The Mad British (11 page)

"Yeah. . . "

I’ll rip his goddamn head off if it’s for the latter. And not just because of Adelaide.

"Sorry, now you know my life story." She presses the start button and Peggy Lee starts cooing about a ‘fever through the night’.

I should really stop her. . .

I swallow, watching as she steps onto the mirrored table and gives an experimental swing round the pole. I immediately forget my head when I see a peek of black lace. Want floods my veins, my body tight with three weeks of pent-up sexual frustration for this one, specific woman. She looks so soft and demure, and the need to pull her in my arms, and take her again—again and again—is driving me to madness.

"It's my birthday. . ." My voice is softer than I’d like it to be.

One dance can’t hurt.

"I know," she murmurs, and one hand reaches up and pulls out the knot of her belt. "Happy birthday, James Hatter."

The first buttons of the coat come undone and I swear I move faster than light. “Adelaide, you don’t have to do this,” I say in a rush, extending my hand out to her.

“Yes I do.” Holding on to the pole, she sinks her teeth into her lower lip, looking self-conscious all of a sudden. “I. . . need the money,” she explains, her voice timid.

“I’ll make sure you get paid.” I grow serious when she hesitates. “Come down,” I order. She moves forward to take my hand, but I decide to lift her from the waist instead. Setting her down on the floor, I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. She looks to the floor. “It’s my birthday and the birthday boy decides what happens.”

I can think of a lot of things I want to happen.

I’m so close to her body that I can feel it trembling. “Just talk with me tonight.”

“Déjà vu, Hatter.” She looks up at me through her false eyelashes, and I finally see the gleam of fire I’ve been dying to see again. “You’re paying for my time again.”

“No, Preston is paying for your time—
this
time.”

“Touché, Hatter.”

“Stay for a bit,” I say, serious.

I notice her crestfallen face, a brief moment of vulnerability. “I should leave.” She turns from me.

“You’re going to stay.” Grabbing her by the waist, I yank her toward me in one swift movement, and her lips part, gasping, ever so slightly, as our bodies collide into one another. Her sweet lips are tempting me to kiss them, but if I give in to those sweet-tasting lips, I won’t stop with them.

I look down at her. “Or. . .” I trail a finger slowly up her neck, my voice thick with desire. “. . . can’t you resist. . .” My finger reaches her chin and tilts it up slightly, forcing her eyes on mine. “. . . being with me again?”

She swallows audibly. “I can. . . resist you, James.”

My hips press further into her body as I plant a soft kiss on the side of her neck. “Then do as the birthday boy says, and stay.”

I feel her shake her head as if she’s mentally talking herself out of it. Why is it so impossible for her to admit that she doesn’t want to go, that she wants to stay, and that she wants it as badly as I do? It’s written on her face, in her eyes, and I can feel it radiating off her tight little body.

“That night,” she begins, her voice soft. “You and I. . . It was a great night but what happened between us is never going to happen again.”

“I see. You don’t want a repeat of the same thing.” She looks up, confused. “I mean, you want to try new sex positions with me? The Sultry Saddle, perhaps?”

She closes her eyes for a moment but laughs. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

My smirk fades. “Believe me, I don’t know it.”

“It just can’t,” she murmurs, sounding helpless, torn between staying and going. She looks off to the side. “You don’t know me, James.”

It’s clear what she wants, she hasn’t pulled back, but
something
is holding her back.

“You’ve been hurt,” I guess. Her widening eyes dart to mine. “I’m not him.” There’s always a
him
. “I want to know you, Adelaide. Give me a chance.” I half smile. “Who knows, right?”

Trying to wriggle out from my hold, she quickly says, “Maybe I don’t want to get to know you—”

“Liar,” I cut in, jerking her toward me with one hard thrust. I steal another kiss on top of that hidden spot on her collarbone; the one I know drives her crazy. I hear her let out a shaky breath.

It’s all in the surrendering.

Feeding off my instincts, my eyes go heavy and I crush my mouth onto hers, forcing my tongue to delve in, which she only obliges when she gasps. The pressure of my lips is hard, but the persuasion of my movements is soft, melding our bodies and mouths together. The kiss becomes erotically charged faster than I expect, and a burning sensation fires across my skin, tearing my senses to shreds. She gasps into my mouth, my lips hungry as my teeth skim her lower lip and my pelvis rubs up against her body.

I pull back harder than when I went in, finding it torturous to kill the primal urge to push her down on the table and fuck her with total abandon.

Her eyes are closed, her breaths shallow, and her mouth is still slightly parted. She’s waiting for my tongue to assault her all over again.

But I don’t.

I just lean in, bite her earlobe lightly, and say, “
See
. You’re still begging for it.” I pull back from the crook of her neck. “But this time, love, I’m not giving it to you.”

She shoves me back, hard. “You’ve met me once, James,” she replies in a ragged breath, her body still seeming to spike with need. She puts a finger to her lips, savouring the taste of me, and I see a glimmer of heat in her eyes. My cock reacts accordingly, thickening beneath my zipper.

Christ, I want to suck on it for her.

“Twice. It’s twice now.”

“Why does it matter so much?”

I don’t know the answer to that question. I just know I'm completely, utterly, and fatally consumed with the girl who shattered my flawless world apart with the blue splodge on the back of her neck.

“Let’s get past this back and forth bullshit,” I tell her. “As much as I love it, I do, really I do, it’s bloody hot, but I want you to get to know the real me, a different side to me. If I repulse you after a few dates—fine. If you turn out to have a fetish for female strap-ons—fine. I’ll gladly move on, trust me. But until then, I’m
not
giving up.” I sweep over her drool-worthy outfit again and she practically melts under my stare. “So just admit you want it just as much as I want it, Adelaide, and give me your number so I can bloody call you and take you out on a damn date.” She hesitates, ignoring what she wants, simply because it scares her.

Yeah, I scare her.

I can see it in the way hesitation parts her lips and question hangs in her eyes. I’m sure I’ve done and said things that no other man ever has, and she knows it.

“You can’t ignore there’s something here,” I press. “Stop living in the past.”

She fixes me with an unwavering stare. I don’t look away. After a long moment, she finally speaks. “How about you give me
your number and
maybe
I’ll call you. No promises.”

I smile when the tension around us finally starts to break. “Yeah, you will.”

She ties her coat belt into a knot “Don’t get too cocky,” she warns playfully, slipping her phone out from her pocket. “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”

“And it’s a man’s responsibility to change it back.”

She shakes her head but I can see her cheeks blushing as I read off my number. She slips her phone back into her pocket and says, “It’s late and I’d rather not sit and chat while I’m half naked.”

“I’d rather you did.”

“That’s a shocker.”

“I can strip to make things fair.” I start unbuttoning my shirt and begin to grind my hips to the song in the background.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she laughs.

I stop stripping. “Worried you’ll pounce on me again?”

“
Goodnight
, James,” she says firmly, but chuckles heartily.

After retrieving her iPod I walk her out and say goodnight. She heads down the hallway toward the lift, and I watch her thick flowing hair swing against her, the backs of her thighs practically edible under the hem of her coat. She turns when the doors open and smiles, curling one hand into a wave. The doors close and then she is gone.

The bar is my first destination. I pour myself a double, intent on spending the night getting rat arsed and drinking myself into a birthday coma. But then an idea strikes me like a hammer.

Preston.

He is the gatekeeper to all carnal wisdom. He is the key, the crux, the alpha and the omega, the possessor of eleven numerals that I covet more than anything right now.

And he isn’t answering his bloody phone.

The first part of my voicemail picks up my swearing before I hang up for the umpteenth time. Without any other avenues, it’s just the alcohol and me. And Ms Right Palm and her five friends, most likely, followed by passing out with my contacts still in my eyes and puking up scotch tomorrow morning.

The hammer whams me over the head again. The idea forms into a plan, maybe ridiculous, but the best plans always are.

It’s not like I have a choice. She
is
going to make me wait. I damn well know it.

All good things come to those who wait, right?

Screw that.

I want her now.

THUMP. THUMP.

“Four missed calls, you lazy cow,” Chloe—my brother’s girlfriend—shouts through my bedroom door.

"What? I’m sleeping," I mutter.

I hear my bedroom door crack open and then feel a clunk
on my bed. "Someone wants to get in touch with you, really badly."

I fumble around the bedcovers to find the phone. Four missed calls? I swipe my finger across the screen and see a familiar number on the display.

Steffen had called four times. Wow. Sunday is a slow-ish day at the gallery. What can he want that can’t wait until Tuesday?

"Looking Glass," Steffen greets on the other end of the line.

"Hey, it's me." I let out a long yawn.

"
Adelaide
." Steffen screams my name down the phone. "Okay, first of all, I've been calling you all morning, so I presume that since you're not awake and working on your next fabulous masterpiece, that you had a little too much last night and spent it with your head in the toilet, because there is no way you would purposely ignore my calls like that."

"Steffen, point. Please. It's early."

"Um, yeah, I know it's early." He’s so indignant that he’s acting even more queeny than usual. "I know this because I've been here since we opened this morning for the special exhibit. I was up for work probably at the same time that your pretty little head hit the pillow. And I wasn’t even the first person here."

"What? Who was there?" Sundays don’t pick up until the afternoon, when the tourists and browsers start drifting in.

"Tell me first, and don't lie to me, girl. I haven’t had enough coffee to deal with bullshit right now. Is he straight?"

I’m slightly more awake now. "Is who straight?"

"Oh, bollocks, that means he is straight. I had a teeny-tiny little piece of hope that with style like that, he’s playing for my team. I mean, that suit was custom, no doubt, and he was wearing Lobbs. I almost proposed marriage right there on the spot."

"Steffen, who are we talking about, please? It's early."

"You said that already, grumpy. And don't be salty with me. I want to know all about this unfortunately straight man with gay style and a body I will punch my own mother in the face for. He came in this morning and bought Victory."

I bolt upright, tossing Cheshire off my bed where he had been sleeping peacefully. "You're joking?"

"Would I do that to you this early? I'm telling you, this gorgeous, fabulously dressed, undoubtedly filthy-rich guy came in this morning practically right as I was opening the doors and asked to see Victory. So I showed it to him, checked out his arse, and five seconds later he said he would take it. I nearly passed out, right. The. Fuck. Out."

I slide out of my bed onto the floor, taking my duvet with me to join the rubble of art supplies and old clothing that surround my bed. Cheshire meows indignantly and leaps onto the windowsill, knocking over a glass full of drying brushes and a half-drunk bottle of stale Perrier. "Oh my God. You're kidding. Oh my God."

"I don't kid on Sundays. It’s against the Bible or something. I don't know, I've never read it. His name is. . . " There is a rustling sound as Steffen rummages through some papers "James Hatter. I have his information here. You have to contact him to negotiate a price. And perhaps you can negotiate him to play for the other team while you're at it so I'll have a shot."

Holy. Freaking. Hell.

The hair on the back of my neck rises and I swear I hear a marching-band beat in my heart.

"Okay . . .” I flush alternately hot and cold.

This is everything I’ve been waiting for.

Dreaming for.

Wait a second. . .

Did he buy Victory as an excuse to see me again? Or did he genuinely love my baby?

Either way, I have to find out.

"When should I do this?"

"I don't know. I've never sold anything of actual value before. Should I call the owner?"

"
No.
I mean"—I’m getting up now, reaching for clothing—"we have to talk about this. I'm coming over."

"Do you know how exciting this is?" Steffen squeals. "I finally get to stick a SOLD sign to something."

I arrive at Looking Glass an hour later, after a short celebration dance in the kitchen with Chloe. Steffen is waiting for me.

"I’ve an idea—Oh, and fabulous shoes, by the way. Suede?"

"Chloe's. I can't afford Choos yet. What's the idea?"

He sweeps a piece of yellow lined paper toward me. "While you were making yourself all pretty, I called Sexy McArtLover and told him you'd like to meet with him today to negotiate the sale."

"
What
?" A tourist couple examining a painting on the wall turn and stare.

"At eleven. Which is, oh, look, exactly thirty minutes from now. At The Coffee Hole."

I’m totally unprepared for this. In my carefully planned mental orchestration, there would have been days to prepare before I met with James, thus giving me ample time to talk things over with Chloe and mentally prepare. And more importantly, get down to the salon to get my eyebrows and lashes tinted.

God, Steffen.

I rip off my crocheted hat and run my fingers through my bed hair. "I can't do this. What do I do? What do I say? Do I look okay?"

Steffen shoots me a look that clearly indicates he thinks I’m an imbecile. "Okay, first, say hi, introduce yourself as the creator of the piece, and then ask him questions to see what kind of artistic tastes he has, negotiate the price of Victory, bat your eyes, start dropping sexual innuendos, and then try and sleep with him. You're beautiful, he'd be crazy not to. Then, continue to have hot, nasty sex with him, and have him buy you lots of things. Easy peasy. Babe, if I could, I'd do it for you."

My head smacks the counter. "This is crazy. I can't do this."

Not to mention that he has already had nasty sex with me.

Three freaking times.

And the first thing I did when I got home last night was to look up what the Sultry Saddle was and cursed that we never tried it.

Twenty minutes later, Steffen kicks me to the pavement and I slowly trudge toward The Coffee Hole, my chest aching with anxiety. I comb my hair and reapply lip-gloss, cursing my choice of clothing. Last night, I’d been a temptress in my armour of lace and silk and fake eyelashes. Today, in the daylight, I’m Adelaide Queen, break-arsed artist wearing: borrowed shoes; my Andy Warhol T-shirt; black tights; cut-offs, and a freaking beret. Ready to negotiate my livelihood looking like an Urban Outfitters catalogue that’s crossbred with an amateur theatre actor.

Why couldn’t I have spent the extra thirty seconds to change purses, preferably one not bright orange and fringy?

I take a deep breath before I open the door.

I can do this.

I have gotten on stage and performed wearing platforms. I have gotten free drinks and taxi fare by winking and smiling. I can make outrageous starting bids to a buyer who has come inside me in all kinds of kinky positions.

James is already there, sitting with his back to the door, a half-drunk cup of black tea in front of him. He is preoccupied with tapping away on a tablet.

I slink down a little and hurry to the counter, taking care to remain unseen. My friend behind the counter isn’t even bothering to hide her amusement. It’s my fault, really. I shouldn’t have phoned Jessica fifteen minutes ago, letting her know that my one-night stand had bought my painting and is now sitting in her coffee shop waiting for me.

"Double shot, please," I beg, my voice low. "I'm running on no fuel and I'm ready to puke with nerves. What do you think?"

“Of your one-night stand? You slag.”

“Shush, not so loud, Jessica.” I smile at the older woman sitting beside me who overhears my friend’s lack of discretion.

Jessica doesn’t stop grinning as she reaches behind her for a cup. "I think he's very polite, very generous—bloody hell, he threw a fifty pound note in the tip jar. Who does that? He drinks tea with no milk, so that means he is uncomplicated and honest."

She’s quiet for a moment as the espresso machine hisses and steams. "Also, just between you and me," she says, leaning in, "if I wasn’t happily married and sleeping with the hottest, sexiest guy with the tightest backside in the world, I might think that your new man is the second hottest, sexiest guy with the potentially second tightest backside in the world."

I stare at her. "Oh God. Have you been drinking already?"

She pushes a steaming cup toward me and acts like she doesn’t hear me. "Not counting your brother, of course. But I've seen his bum. Well, not just me, the whole neighbourhood, most of our friends, and the police, of course."

"I'm going to vomit. Put a sock in it, please."

"Alcohol is one helluva drug."

I groan. "How much should I ask for? Has he noticed me yet?"

Jessica cranes her neck, wiping her hands on her apron. "A million fat ones. And he noticed you just now. Get ready, slapper, he's coming this way."

I squeak and swivel round, splashing my hot coffee over my hand and on my T-shirt.

Cow.

James hasn’t moved at all from the table, and his attention is still locked on to his tablet. Jessica starts snickering.

"Not funny, you hag." I throw down my money, and before I can lose my nerve, approach the table.

James looks up and smiles that cocky smile. "Adelaide." He holds my gaze as he stands. He smells sinfully dreamy. Not cologne. Damp and freshly showered. He’s wearing black trousers, but his button-down shirt, freshly pressed, matches those brilliant irises. I suddenly have another instance of regretting wearing a white T-shirt with soup cans on it—and now thanks to Jessica, a coffee stain—with a baby-pink bra underneath, of course, because that is just the way my day is going.

“What won’t you do to spend time with me, James?”

“Nothing.” He pulls up his shirt cuffs, making them perfectly even, exposing his gold Rolex. “Except kissing another man. Yeah, I wouldn’t do that.”

I laugh. “But everything else is a go?”

“Anything you want, love.” The way his voice purrs quickens my heartbeat a little and my lips part, ever so slightly. He catches the slight movement and I forget myself, standing there like a gormless dimwit, not moving, just like I’d done when I first saw him in the lift.

He reaches over, pulling out a chair. I can’t remember anyone doing that for me, and I can practically feel Jessica's green eyes on us from across the room. I suddenly feel annoyed with myself for my awkwardness while he seems to be so debonair.

Bugger it.

“If you had done what I’d wanted in the first place—”

My brain finally shifts into the right gear. “I’d never do that with any man, James. Not even on their birthday.”

I smirk.

He smirks back.

“I wasn’t talking about that. But I’m glad to hear you can’t get every detail of our night out of your head.”

“Can’t have been that great if I left the next morning.”

“
Ouch
, Queen, that was low. What I was trying to say is—that if you gave me your number I would’ve phoned you as soon as you got into that lift to arrange a proper date. I’m just glad you didn’t stand me up today.”

"Screw that, thanks for buying my painting."

Utter. Twit.

What happened to shifting the gears back into my favour?

"Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I just"—I lift my cup—"haven’t had any coffee yet. And I had a long night. Well, you know that already, because, uh, you were there."

I watch as his eyes, steel blue and penetrating, flash with something dark. Sinful. "Yes," he replies, his voice low. "I was."

I return his gaze for a few seconds, wanting to stare at every part of his face at once. If I look into his eyes, I can’t stare at his lips, or his killer bone structure, or the curve of his jaw. Why should I only have to pick one?

“Here,” he says, sliding over a plate of chocolate cake across to me. “I know how much you love me watching you eat chocolate, what with the way it makes you feel.”

“James,” I reproach. “God, you’re insatiable.”

“In the best possible way, right?” he chuckles. “Anyway, I didn’t mean anything by it. Get your mind out of the gutter, Queen. This is a business meeting. You really should stop treating me like a piece of meat. I thought we’d talked about this.”

Before I respond, all of a sudden I realise there is something I haven’t noticed about him. Something different.

"You wear glasses?"

"Yeah. I'm near-sighted."

I reach over and slowly pluck them from the bridge of his gorgeous nose, hoping that I look cute enough to pull this off. If his shoes cost as much as Steffen says they do, the price of his glasses must cover a month of my rent. Grinning like a buffoon, I slide them onto my face. "How do I look?"

James smiles, at least I think he does. His glasses are distorting my vision. "I don't know. Can't see without my glasses, love."