Disgrace (3 page)

“Sorry, Ms Bonfleur, but I need a forwarding address. I can’t use the PO Box I’m afraid, but perhaps I could send it to your office,” he stutters.

“My office?” I hold back a smile.

“I noticed you had passed the bar. I assumed you were practising law somewhere?” He is checking his notes again, and I let out a light laugh.

“You have been busy.” I turn to face him, drawing up to my full five foot ten height, six foot in my heels. His cheeks pink and he drags a finger across his shirt collar. He has the decency to look a little sheepish.

“You took some finding.” He shrugs and I bite my lip. He obviously didn’t look hard enough or he wouldn’t be asking this question. Or maybe he did.

“I qualified but I don’t practice, Mr Brown.” I raise my brow and fix him with a glare to see if he withers…To see if he is hiding my secrets and trying to play me but he doesn’t flinch. Satisfied he knows no more than he has alluded to already, I hand him my card, my smile widening with the stretch of his upturned brow. “Send whatever you need here. This is where I work.”

“What do you do?” He flips the black card over. There is nothing on the back and just my signature on the front and the club address.

“I’m a whore.” I smile sweetly at his sudden dropped jaw.

It’s not until the houses start to crowd together, vying for prime location space that I start to relax. The endless expanse of lush green fields diminish to tiny pockets of manufactured parks and protected communal areas as the train speeds closer into the heart of the city, toward my home. My
real
home. Leon was right. I didn’t have to be there in person to sort the sale. Documents could easily be signed and witnessed elsewhere but something made me want to remember. No, not something…
someone
. Jason Sinclair.

Despite what
I
call myself, I don’t fuck for money. I fuck because I want to fuck, and I wanted to fuck Jason…very much. A hook-up with a hot guy at Bethany and Daniel’s wedding. That was
all
it was supposed to be. I knew his reputation for absolute dominance. He’s a silent partner in the club I work for, for Chrissakes, but I felt safe to cross the line in a civilian setting. I could blame the whole ‘weddings make people crazy’ notion but… well, I might’ve mentioned Jason Sinclair is fucking hot! Taller than me by several inches but eye level when I’m sporting my six-inch killer heels, broad, built shoulders that narrow to perfection in his immaculate three piece navy suit. Light brown hair with natural flecks of gold that just beg to be gripped and tousled. But his eyes, oh God, his eyes. As if the rich honey with the same golden highlights hypnotically swirling wouldn’t captivate a mere mortal. The intensity with which he wields his most potent weapon, well I was a fool to think hooking up was anything but his decision.

A one-time thing, I could handle a one-time thing. It is all I have ever done since leaving home. Not so many as to warrant my moniker but always just a one-time thing. I can feel the hairs on my neck dance as a delicious chill sweeps my body when I recall the moment when he put his strong palm around my neck and squeezed a little too tight. I came so hard I couldn’t breathe. I wanted it…I wanted more, but more shocking still, I realised I wanted him, and that thought terrified me.

That is why I didn’t return his calls and that is why I came today. I needed to remind myself why I won’t let another man control me…ever.

Today

“Y
ou know I can’t eat any of those.” Leon stretches his over-sized frame on my couch. The muscles in his torso flex and contract with the effort he is putting into his waking yawn. His hand automatically dipping into his lounge pants…checking. I snicker. He lifts his head to see me peering over hob on the kitchen bar.

“Is it still there? I raise a brow and point my palette knife directly at his crotch. His hand unashamedly massaging himself. He winks but doesn’t remove his hand.

“You know it.” He lets out a satisfied sigh. “But I am worried the little fella might not be working properly, and as my best friend, I feel it is your duty to help me out.” It never gets old. Almost ten years of trying to get in my pants, and he is as fresh as the day he found me in that club. Saving me from making the biggest mistake of my life.

I left home on my eighteenth birthday, took the train to London and checked into a hotel. I was on a mission. A new life, with no rules, no boundaries and no limits. After all, I was a whore. I may as well live up to the name. I had no family and no friends thanks to my strict upbringing, but I was determined to change all that. I found myself in a sleazy nightclub slowly getting drunk with the nastiest guy I could find. Shaved head, thick neck with bulging muscles so large they distorted the ink on his skin to unrecognisable markings. I don’t remember his name, but I do remember the second he was called away an arm swept around my waist, the briefest of conversations, and the next moment, my feet barely touched the ground as I was whisked away from the danger zone and out of the club. I remember at the time I didn’t feel scared. I should’ve been scared, but I was either numb or stupid; Leon told me I was stupid. The guy at the bar I later found out was Eastern European mob, had just slipped something in my drink and was just checking if the van out the back could take one more. I pinch myself every day at my lucky escape thanks to my Knight in Giorgio Armani.

“But not today.” The stock response I fire at him with a smile and a kiss. He rolls himself up to a sitting position and drags his hand through his shoulder length glossy dark hair. “Today, I am making Danish pancakes…
a lot
of Danish pancakes so you have to eat them.” I flip the tiny delicate circles in the pan and whisk some more mixture for my next batch. It’s a ready mix packet that all I have to do is add milk and even then, with my innate skill in the kitchen there is no guarantee they will be edible.

“I’m leaving for my flight in an hour, and I don’t want the plane to have trouble taking off because I have a shit tonne of your ‘coping strategy’ setting like concrete in my gut.” He slaps his toned, flat stomach with a loud tummy clenching sound. “What’s got you in such a state anyway?” He saunters over to the kitchen completely at ease with his near-naked appearance. Sliding onto the high stool, he picks up a handful of the pancakes and slowly munches them despite his protestations. He closes his eyes and moans, an overly sexual sound, savouring his enjoyment. I roll my eyes and throw the oven gloves I’m holding at his bare chest. He catches them and holds them hostage in his lap.

“Behave.” I warn, and he hands them back looking a little sheepish.

“Sorry, Sam…I can’t help myself sometimes.” He grins.

“Try harder. You’re living here now, and I don’t need—”

“Actually, from what I can see, that is exactly what you need…unless you are really trying to give Mary Berry a run for her money?” He takes another two pancakes. I turn the heat off and start to tidy away. “Come on Sam talk to me, baby girl. I won’t leave until you do. Then I’ll miss my flight. Then my mum will be mad at you because I will blame you, and she is mean when she’s mad.”

“Your mum doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, Leon. It’s why you are the way you are…adorable.” I scruff his shaggy hair, but he growls and straightens out of my reach.

“So what’s your excuse?”

I know he’s joking but it still stings. I hate that I didn’t just appear from thin air, anything would be preferable than a connection to a woman more concerned with social status and reputation than whether her daughter lived or died.

“Skipped a generation. You should’ve met my grandfather.” I smile softly and he takes a moment to pull me into a hug. Tight, secure and filled with love. He kisses my head and whispers.

“Yeah, I would’ve liked that.” Leon lifts me back onto the stool. “So?” His head tips to the mountain of carbohydrates I have diligently crafted into little Danish treats. Enough to feed an army.

“Jason.” I exhale, and he waits for me to continue. “I had a cryptic and very personal message on my voicemail this morning. It’s kind of shaken me up a bit. I mean, I know I see him around the club. It’s not like I’ve avoided him since the wedding. I really couldn’t, but he hasn’t tried to make contact in over a year. Why would he pick now?” I nibble distractedly at the tip of my fingernail. Not really biting, they are acrylic, and I would probably lose a tooth before the nail gave way.

“Ah, well that might have something to do with me.” His finger starts to draw nervous patterns in the sugar that is covering the marble top.

“Leon…what did you do?” I try to keep my voice level but I can feel my heart begin to race.

“Nothing…nothing bad.” He briskly rubs his hands clean and rubs them on his pants. He then places them on my thighs and leans forward with his most sincere expression. His dark, dark eyes crinkle with concern and warmth. “I saw
your
Jason—” I scoff an interruption, but he’s not put off and repeats, “I saw
your
Jason last night at a party. We got to chatting. He’s actually a really nice guy…anyway I may have let it slip that I am not…in fact…your boyfriend.” My bones cease to function and I collapse into myself letting out a frustrated groan.

“Oh, gahhhhhhd.” I start to rub the instant pressure in my brow. Flour falls from my fingertips down my face, settling on my lips, under my nose, and I sneeze, sending a plume of flour from the kitchen surface into a billowing cloud that completely hides a very sorry looking Leon. Good, he should be sorry. He has just made my life so much more complicated. The powder settles, and I change my mind. He doesn’t look sorry at all, he looks self-satisfied and smug. I could kill him right now. I have the tools, but he smiles and shrugs and I remind myself once more that he saved me.

With Leon out of town until the New Year, Christmas Eve is eerily quiet, too quiet. As much I would like to continue to ignore Jason—actually a huge part of me wants to hide completely—I won’t. That is not my style. I don’t hide. I meet head-on.

I pull the belt at my waist tight enough to pinch in an attempt to block the icy wind from reaching my scantily clad body. The thick cashmere full-length coat is doing an admirable job against the subzero Christmas weather. Even so, the short distance from the cab to the club door is enough to have my teeth clicking together, the sound drowned only by my heels on the steps to the basement destination. I swipe my card and wait. The new owners installed state of the art security. The front door won’t open unless they know exactly who is outside. Not just a visual through a peep hole, but name, date of birth, blood type, and most importantly, bank details. Despite this intrusive level of information exchange, members hand it over without question. This is
the
exclusive club in London for the
scene,
with a wait list so long, if you don’t have a personal recommendation would-be members would probably die by the time a space opened up.

The door opens and a giant beast of a man steps aside to let me in. He is the most intimating man I know. I offer my brightest smile even though I know Gus’ stony façade will not crack.