The Billionaire Banker Read online

  ‘No,’ Blake says easily.

  Her mother turns to her. ‘What about you, Lana?’

  Lana looks her mother in the eye. ‘Absolutely not.’

  They sit in the back of the Bentley with Peter driving.

  ‘How is it you know so much about Persian history?’

  ‘It was part of our school curriculum.’

  ‘I don’t remember learning anything like that in school.’

  ‘That is because you were right in what you said yesterday. My education has been designed to make me a leader, and yours to turn you into an obedient worker. It is how a capitalist system works. No country can be successful without its workers.’

  ‘Is it right?’

  Blake turns away from her and stares out of the window.

  For a while neither speak, then Blake turns towards her.

  ‘You needed the money for her, didn’t you?’

  ‘To send her to America for treatment. She leaves tomorrow.’

  ‘Where is she going?’

  ‘The Burzynsky Research Center.’

  ‘I have heard of Dr. Burzynsky. The FDA have taken him to court a few times and not been able to indict him.

  A good sign for your mother.’ In the dark his eyes stare at her with an expression she cannot comprehend.

  When they reach the apartment, Blake drops the key onto the side table. ‘Want a nightcap?’

  ‘OK.’

  They go into the living room with its low lights. ‘What will you have?’

  ‘Baileys.’

  She goes to the long sofa and watches him pour her drink, drop some ice cubes into it, and then pour himself a finger of Scotch. He holds her drink out to her. She takes it and he eases himself beside her.

  ‘Would you like to go shopping with Fleur again tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’

  He turns to look at her. ‘Why not?’

  She shrugs. ‘I’ve still got things I haven’t worn yet.

  Besides, I’d like to spend some time with my mum before she leaves in the evening.’

  He nods. ‘What kind of cancer?’

  ‘It is in her lungs, liver, femur bone and pelvis.’

  There is a flash of something in his eyes. He does not believe her mother will make it. He drops his eyes to his drink. He takes a sip, puts it down on the glass table.

  ‘Come here,’ he says.

  She scoots closer, but he lifts her bodily by the waist while she squeals, and puts her so she is sitting astride him.

  Her pussy comes in contact with the bulge in his trousers.

  She stops laughing. She can feel herself becoming wet. She bends forward and runs her tongue along his ear. When she reaches his earlobe she takes it between her teeth.

  ‘Hey,’ he says and pulls her away from him.

  She looks at him surprised.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ he asks.

  ‘My best friend Billie taught me the technique, but I probably did it wrong. Did I bite too hard or something?’

  ‘Or something.’ He rubs her plump lower lip absently.

  ‘I can’t believe an innocent like you still exists,’ he says.

  Then he lifts his eyes to hers. ‘Here, let me show you a much more useful technique,’ and that night he unzips his trousers and teaches her how to take his silky cock entwined by its two angry green veins and pleasure him with her mouth.

  She awakens in the dark and knows immediately that she is not alone. For the first time, he has stayed the night with her. She feels the heat from his body and hears his deep, even breathing. Carefully, she eases her body away from his and as silently as possible gropes across the surface of her bedside table. She finds the remote control and switches on the bathroom light.

  Light filters through and dimly illuminates his face. She turns her head and for a long time simply watches him asleep on his side, facing her. The lines that hold his face so tightly during the day are relaxed and soft. Like this, he is heartbreakingly beautiful. She has an irrational desire to run her index finger along his stubby eyelashes. She doesn’t. Instead, she slips out of bed and slipping on a large T-shirt, heads towards the light.

  She closes the door behind her, uses the toilet and waits for its quiet whirling to end before she opens the door.

  Her trip to her side of the bed is interrupted by the sight of his wallet lying on his bedside. She stops and looks at it.

  Once, when she was very young, she opened her father’s wallet to look inside and was saddened by what she found inside. Two five pound notes, the coin purse bulging with small change, a petrol receipt, and no photographs of either her mother or her.

  She had taken it to her nose and sniffed it. Many years after he left them, she would come across other men’s wallets and wonder what they kept inside theirs. She finds herself moving towards Blake’s wallet. As her fingers connect with the expensive hide, a steely hand clamps down on hers. She gasps with shock and lands on the bed beside him, her startled eyes flying to his face. His are alert and watching.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says lamely. Her face is flaming.

  ‘Ask if you need money.’ His voice is cold and distant.

  Suddenly, it occurs to her what it must look like to him.

  She shakes her head in horror. ‘I wasn’t trying to steal your money. I just wanted to see what was in it.’

  For a moment he looks at her curiously, the way a dog will tilt its head when it is trying to figure out what you are trying to communicate to it. Then he takes the wallet and tosses it into her lap. ‘So look.’

  His eyes move to her mouth as her teeth worry at her lower lip. ‘What? With you watching?’

  His eyebrows rise. ‘Would that spoil the…er…

  experience?’

  She swallows, sits up and opens the wallet. It is slimmer than her father’s, the leather wonderfully soft. And it smells new. There are no photographs behind the plastic of his wallet either, only the deep red card that it came with. She runs her thumb along the stitching and down the credit card sleeves. There are only five credit cards in it, none of them from high street banks. One seems to be from Coutts, another is an American Express Black, and the other three she does not recognize. There is a wad of fifty-pound notes that have the look and feel of freshly-minted money. No small change at all in the purse section.

  She closes it and returns it to the bedside.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Do you know that you’re one strange girl?’

  She looks down at her bare feet, wriggles her toes.

  ‘Have you never wanted to look in a woman’s handbag?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He rubs his chin. ‘Can’t say the contents of a woman’s handbag have ever held any interest for me. I was always more interested in the contents of their clothes.’

  With a sigh, she gets up to return to her side.

  ‘Like now,’ he says softly

  She looks down on him, a half smile on her face, then pulls her T-shirt over her head and discards it on the floor.

  His eyes begin to glitter, and instantly her body responds and yearns for him. The tug of anticipation is strong, but she doesn’t go to him. She stands very still as the juices accumulate between her thighs.

  ‘Come here,’ he says finally, his voice at once husky and slumberous, and it is a relief to have that man’s strong hands grasp her by her upper arms and press her into the mattress.

  Twenty

  ana wakes up early. She presses the remote button Lfor the curtains and they sweep open, revealing a beautiful day. The sun is already shining brightly. She dresses quickly in a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt and heads for the coffee machine. After several tries she walks to the phone and calls the desk downstairs.

  Mr. Nair answers. He immediately tells her he will be around to show her how to use it. Mr. Nair even shows her how to froth the milk for h
er cappuccino. He tells her he used to work in a coffee bar in his younger days.

  ‘Do you want one?’ Lana offers.

  Mr. Nair’s eyes shine. ‘Are you sure, Miss Bloom? We only have instant downstairs and I’d love a real coffee.’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ Lana says and takes down another saucer and cup.

  ‘Ah,’ Mr. Nair says delicately. ‘I am a Brahmin and I am not allowed to drink from other people’s cups. I have my own mug. I will bring it up.’

  And he does. He brings his own I Am The Boss mug.

  Lana opens a tin of biscuits and offers it to him. He takes two, she raises a that’s-it eyebrow, and he grins and helps himself to two more.

  ‘Any time you want a real coffee, call me, and if I am in, feel free to come up,’ Lana says.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, Miss Bloom, you are very kind indeed.’

  Lana drinks her coffee, then goes to her mother’s house.

  They have a busy day ahead. They pick up her wig from Selfridges and spend some time shopping for things her mother will need. Her mother chooses a burgundy trouser-suit that looks very good on her, two pretty pastel dresses, and some new underwear. Afterwards, Lana watches while two women give her mother a pedicure and manicure. They paint her mother’s nails coral. Her mother smiles at her shyly. There is also a trip to the doctor’s surgery. At five the flat is clean and her mother is ready. Her new wig looks wonderful.

  Lana cries. So does her mother.

  Billie shoos them both out of the flat. Lana watches her mother and Billie get into a mini cab and head for Heathrow. Then she goes back to her mother’s empty apartment, falls on her mother’s bed and cries her heart out. It is nearly six when she washes her face and leaves for the apartment.

  She is surprised to see that Blake is already in. He comes out of the dining room when he hears her.

  ‘Is she gone?’

  Lana nods.

  ‘That’s good. I thought you might not feel like going out tonight so perhaps we can have a Chinese takeaway?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you want any food?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Would you like to lie down and rest for a bit?’

  ‘Yes. That’s a good idea.’

  ‘OK, sleep for a bit. It’ll do you good.’

  She nods and he retreats into the dining room. As she passes him in the corridor, she sees that he is working. His briefcase is open. There are papers spread out on the long dining table and he appears to be concentrating hard on them.

  She lies down on the bed and falls asleep. Her sleep is restless and full of dreams. A noise wakes her in the middle of the night. She realizes instantly that she is alone in bed.

  She listens again. It is coming from the kitchen. The little bedside clock says it is two a.m. Her mother and Billie will still be in the air. She gets out of bed, and pads towards the sounds.

  She stands at the doorway dazzled by the light, pushing hair away from her eyes. Blake is toasting two slices of bread and does not see her. Her mind takes a picture of him, shirtless and wearing only his low-slung jeans. To be kept for later, when he is no longer around. When he spots her, he leans a hip against the work counter, and looks back at her, his arms crossed, his eyes unreadable.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No. What are you making?’

  ‘I was working and I got hungry. Want some toast?’

  She shakes her head, but comes into the room and sits on a stool. She puts her elbows on the island surface amongst the butter dish, knives, plates and open jars of foie gras and caviar. There is also a half-drunk glass of orange juice. She slides her body along the cold granite surface and pulls it over to her. She sips it and watches him.

  He produces a spoon from a drawer. It is the smallest spoon she has seen. He scoops a tiny amount of caviar and holds it out to her.

  She crinkles her nose. ‘Fish eggs?’

  He shakes his head in disgust. ‘Philistine,’ he chides.

  She opens her mouth and he inserts the spoon. Little salty balls explode intriguingly in her mouth.

  ‘Good?’

  She smiles. ‘Tastes better than it looks. A bit like you,’

  she teases.

  He throws back his head and laughs.

  ‘You work very hard, don’t you?’

  ‘All rich people do.’

  She watches him spread pâtè on a slice of toast.

  Watches his even, strong teeth bite cleanly into it.

  ‘You should eat something,’ he says.

  She stands up and makes herself a jam sandwich. While she is eating it, she thinks Rosa was right. Jam sandwiches should be made with white bread. They simply don’t taste the same with healthy bread.

  ‘What do you feel like doing now?’ he asks.

  ‘Don’t you feel like sleeping?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Shall we play a game?’

  A smile curves that straight mouth. ‘What kind of game?’

  ‘Let’s see who comes first.’

  His eyes flash. ‘What are the rules?’

  Billie didn’t mention anything about rules. ‘It’s quite a simple game really. We take turns to make each other come. We time ourselves with an egg timer. The one who lasts the longest in the hands of the other wins.’

  ‘What’s the prize for winning?’

  ‘The winner gets to ask the loser for anything they want?’

  ‘What if the loser is unable to provide that thing?’

  ‘Within reason and nothing dangerous, obviously.’

  ‘OK, do you want to go first? Or shall I?’

  ‘I will. You can do me first.’ She stands up and swipes the egg timer off the counter. He stares at her. She reminds him of a child. They go into the bedroom. It is easy to make her come. Then it is her turn.

  ‘Why did you let me win?’

  ‘How do you know I did?’

  ‘Because you’ve never come before me.’

  ‘So why did you want to play this game then?’

  ‘Because I had something special up my sleeve, but I didn’t even get a chance to use it.’

  He laughs. ‘Something special. Is it another technique from Billie?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes, but you haven’t answered the original question.’

  ‘Because I wanted to know what you would ask for.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, what do you want?’

  ‘I want you to cook for me.’

  He lies on his side and props his head on his palm.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When I was fourteen, I read a book where the hero sent the heroine to have a long soak in the bath while he cooked for her. He grilled two steaks and tossed a salad. It was a really romantic. He wore a black shirt and washed out blue jeans. I remember he had just had a shower and his hair was still wet. Oh, and he was barefoot.’

  ‘And what did the heroine wear?’

  ‘Er… I can’t remember.’

  ‘Dinner tomorrow?’

  She smiles. ‘Dinner tomorrow. You won’t burn it, will you?’

  ‘Maybe just the salad.’

  Twenty one

  he next day drags slowly. Mr. Nair arrives at ten a.m.

  Twith his mug and they have a little chat. He tells her about his family in India. Before he worked in the coffee shop, he was a Hindu priest in a temple in India. He is interesting, but his break time is quickly over and he leaves.

  Lana is required to idle away her days, but idling alone in a sumptuous flat, she realizes, is no easy thing. There is not much activity in the part of the park that her balcony faces, and daytime television has always bored her. How many times can one watch reruns of Wonder Woman?

  She is also lonely. Without her mother, Billie or Jack she feels quite lost. She wanders around the large flat alone and bored. Idling, she finally decides, requires thoughtful planning and effort—diligent effort. She orders some books from Amazon. />
  It is nearly five o’clock when Lana is able to Skype Billie. Lana sits cross-legged on the bed and looks at Billie’s dear face come alive on the screen.

  ‘Guess what?’ Billie shouts enthusiastically. ‘We flew first class.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yep, we arrived at economy check-in and we were bumped up to first class. Both your mum and me!’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Must be banker boy. They said it was all arranged and paid for.’

  Lana is speechless. Could it really have been Blake who paid the difference? But he didn’t even know which flight they were on.

  ‘Anyway,’ Billie says, ‘it was bloody brilliant. They called us by name and acted like we were celebrities or something. I drank nearly two bottles of champagne, and your mum got to sleep most of the way.’

  ‘How is my mum?’

  ‘She’s here. I’ll put her on.’

  ‘Hello, Lana,’ her mother says. She looks so white and fragile that Lana almost bursts into tears. When the call is over Lana lies on the bed and wonders why Blake did that.

  He is a strange man. So cold and distant sometimes and so incredibly kind and generous at other times.

  At seven o’clock, Blake arrives. She runs out to meet him at the front door.

  ‘Did you pay for my mum and Billie to fly first class?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugs. ‘I liked your mother,’ he says shortly, and sends Lana into the Jacuzzi bath.

  ‘Dinner is at seven thirty sharp,’ he says. ‘Don’t come out before.’

  She climbs into it and closes her eyes. It is heaven. She has bought Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, and puts it on the corner ledge. Blake comes in with a glass of red wine.

  ‘To get you in the mood,’ he says.

  ‘This is not in the scene, but impressive improvisation,’

  she says as she accepts it.

  She takes a sip and opens her book. Fifteen minutes later, she smells it. Burning. Before she can wrap herself in the toweling robe, the fire alarms go off. She rushes to the kitchen dripping soapsuds.

  Blake has opened all the windows, and is standing on a chair waving a magazine at the smoke detector in the corridor. His hair is slightly wet, he is wearing a black shirt with two buttons undone and a pair of stone washed jeans.