.

"So how did it go?"

Mindlessly, I grin at her, scratching my chin a moment, before answering.

"Very well, thank you."

"You don't even know what I'm asking, do you?"

I knew this was coming. Time to face the righteous judgment of my prim and proper sister. She crosses her arms, and scoots up the couch, yet again giving me a warm and inviting place to sit. This time, though, I choose to remain on my feet. Something tells me I might want to make a quick, agitated exit any moment, call me crazy. We sit staring at one another for an eternity, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

"So, tell me everything, what's
he
really like?" she finally asks, to my absolute surprise. No slap on the wrist for being so quiet and obtuse, no deafening monologue on the dangers of storming off with strange, wealthy men. Just a morbid curiosity about Daniel Grant.

"Different" is the only thing I can think of. We stand apart for a few moments more, staring into each other's blue eyes, playing this strange game of lingual chicken. She blinks first.

"You know, you don't have to tell me everything, Chlo. We can live separate lives. I just want to know you're not into anything deep."

Deep
. That's one way of putting it. I swat a few errant strands of black hair away from my face with the back of my palm, and stare into her, trying to give my identical twin the absolute truth, in expression at least. But then, how can I tell her everything? The sex games, the pain, the submission, the overarching urge to give my whole body away. I've tasted the forbidden fruit, and I
like it
. She's right. I don't have to tell her everything.

"I had an audition for him, you know that." She nods, her eyes excitedly widening at the mere prospect of learning something about the billionaire. "It went well, but he didn't want me for the part. He wanted me for, well, something else."

She raises an eyebrow, and licks her lips slightly in expectation. I cough, clearing my throat of my mind's objections to what I'm about to say, and continue.

"Some shitty secretarial role. Said I'd look good on reception. I tried it, but it wasn't for me."

She's so disappointed with the banality of my so-called 'truth', she almost chokes on her response.

"But, you came home yesterday, you looked like you were going to cry, what was -"

"Producers," I snap back at her, averting my eyes to the ceiling, digging myself deeper into the untruth. "Some dickhead said I'd fucked things up with an actor, or something. I knew then that the receptionist thing wasn't for me. Too much pressure."

She looks down to the floor, finally releasing me from her prosecutorial eye. My heart is thumping again, my fingers and toes tingling with nervous excitement. Have I done it? Dug myself out of these tricky, unexplainable few days? Did my sister really believe me? All of a sudden I realize that I'm tightly holding onto my wrists, arousing more than a moment of stinging pain.

"Oh," she says, quietly. I see her mind ticking over. I can almost hear the whirring, clinical processes of her brain. "What about the guy? You told me there was a guy!"

"No guy." I reply, digging myself further into this pit, further into a dirty mistruth to protect my billionaire benefactor.

"But, you said -"

"I got a little too carried away. About the producers, about the job, about everything." She still doesn't look like she believes me, arching her eyebrows down to the beginning of her nose, staring through me with those eyes, identical to my own. "Superficial, right? Well, that's fucking employment in Hollywood. I'm sorry if I worried you, Carissa."

Jesus, I scare myself
. I have some nerve, lying to my sister like this. But some dark, dirtied impulse from deep within tells me I'm doing the right thing; tells me that every lie is necessary to protect what Daniel and I have.

"And today," I go on to say, "was another audition. You know, a thank you from the higher-ups, mainly for not playing up about the whole malfunctioning coffee machine thing. That's the reason for the little house call yesterday. There's nothing like an apology from the top, huh?"

I push my wrists out to her, bearing the red cord burns of a few days ago. She winces in response, eliminating all traces of doubt from her face. Immediately I feel it; a cool, excited rush. Like a gust of wind bracing my entire body. I might have just gotten away with hiding my billionaire romance.

I smile one final time, exuding a confidence that I know I couldn't summon just a few days prior, when she halts me in my steps once more.

"One more thing Chlo."

My eyes rise nervously to her, wondering what aspect of my story I left open to doubt. Who am I kidding? I'm a terrible liar. I can't act, I can't tell anything but the truth without a burning hot, red face. She opens her mouth, pausing to consider her words for a moment, while I hold my breath anxiously.

"You look different. Easier, more carefree."

The smile returns to my face with a vengeance.

"Let's just say I think I did well in my audition today. I'm not as bad an actress as I thought I was."

She nods, before turning her head back to the TV, an incessantly droning white noise in the corner. I breathe easy, huffing my chest out before me, and taking confident strides. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't have seen it; if I hadn't have been so self-aware right now, it would have passed me by, but in the enlightened state that I'm in, I can't help but pick it out of my mind's eye...

"Carissa, what's this?"

A magazine - one of the big gossip magazines that lie around this filthy, squalid place like newspaper covering a stable floor - lying open on the coffee table. And in big red letters, a phone number.

SEEN ANYONE FAMOUS ABOUT TOWN? ANYONE WE SHOULD KNOW ABOUT? CALL US NOW!

My heart spins inside my ribcage, wrenching itself back into that nervous, anxious wreck I used to know and love. Has she? She can't have, not Carissa...

"What, that?" she sits up from the couch, casting her eye over the magazine, before falling back to her seat, and letting the TV absorb her full attention once more. "It's a gossip magazine Chlo. You remember those don't you? The things you read when you're not buried in some script."

Right
. A coincidence I guess. Without another word, I trot out of the living room, and down the corridor, locking myself inside my room, intent on blocking out every dissonant aspect of the outside world, at least until dinnertime. Jumping over to my bed though, something catches on my toe;