The Parlour (VDB #1) (23 page)

“You wish it stopped, Sir?”

“Monitored. He is wonderfully sadistic, but she is untrained, Kitten. Offer yourself should he become too exuberant.”

“Of course, Sir,” she said excitedly, zipping her leather cat-suit open a little more and making herself more than obvious in front of the window. “Sir?” she said as he turned and began to leave.

“Yes, Kitten?”

“Am I to be sold soon? You seem displeased with me,” she asked, a frown on her face as she searched his face for the home she begged from him. Displeased? No. Simply dulled of enthusiasm for her use. She had given everything she had to give, and was, therefore, of little interest, unlike Lilah James who continued to give him nothing at all. Where was she?

“Yes, my dear. I have a highly respected Dom in mind who will be a good pairing for you. You are not to be sold, though. You are a gift in return for his help in matters of business. I would not profit from you. You have been a loyal and decent pet.”

“Of course, Sir,” she repeated as her face crumbled. Silly child. She should have distanced her mind long ago. She had been warned to about forming such attachments and what the results would be to her soul, certainly where he was concerned.

He turned and walked away again with little other thought on the matter. He had slaves to prepare, and obligations to fulfil for the last time, which was a point… Jon Insbrucker had not returned his email. He quickly sent another one saying he would be there at the correct time with the slaves, and then remembered he needed to respond to Thomas, too.

He made his way to the waiting car and phoned the degenerate as it pulled away.

“Oom?” His skin shrivelled at the term in Dutch. Uncle was bad enough, only highlighting his age, but in Dutch it sounded like a grandparent rocking by the fire in slippers.

“Mmm… What hole of disrepute have you found yourself in this time, Thomas? Hmm? What is it that you need from me? And in English, you need the practise.”

“Oom, it wasn’t my fault.” Nothing was ever his fault, it seemed. “I don’t know how it happened but he was begging and then the car just swerved off the road.” He rolled his eyes at the thought of yet another car destroyed by the boy.

“And why, pray tell, do I need to assist you in this?”

“You know Moeder will call me home if she finds out. I cannot go back there, Oom. I can’t be what they want me to be. They want me to marry Esmeralda Danube. I’m gay, Oom. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tell them that. I can’t do it. They want me to have children for them. Vader insists, and I…”

Pascal cringed at the thought as he put the phone on loudspeaker and imagined his dearest sister and her husband, the pair of them utterly opposed to anything remotely out of the norm. He poured another large Cognac and listened to the boy rambling on about how awful his life had become, and why he couldn’t possibly return to their moronic homeland and pretend to be something he wasn’t. He raised his own brow at that sentence as it popped out. It rang very true indeed. “And why should I marry someone I’m not in love with? I would have married Gregor but they wouldn’t accept that as normal, would they? Oh no. Homophobic fucking–”

“Thomas, control your language. That is your mother and father you are swearing about,” he snapped. Though the sentiment was indeed true. He couldn’t abide their intolerance either.

“Sorry, Oom. But don’t ask me to repent. You know I can’t, just as you can’t. Please, Oom. Help me solve this so I don’t have to go. Berlin is my home now. I have friends here, and–”

“You have no friends there, Thomas. You have children that constantly ride your pleasure and aid you in shoving cocaine into varying crevices. I have dug you out of too many holes already. You are becoming tiresome. Why do you persist in causing trouble?”

“Oom, alstblieft.”

“No, you should return and do as your father asks. It will be the best possible outcome.”

“Alstblieft,”

Of all the people in the world, only two or three seemed to pull a sense of decency out of him when the word ‘please’ was used. Thomas was the only one who ever managed it in Dutch. He blew out a breath and gazed out at the road as he pondered the idea of bringing the boy over here and away from the European circuit. It was less dangerous here, or at least it was when he was in residence. Also, it would mean he could keep the lid on the information a little more tightly locked down. Europe was a network of whisperings and gossip. He was barely able to contain the constant problems Thomas got himself into.

“Oom, are you still there?”

“I am thinking, Thomas,” he snapped. Fucking children. There was finally a silence to allow his mind to formulate a plan. He rubbed at his brow and fiddled with the end of his cane, which immediately brought on visions of the morally correct thing to do. He would make his rose pay for that by ramming the fucking thing into her teeth again at some point.

“Please, uncle, don’t make me go back there. Please, please.” His very last nerve shredded with three pleases in one sentence. He spun the bat around in his fingers and sighed out a breath.

“Get some clothes packed and book yourself on the next flight to New York.”

“New York? But why would I–”

“Simply do as you are told, Thomas. We need to have a discussion, and I cannot do that across six thousand kilometres. Call me when you land.”

He ended the call and gently pocketed his phone.

Elizabeth Scott had a lot to answer for.

Good God, 11 am?

I’m dragging my weary self out of bed before I know what I’m doing. Where am I? Oh, yes, still in one of Alexander White’s apartments trying to save Pascal’s fortune from Roxanne. I’ve been here for four days now, digging into information, filing, organizing, and preparing for a possible shit storm of a divorce. There’s far too much money involved for this to be anything like easy.

Gazing out of the window, I find myself transfixed on the view of the park. The trees are heavy laden with snow and a thick frost hovers over the lake. It really is a very nice view, although my old longing to run seems to be returning for some reason. I could start running again, I suppose. Whether I did it because I enjoyed it or not isn’t the point. It did give me a chance to clear my head every now and then, a chance to find a way through everyday issues and clarify their meanings. I should start running again. If nothing else, I finally have the energy to try now that I’m not eating out of garbage cans and backhanders from the occasional friendly restaurant anymore.

It’s still unbelievable to me that I’m standing in this apartment looking out at this view. It’s only a few weeks ago, a month at most, that I was roaming the streets thinking about how the hell I was going to make it through the next day, and now, here I am, wearing expensive clothes with a bundle of cash larger than I’ve ever laid my hands on waiting in the safe.

I snort out at the image and wander through to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle as I head back to the bedroom to slide into something comfortable. There’s nothing comfortable in the bag of clothes I have. Everything is still tight, cropped, short, and apparently sexy. Apart from the skinny jeans and cashmere jumper that I wore in the park, and have been wearing since, there’s nothing. All I really want is to slip into my old comfy jeans and t-shirt while I do this research, but they are both still in my rucksack at Roxanne’s.

My ache for them, after four days being holed up in this apartment, is unbearable as I continue to look at the array of price tags on display. While I do love dressing up, this isn’t what I dress up in, and at the moment, no matter how much safer I might be, I just want something that reminds me who I am. In the middle of all these apartments, people, devious jobs and possible Mafia connections, I just want something to cling onto that will keep me grounded. If I’m going to do my job properly and find a way to impress Mr. White, hopefully gaining a home and a job, I need my things. I need to be Lilah James. I need to let go of Counts and people with too much money, and just submerge my brain in legal documents. That’s it.

I need my bag.

I yank on the jeans and jumper, quickly brush my teeth, and then head back to the office so that I can get some money. Staring into the bag, I once again realise how much wealth I’m dealing with. As if reading Pascal’s file wasn’t bad enough for indicating how much this divorce will be worth, I can’t help but think that these bundles of money were probably just casually lying about Mr. White’s person. As if he carries this type of money around with him all the time, which reminds me to have another look into him later. He must have a legitimate front of some sort. Maybe he actually is reasonably legit. Although, the note flies back into my mind instantly. He’d kill me with his bare hands if I tried to cross him, and enjoy hearing my screams. I don’t doubt it at all.

Grabbing about one hundred dollars, I head back through to the kitchen and quickly slurp down some coffee before setting out to Roxanne’s. I want my stuff. Besides, my passport is in there, and with this cash and my passport, if nothing else, I could actually make a run for it if need be. Maybe I should buy an open ticket back to the UK now so that, no matter what happens, all I’ll need to do is get to the airport, and then I’ll be safe.

The air is as cold as it looks when I hit the outside and shrug into my wool coat. Whatever Emmanuelle might be, she did find me a good selection of clothes for walking at least. Pulling down my bobble hat, I watch my breath fogging the air as I tentatively make my way up the ice-laden sidewalk in the direction of The Parlour. I suppose I could have gotten a cab, but even though it’s cold, it’s far too pretty not to walk for at least a bit. The cars meander past slowly while I’m being as careful as possible not to skid all over the place and crash into something. I quickly remember what part of town I’m in as a few ladies walk towards me with perfect hair and impeccable smiles. They are dressed, of course, in the biggest fashion labels and impeccably turned out, still managing to walk in high heels in spite of the ice underfoot. My own black boots have no heel at all, thankfully, just an odd lacing all the way up the back that seems to offer a nod at the kinky world I’ve somehow found myself in. It seems Emanuelle thinks about kink permanently. Mind you, given her position in Pascal’s household, I’m not surprised. She must be a permanent fixture in his world, although he didn’t seem particularly affected by her presence. Only in so much as she did as she was told, immediately.  Why do they do that for him? Or anyone? I seriously don’t understand the need. Of course, he’s extraordinarily handsome, and he’s obviously a fiend in terms of sexual abilities – abilities I’m still pining for hopelessly – but why kneel for someone? He explained it all wonderfully, gave me every detail I required to understand the mechanics of this bizarre world, but I didn’t feel it. When I watched Emmanuelle, I knew she did because I could see it in her every move. She surrenders completely for him, and he’s right, she does it because she chooses to, not because he forces it or demands it of her. Well, maybe he does demand it in a way, but she doesn’t have to comply. Both he and Roxanne make it perfectly clear where the door is should anyone wish to leave. So why don’t they? I understand if they’re all in my position, needing the money, but there are lots and lots of people there, and they’re all bowing to him. What has he done to deserve the respect of these people? Short of making a lot of money. Do they all know he’s a count? Or was?

What makes a Dominant, dominant? Truly Dominant. Mr. White delivers fear. It’s obvious to anyone who is near him. One can almost feel the tension radiating off him, as if he might explode at any given second and drag you into an abyss of torture. But it’s different with Pascal. He, too, has an element of fear surrounding him, like he is someone to be wary of, but he’s more mysterious than that. He comes across as though he’s constantly thinking, working out a manoeuvre, or maybe a new game in his mind. He is more of a rogue gentleman, maybe. Is it that people are nervous of? Is it nerves that make people respect a Dominant? Do they bow and scrape out of simply not knowing what’s coming next? If so, that’s not my idea of a relaxing relationship. But then I don’t suppose it’s a relationship at all. It’s not like he loves anyone but Alexander White, and maybe Elizabeth in some way.

I find myself imagining his eyes more and more as I continue to wander. The park on my right reminds me of him with every step I take.
Peace lingering in timeless seconds
. Those words still ring in my ears, like some kind of lover’s call. They keep pulling me back to his frame, his mind, his wit. Is that normal for him? He told me I gave him something no one else did, that my lips on his were unusual. And God, what a kiss. I could linger in those blissful seconds for an eternity.

Stop it, Lilah
.

I shake my head of him and look up to see where I am, because lovely as the man may be, I have to accept he’s not going to be a permanent fixture in my world, nor should I want him to be. I just need to get this job done for Mr. White and then hopefully I can get my head down and start a new life. Preferably without this odd setup of Dominants and submissives involved.

It suddenly occurs to me that I have no clue what I’m going to say to Roxanne if I see her. As far as she’s concerned, I’m still at Eden being trained. If she sees me, she’s probably going to assume I’m back for good. Oh God, I haven’t thought this through. My feet skid to a stop as I try to formulate a plan. I could call Mr. White, I suppose. He’d know what to do, I’m sure, but I have no real reason for going back there other than to get my bag. He probably wouldn’t be too happy about me risking his undercover operation just so I could get a photo of my dad, a tatty old bag and a passport. And there are fucking cameras there, so it’s not even like I can sneak in.

Bollocks.

I swing my eyes around in the hope of finding a solution to my problems, though I’m not sure what I’m expecting the streets of New York to have to offer. Maybe if I said I needed something important, like an inhaler, something medical, but presumably they already know whether I need anything medical. Stupid Lilah. I am free to leave, though. She told me that, repeatedly. Perhaps I should just go in there and tell her I’ve had enough, that Pascal scared me off and I’d rather chance my luck on the streets again. She’d believe that surely, given her chant to me about behaving in his presence or else. Perfect. And if I really need to get back in there to dig around, as Elizabeth says, I could always go and grovel. She does seem to really want me for some odd reason. Good. Sorted. I can do this. And since I’m not returning to Pascal’s either, even if she tells him it won’t matter, because, given his feelings for her and his deceitful nature, he wouldn’t tell her the truth anyway. Does he even know where I am, or what I’m doing? Mr. White told me to leave my feelings for him out of this. Does that mean I have to shut myself off from him, too? What if he comes looking for me? Although why would he? I don’t mean anything to him other than as someone he can train to make him money.

Christ, I wish I could stop thinking about him and confusing myself.

Just do the job.

The rest of the journey seems to take no time at all, as I continue to trudge through the snow. Parents and children litter the streets, throwing snowballs and dodging the occasional flurry that descends from the sky. While everyone holds a cup of coffee to try and heat up their frozen limbs, I snuggle into my coat for the last two or three blocks and watch a line of yellow cabs coming towards me. They open their doors one by one as business suits get out. However I may have felt for my old job and the people in it, I find myself desperate to be back in that world. I want them to see what I can achieve when I set my mind to it. I want to show the people who dismissed me that I’m bloody good at what I do, that they were stupid to let me go, that Lilah James is a force to be reckoned with. I could do with using that look Mr. White uses when he stares through me. Cold, bitter sneers of disgust with a slight hint of amused superiority. That’s how one gets noticed in this world. Power.

Just as I’m about I turn past the Rockefeller Plaza, a limo pulls up in front. A chap in uniform gets out and goes to open the back door. I snort at the image of wealth. Whoever it is doesn’t even have to open their own door. They just laze around, probably doing fuck all with their life, while their servants flit around doing their bidding. Yet another thing I don’t understand about power and this bowing and scraping malarkey.

A pair of black, highly polished shoes get out, followed by an immaculate grey pinstripe suit. I follow the lines up until I find myself staring at none other than Mr. White himself. There’s not a hint of Dominant on display. Here, he is just a businessman, checking his watch and nodding at his driver. He’s wearing a smile today and seems happy. Gone is the monster, the potential killer. He just seems relaxed in his business attire. I stare in fascination as he leans back into the car, and then I notice a hand being kissed, Elizabeth’s presumably. Well, I hope so, although what they get up to has nothing to do with me at all. Christ, there might be eight of them in a bed for all I know of this world.

The driver closes the door and I watch Mr. White stride purposefully towards the building, checking his watch anxiously, which makes me smile a little. Him being anxious of anything seems so unlikely. He suddenly halts and spins his head around, searching the street for something and frowning. Perhaps he’s forgotten something.

His scowl deepens as if something has irritated him, and then his eyes land on me. I feel myself trying to shrink into the floor at his angry gaze. Should I be watching him? Probably not. His brow quirks a little, and the corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly as, even from this distance, I feel blue eyes drilling into me. I find myself waving my fingers at him stupidly in a gesture of politeness.

How fucking dense am I? I’m positive he has no time for finger wiggling. I instantly snort out a laugh at the thought of his finger wiggling. Not something I’m in a hurry to find out about really. Thankfully, rather than giving me a reprimand for my stupidity, he simply stares until his smile broadens a little more, and then he winks.
Winks
. That man is all sorts of trouble. The blush that flies across my face is maddening as I lower my eyes to anything but his smirk.

When I eventually dare to look up again, he’s gone. There’s no one there anymore but other random people milling around, and strikes me forcibly how easily he had me looking at the floor with no conversation at all. Nothing. He didn’t demand it, nor force me to it. I just did it, perhaps out of mortification, and maybe a little fear, too, but mainly it was because of an inbuilt respect I didn’t know I had. Something in his eyes just drives me to the floor. Something seems to defer to him without him having to even speak. It’s not even nerves. Nothing was about to happen. He was actually smiling at me. With other men, it would have provoked a smile in return, or a wanton gaze maybe, but this looking at the floor thing is quite unusual indeed. It makes me wonder if he’d be a better tutor than Pascal in some ways, as I don’t appear to have any feelings attached to him. I snort out another giggle to myself and keep trudging on to Roxanne’s, hoping to Christ that this is the right move to make.