The Mad British (10 page)

What the hell is Preston thinking?

After a five-day trip to four different countries, some with questionable plumbing, I don’t care where I sleep, minus a bus stop, as long as I have the chance to be horizontal for a while and not care how close my shave is. My contacts are welded to my eyeballs at this point, and every blink feels like a belt sander to the corneas.

The suite at the Helix will be home until I find an apartment. Preston is nuts if he thinks this is my taste. This suite is ridiculous with: leather barstools; a circular king-size bed; a ceiling mirror in the bedroom; and ugly ludicrous artwork. But the worst part is the pole. A brass pole is affixed square-in-the-middle of a round table. The table is high, chest-height, and the table top is mirrored. There is no mistaking what this is for.

Jesus, Preston. Guy just can’t send a card.

I
had
told him I didn’t want a stripper. I had told him that last year as well. Told him I never want or need to pay a woman to get me off. But if I'm honest with myself, I do want a certain someone to strip again. And I wouldn’t stop her the second time.

Lady in Blue.

She got under my skin, but Jesus, she’d felt good under me. I’ve never met a woman who could hold her own and who didn’t take my bullshit. She was fiery and sexy, and everything in between. She blew me away with her quick wit and charm and I never saw what was coming next.

She used me for sex.

I’m guessing payback for my little wager.

I barely have time to squirt a few drops of Visine into my aching eyes when there’s a knock at the door.

Stripper.

I’ll give her whatever notes I have in my wallet—making sure Preston still pays her the full amount—and then send her on her way. We can all go to bed tonight dirt-bag free.

"Just a minute." My voice comes out with a rasp. I clear my throat. "Who is it?"

"Preston sent me."

Her muffled voice is light and sexy, but there’s something oddly familiar to it. . . Did Preston send the same transvestite stripper from last year? God, I hope not. I think she—
he
—stole my bloody Rolex.

I open the door while digging around for some cash in my wallet, intending to politely send the girl on her way. But the first thing I see when I look up, are those deep, dark eyes I keep dreaming about.

Holy shit.

Suddenly, I forget all about sleeping and scraping the contacts out of my eyes.

Happy birthday, me!

She’s taller than I remember. I look down and realise why.

Stiletto heels.

Stripper heels.

Adelaide’s the stripper?

Maybe I won’t be turning away the stripper.

Gotta love Fate.

“Is it because the world is too small or because our fates are intertwined?”

“
You
. . .” Her eyes go as wide as saucers, and her face pales like she’s just seen a ghost.

I lean against the doorframe, my grin stretching to my ears. “Well, well, well. Look at what we’ve got here.”

“J-James? What’re
you
doing here?”

“This is my place—temporary place.”

She shakes her head slowly and wraps her arms across her tan suede trench coat. Jesus, does this girl wear anything that doesn’t cling to her body like a second skin?

“Come back for round two?” I give her stripper outfit a slow and deliberate sweep. “I like this new look, love.”

Her shocked expression snaps to one of exasperation. “What?
No.
No of course not.
God
.”

“Then you’ve come to apologise.”

Her hands fall to sit firmly on her hips, her arms bent at the elbow. “Why the hell do I need to apologise to you?”

I slap a hand against my chest. “You know how cheap you made me feel the next morning?”

“Oh shut up—”

“You really going to deny you used me for sex, Adelaide? Wild, hot sex.” I don’t fail to notice that every time I say ‘sex’ her cheeks become a darker shade of pink. “You used this perfectly-sculpted, hard-earned body of mine—to give you the best
sex
you’ve ever had.”

“Stop saying ‘sex’,” she hisses.

“I felt like a piece of meat.” The tone of my voice feigns hurt.

Her rigid posture softens. “I. . . I didn’t. . . It wasn’t like that.”

“You had sex with me—
three
times—and—”

“Lower your voice, will you. And stop saying ‘sex’ so loudly.”

“—then you snuck out like a sexy ninja without a word or phone number.”

“I’m sure a one-night stand isn’t something you’re not accustomed to, James, so stop pretending it mattered.”

“Again with the presumptions.” She looks like she wants to smack the smile right off my face.

“What do you want? A proposal? Do you want to make babies? Shall we insta-love and get married because I think you’re really hot and you have abs of steel and a sexy tattoo on your back and gave me the best orgasm I’ve ever had? Really, is that the foundation of love?”

“So you find me really hot?”

“Seriously? That’s what you took from all of that?”

“I’d take a lot more from you if you stuck around long enough.”

She pauses, scratching the back of her neck before responding. “Something tells me that a man like you really doesn’t care that much.”

I straighten up and start counting off first with my forefinger. “Firstly,” I state, “that hurts. Secondly, if it was the other way round, I’d be the bastard cock shite.” Her dark eyes get a little darker.

Fuck me.

I forgot how bloody hot she looks when I piss her off, and even hotter when she’s about to hit back with all that sass and class.

“The bastard who wagered a woman in a card game, you mean.”

“You ever going to get over that?”

“No.”

I’m bloody loving this. Best. Birthday. Ever.

“Come on now. Let’s remember my wager was only to have a drink.
You’re
the one who pounced on
me
.”

She sighs. “Just let me in.”

I cross my arms like a bouncer at a club. “Not until you say it.”

“You what?”

“Say you’re sorry for using me for sex and that you’re a bitch for doing it.” I know I’m asking for a knee in the balls, but it’s just too much fun to stop.

“I’ll say no such thing.”

“Then you can dance for me out here then. I’m sure
he
won’t complain.” I nod my head in the direction of the middle-aged man entering the hallway. He looks over at us and instantly beams like a gorilla on heat when Adelaide turns to him.

She whirls back to face me. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I just want justice for all the men out there who’ve been treated like pieces of meat. Am I right?” I shout the last part toward the man who pretends he’s not eavesdropping on us, or perving on the hot woman in stripper heels.

Adelaide’s cheeks flush. “Just say it so I can move on from this ordeal.” Without moving her head, she glances sideways, all aware of the stranger watching our little show behind her. She locks her sight back to me. “
Fine
.” She draws out a long, angry breath. “I used you for. . . sex.” Her voice is an angry whisper, and she stares back at the man who’s still gawking at her lean, toned legs.

I uncross my arms, straighten my shoulders, give her the best smug smile I’ve ever given someone in my life, and drawl, “And?”

“
And
. . . I’m a bitch,” she mutters under her breath. “Now let me in.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing my arse off. This birthday had been brilliantly mundane, but now that she’s here, I can’t think of anyone else that would be more fun to spend it with.

“See. That wasn’t so hard. And I accept your apology.”

“How generous of you.”

"Come on in to my abode, Miss Queen." I gesture with my arm and step aside.

“I might be a bitch but you’re still a cocky bastard,” she responds, walking inside. I wave at my new friend in the hallway, who instantly pretends to look for his lost key-card in his coat pockets.

I shut the door behind me and turn my attention to Adelaide. She cuts in before I get the chance to continue our little banter. “So you know Preston?”

She’s changing the subject, but I let her. “Unfortunately.” Though saying that, I make a mental note to kiss Preston right on the lips for bringing her to my door tonight.

Giving the room a once-over, she pulls a small white envelope out of the pocket of her short trench and hands it to me. "From Preston."

"Thanks. Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, I think I need it after you humiliated me out there.” I walk over to the bar, chuckling to myself. “Aren’t you going to ask what I like?”

“Adelaide, I think you already know I know what you like.” I watch her cheeks pink up and inwardly smirk.

“Right . . .”

Busying myself behind the bar, she toys with the belt on her coat and inspects the suite, stopping to examine one of the hideous art-deco paintings of something that looks like black squiggly lines in a mirrored frame. I should say something impressively clever. "Like the painting?" is what I come up with because my mind is too preoccupied by her black stockings.

She doesn’t look away as she responds, "A Feinholtz. I had class with her."

I reach for the bottle of vodka and unscrew the lid. "Really? Where was that?"

She continues to examine the painting, then joins me at the bar. "UAL. I graduated last year. Got my degree in fine arts."

"You're an artist?"

"You're surprised?" She smiles at me, her heavy-lined eyes shining through the layers of kohl.

“I thought you didn’t care for art history?” I tilt the bottle into a banquet tumbler.

“I. . .” She pauses. “I lied.” I stop pouring her drink to look at her. “Actually. . .” She pauses again. “I was kinda charmed by the way you spoke about that Arch of Constantine painting. But I didn’t want to inflate that big head of yours in case it exploded all over me and I was wearing that expensive dress on loan.”

I stir her drink. “I didn’t think you’d mind my head exploding.”

“You’re disgusting.”

I pass her drink across the counter. “Disgustingly hot, right? You said you find me really hot.”

She clears her throat quietly and fidgets with the ugly vase on the counter while I make my drink. "You're probably wondering what a postgraduate is doing here in the middle of the night doing. . . this."

"Yeah. . . " I feel my grip on the whiskey bottle tightening. I really hate the idea that other men have leered at her while she’s stripped for them.

Why did she have to be a stripper?

"It's Victory," she says, taking a long swallow of her drink.

“Victory?”

"My piece de resistance. Won a ton of awards, got me noticed in very well-connected circles, made my friends happy and my parents proud, and it's still sitting in a gallery waiting for a buyer. A rich buyer, in fact, since I had to raise its value for all the acclaim it won. And you know why?"

"Why?"

She grins so broadly that it reaches all the way up to her eyes. "Because it's too big to fit in a standard door. You can't take it home if you can't get it in there. My fault, completely. I created it in a warehouse studio."

I chuckle. "I would like to see this art."

"You can. Looking Glass Gallery, Covent Gardens. You can't miss it. They replaced the windows with mirrors that face the street. It's hideous and caused a couple of car accidents already—"

"You don't do this very often."

I finally break the ice; I can’t ignore the elephant in the room.

"Um, no. . . " She chugs down her drink and sets it on the counter. "Only when I don't sell anything that month. . . and Preston helps me out. . . "

"How do you know Preston?"

"Really old friend." Adelaide opens her purse and pulls an iPod out, and starts setting it up in the audio system.

Is she really going to go through with this? With me? After everything that’s happened between us?

And—Christ, I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this—will I let her?

"I used to be in this dance troupe, at Uni, and we would do a burlesque show. Yeah, I know how that sounds, but we had a lot of fun and even got noticed for a short time. Preston is a, uh, an enthusiastic repeat customer.”

I. Am. Going. To kill him.

“At first I thought he was just a pervy creep, and believe me, we got a lot of those, but then he introduced himself as an agent, and he really helped the careers of some of the other girls. Now he’s a super-agent and one of my best clients." She reddens suddenly. "For art, I mean. Not for. . . you know."