The Billionaire Banker Page 10

  His mouth twists. Something cold creeps into his eyes.

  ‘We’d better go or we’ll be late.’

  Feeling the change she steps away from him. She does not understand. Hot and cold. Perhaps it is a game. But he will not beat her. She can survive three months. She thinks of her mother and says. ‘Yes, we don’t want to be late.’Fuck. He wants to kiss that mouth. He doesn’t want to go out. He wants to drag her by the hair to the bed and fuck her until she is so sore she is screaming for him to stop. The sick pull she has on him irritates and angers him.

  It is unnatural. He straightens and offers her the crook of his arm. His voice comes out hostile and clipped. ‘Shall we?’She bites her lip. Now he is angry with her. Nothing makes sense. Why is he angry with her? Confused, she threads her arm through his and they leave the apartment.

  He drives out of London to Bray. The Fat Duck is nestled in the middle of the English countryside. The women are wearing expensive clothes and the men are all in suits. She has never been anywhere so glamorous, but it is bitter sweet. She has lied to her mother. She is with this man as his whore. And all of this will come to an end in three months’ time. A young man with a French accent settles them into a waiting area and offers them delicate little bites of food and two glasses of champagne. The champagne is compliments of the house. Apparently Blake is well known at this establishment.

  ‘They are called amuse-bouches, mouth amusements,’

  Blake explains and watches as she nibbles on the tiny offerings. Mushroom and hazelnuts with basil oil and salmon mousse. ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had anything so delicious in all my life.’

  The sommelier comes to help select the wine that will perfectly complement the food they intend to have, but Blake knows exactly what he wants.

  ‘The 1996 Clos du Mesnil.’

  The sommelier seems pleased with Blake’s choice. The wine is brought and presented to Blake. When he nods, it is uncorked and a small amount is poured into a deep glass and given to Blake. He swirls it, sniffs it delicately, and pronounces it acceptable. A fifth of Lana’s glass is filled.

  She raises it to her lips and tastes it. What passed for wine until now seems abrasive mixtures of grape juice and vinegar. With complicated scents that tease her nose and a distinctively smooth taste that slides down her throat the wine is truly spectacular.

  Lana studies the menu with fascination. It is no wonder that this restaurant is so famous. It has a uniquely original menu. There is something called the mad hatter’s tea party with mock turtle soup, a pocket watch and toasted sandwich. Then there are snail porridge, crab biscuits and quail jelly, chicken served with vanilla mayonnaise, shaved fennel and red cabbage gazpacho with mustard ice cream, and something else she can’t recognize served with oak moss and truffle oil.

  Blake chooses roasted foie gras to start. Lana sighs inwardly. She is not eating force-fed goose liver.

  The waiter looks at her. ‘I won’t bother with a starter, thank you.’

  He orders the lamb with cucumber.

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ she murmurs.

  The waiter moves away, and he looks at her strangely.

  His eyes are pitying. ‘You can’t read, can you?’

  Her head tilts back. ‘Of course I can. I am a qualified secretary.’

  ‘What was I supposed to think? Jay told me you signed the contract without reading it and this is the second time you have ordered the same as me and you hardly touched your food the last time. Why?’

  She decides to be honest. ‘I don’t know which utensil to use to eat what.’

  He is so surprised, he leans back in his seat and regards her quietly. Not taking his eyes off her, he raises a hand slightly. Immediately, a waiter comes to his side. ‘The lady would like to see the menu again, please. And hold the earlier order.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  He returns with the menu. ‘Would you like a moment with it?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I know what I want. I’d like the mock turtle soup to start and the poached salmon.’

  When he is gone, Blake says, ‘With utensils always start with the ones that are furthest out from the plate and work your way in. I will help you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So what have you done today?’

  Well, I got taken off the books for er…inappropriate behavior so I went off in search of another temporary agency.’

  He frowns. ‘I don’t want you to work for the duration of our contract.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want you to be available to me day and night.

  I might want to have you at three in the morning or between meetings in the afternoon,’ he explains brutally, and Lana feels a sexual thrill clench at her lower belly.

  ‘It should be no problem for you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Don’t you live on an estate where nobody works and everybody just scrounges off the state?’

  She shakes her head in wonder. ‘Wow, that’s one sweeping generalization you’ve just made there!’

  ‘Why, is it not true?’

  ‘While I was a child growing up my teachers and the governmental offices where my mother had to go for her weekly handouts, in subtle and unsubtle ways, tried to force into me the opinion you have just expressed. That we were parasites. I always knew there was something inherently wrong about any train of thinking that could so conveniently dismissed all the unemployed and dependent as parasites. But we did seem to be living off others. Then one day I learned the true nature of the parasite and it changed my life.’

  He looks at her intently.

  She smiles. It does not reach her eyes. ‘I learned that a successful parasite is one that is not recognized by its host, one that can make its host work for it without appearing as a burden. As such it must be the ruling class in every capitalist society that is the real parasite.’

  ‘How is my kind a parasite to yours?’ he scoffs.

  She takes a sip of the wonderful wine that he has paid for. ‘How much tax did your family pay last year?’

  He leans back and regards her curiously. ‘We paid what was legally due.’

  Now it is her turn to scoff. ‘Let me guess. Almost nothing.’

  He shrugs. ‘There is nothing wrong with legitimate tax avoidance schemes. I don’t see how we are being parasitical, because we won’t let the government take what is hard won and rightfully ours, and pass it onto the bone lazy masses who don’t want to work and expect others to fund their lifestyles. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say the system in this country is mad. Girls have babies when they are teenagers so the government will set them up in a flat and pay them a stipend for the rest of their lives.

  Crazy.’

  She shakes her head slowly. ‘Do you really believe what you are saying?’

  ‘Of course. Do you think teenage girls getting pregnant to secure a home for life is right?’

  Their food arrives. It looks more like a work of art than food. Lana reaches for the spoon that is furthest away and Blake nods.

  Blake picks up his knife and fork. ‘I’m kind of waiting for your reply.’

  Lana sighs. ‘No, I don’t, but we are not talking about badly educated teenagers from troubled homes who think that is the best way out for them. The teenage pregnancies are a result of a system that has marginalized and refused a good education to the poorest sections of society. They are not parasites. They are desperate people who have been trained to think that is the best they can get out of life. But your lot….’

  ‘We actually keep the country going, creating jobs—’

  ‘Sure, in China and other Third World countries. Slave labor jobs. Besides, you’re a banker. You don’t create anything.’

  He shifts in his chair. ‘Hang on, let me get this right; my family is parasitical for not paying astronomical taxes, and your lot are not parasites even though you don’t work a day in your lives and live entirely
on government handouts.’

  ‘Have you ever thought that people can be poor by design. When a child is born on the estate, he is already doomed to repeat his father’s life. He will bear that same angry, helpless attitude of his father and never amount to much. In school he will be taught only to be a good worker. And if he has even a bone of rebellion in him he will refuse and become a scrounger. My mother was educated in a different country and she was from the middle class so she taught me middle class values. Work, earn money, pay your own way.’

  ‘So why do you work only part-time?’

  ‘I do that because my mother is often sick and I am her primary carer.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’

  ‘Cancer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She will make it.’

  He nods slowly. ‘Are you a Muslim?’

  Lana sits back and watches Blake while their plates are cleared away. The hard planes of his face have been softened.

  ‘No, my mother is a devout Christian. I am an agnostic.

  So far no God has impressed me as benign and truly interested in the welfare of humans.’

  ‘Main course,’ announces the waiter, and plates are lowered onto the table.

  Lana’s salmon is encased in a tiny square parcel made of liquorice gel, and looks almost too beautiful to eat. She lifts the fish knife and cuts it open. Inside, the fish is perfectly cooked. She slips a tiny morsel pass her lips, and is surprised by how delicate and silky it is on her tongue. ‘I have a very big favor to ask you.’ she says.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘It is very important to me.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  ‘You agreed without knowing what I am going to ask?’

  ‘When people say I need a very big favor it’s bound to be a small thing. It is when they ask for a small favor that I start worrying. So, what is it you want?’

  ‘My mother has invited you around to dinner. It’s just the once. You will have to pretend to be my boyfriend,’

  she says quickly.

  ‘What sort of thing will I have to do to convince her that I am your boyfriend?’

  ‘Just the usual. Hold hands, a quick kiss. Nothing too heavy.’

  He smiles. ‘I think I can manage that.’

  ‘Thank you. I owe you one. Maybe one day you will need a favor and I can do something to help.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ he says, and falls silent. But the silence is not uncomfortable and they finish their main meal without further conversation.

  He orders the macerated strawberries for dessert.

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ she says.

  He grins. ‘I thought you might go for the Like A Kid In A Sweetshop.

  ‘I nearly did,’ she says, ‘Do you know what’s in it?’

  ‘Just a selection, I guess. Want to change your mind?’

  ‘No.’

  The dessert is so delicious Lana wishes her mother is with her. After the handmade chocolates the bill arrives.

  It is over four and a half thousand pounds. Lana looks at Blake in shock. That is more than her mother spends on food for a whole year. It must be good to be so rich. He raises his eyes and returns her look. His eyes are sultry and slumberous. And suddenly he seems devastatingly, impossibly handsome, but so aloof and unreachable that it is almost as if she has her nose pressed against a glass window and is looking in at something she can never have.

  She feels like the match girl from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale. She has only a limited number of matchsticks that she must keep lighting to see the beautiful sight in front of her. When the matches run out she will die.

  Sixteen

  e opens the door of the apartment and waits for Hher to enter. She walks in and stands with her back to him, waiting. She hears the thick click of the door, then he is standing behind her. His breath is on her neck.

  ‘Mmmm… You smell so good,’ he whispers.

  She leans her head back and finds his chest. She hears the sound of a zip and her dress is pooling around her shoes. He unhooks her bra and frees her breasts.

  Suddenly, he has scooped her into his arms and is carrying her down the long corridor. There is something so caveman and primal about being carried to be ravished that she buries her head in his wide chest so he will not see how unbearably excited and flushed she is. She has been claimed. Now she will be possessed and owned. He kicks open the bedroom door and lays her down on the bed.

  Then he brings his mouth down on hers and kisses her ferociously. The feel and heat of his mouth is a shock to her system. Every coherent thought flees. From his mouth he is transferring hunger into her very cells. Every fiber of her being wants him inside her again. He takes his mouth away. She comes up heaving for air.

  His tongue moves across her collarbone and she whimpers. That small mewl of surrender sends him into overdrive. He has been with hundreds of women, some as beautiful, and others sexually more accomplished, but none of them has done this to him.

  He pushes his knee between her legs and forces them open. He licks the soft swell of her breast and circling his lips around one taut peak, sucks it softly. His large hand skims the soft flesh between her legs. The small bit of lace between them is no match for him. The sound of tearing is loud in her ears.

  Her eyes fly open. They are glazed, the pupils dilated.

  She registers his eyes as smoldering and intently watching, her face, her mouth, her reactions. His roving fingers encounter thick juices and they make him growl.

  She stares at him, not understanding it to be the guttural rumble of possession and ownership.

  She gasps, but does not look away when his fingers first one then two thrust into the wet crease. The thrusting is slow and languorous. Delicious. She raises her body to reach for his mouth. With a groan his hot hungry mouth swoops down to meet hers. As the kiss grows deeper she becomes lost in the foreign sensations inside her. The blood rushes through her veins. The action between her legs is picking up pace, becoming more urgent.

  Suddenly he takes his fingers out.

  ‘Don’t,’ she breathes. Her voice is ragged, an unfamiliar mess.

  She runs her fingers down his hard stomach towards the zip of his pants. Her hands are trembling, useless things. He pushes them away gently, and does the job himself.

  Naked he is magnificent. A god. Muscles rippling.

  He positions himself over her and very slowly sinks his hard flesh into her. He is stretching her, filling her, in a slow, hot movement of pain and shock and…strangely, pleasure…as her sex struggles to accommodate the unfamiliar invasion. His eyes, nearly black with passion, never leave her. Watching. Watching. The widening of her eyes, the way her lips part, the shudders that shake her body.

  It is sweet torture.

  She arches with satisfaction and moans. Her soft moan seems to incite him further and he increases the pace of his thrusts. He forces himself deeper and deeper inside her, filling her right to her core.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’ he asks.

  This deep? Yes. Of course it does. ‘No,’ she gasps.

  So he rocks inside her. Suddenly like a whip passion curls and races through her body, surprising her with its ferocity. It erupts in a strangled cry that surprises even him. He looks at her possessively, proudly, as if he has branded her. He is the owner of her lust. In his hands and mouth and body he holds her pleasure. He said he wanted to fuck her senseless and he does. His pace becomes punishingly hard and fast, but she loves the pounding.

  Something is billowing through her; it feels as though it could bring some kind of release. When it comes it is a riotous, glorious tidal wave that rips through her. She becomes one with him, one body, one mind, one soul. But he is still moving. Unfinished.

  Then her name tears past his lips. The tidal wave is upon him.

  She comes back slowly. The lethargy is luxurious. She remains spread-eagled in her ecstasy. He gathers her tired limbs gently and shuts them. She looks
up at him dreamily.

  He pulls a sheet over her naked skin, and then he leaves her. The door shuts with its thick click.

  Seventeen

  y the time Lana arrives at the Black Dog, it is heaving Bwith lunchtime trade and Jack is already sitting at a table by a window nursing a pint. As always, the sight of him makes her feel safe. She longs to run into his arms, he’s been fighting her battles for her for as long as she can remember, but this time he can’t help.

  She makes her way through the crowd, many of whom she knows, towards him. His straight brown hair is still wet and has been slicked back carelessly. He looks so dear and yet so far away from her. He has always been a deeply mysterious person. Hardly anyone really knows him.

  He looks up and sees her. He has the pained blue eyes of a tortured artist. He should have been one. He stands slowly, and, unsmiling, opens his arms to her. With a sigh, she goes into that place where she has felt safest since she was a child. She breathes in the familiar smell of his soap, so clean, so honest. When she pulls away, he looks at her carefully.

  ‘Your hair…’

  Lana smiles. ‘Yeah, it’ll grow back.’

  ‘No, it’s good like that. You all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘Take a pew and I’ll get you a drink. What d’you want?’

  ‘Orange juice.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘And?’

  She dimples at him. ‘Vodka.’

  He nods and makes his way to the bar. She watches him. He is tall and broad-shouldered and Julia is watching him eagerly. For as long as Lana can remember Julia has lusted after Jack. And now that he is studying medicine, her desire for him has grown to unmanageable proportions. Julia catches Lana’s eye and waves. Lana smiles and waves back. Immediately, Julia begins to make her way towards Lana. Lana sighs inwardly. Now she will have to make small talk. Besides, she is only coming to talk to Lana because Jack is here.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. She is dressed from head to toe in shades of pink.

  ‘Hey,’ Lana replies.

  ‘So Jack’s down?’ She lays a palm down on the table and drums her fluorescent-pink, plastic nails on it.