The Billionaire Banker Page 7

  The car comes to a stop at a tall white building with a glass-fronted entrance.

  ‘Here we are,’ says Peter, switching off the engine.

  Ten

  he reception is plush with deep, cream carpets and Tchandeliers in every hallway. There is an Indian guard slumped behind a desk reading a newspaper in a foreign language who immediately straightens and stands to attention. Peter introduces her.

  ‘Lana, this is Mr. Nair.’

  Peter turns to Mr. Nair. ‘This is Miss Bloom. She will be living in the penthouse for the next three months.

  Please ensure that she will be well taken care of,’ Peter tells him

  Mr. Nair smiles broadly. ‘Certainly. That will be my number one priority,’ he says in a strong Indian accent while shaking his head like one of those nodding dogs in the backs of people’s cars. He turns to look at Lana. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Bloom. Anything at all that you need, please do not hesitate to ask.’ He has seen many young girls like her come and go from these apartments.

  Most of them are the mistresses of rich Arabs who were very rude to him. But this girl holds out her hand to him and smiles at him.

  Peter accompanies her into the lift. He inserts a card key into a slot and hits the top floor button. Lana leans against the shiny cold brass handrail while the lift silently races upwards. When the lift doors whoosh open, he allows her to exit first, and then precedes her into the corridor. The corridor is thickly carpeted and tastefully wallpapered in beige and silver.

  ‘There is only one other apartment on this floor,’ Peter explains and opens the door. He deposits the shopping bags in his hands on the floor by the doorway. ‘I will go and get the rest of your shopping and then I will show you how everything works.’

  Lana closes the door behind her and leans against it.

  Wow! Just wow! A long corridor with richly enameled walls seems to lead to a light-filled room. As if in slow motion she lets her fingers trail on the cool, enameled surface as she walks down the fluffy white runner carpet towards the glorious light. With the evening sun pouring in, she stands at the doorway to what is the living room, and looks at her surroundings in wonder.

  At the imposingly high ceilings, the amazing glass walls that lead to a wide balcony laid out with a table, chairs and potted topiary. At the mirrored wall that reflected the elegant silver patterned pale lilac wallpaper, the rich furnishings, and the deep-pile, white carpet. It is so massive, so hugely extravagant and luxurious it is as if she has walked into a page of a glossy magazine. She turns when she hears the door opening.

  Peter puts the rest of her shopping on the floor and walks towards her. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, very.’

  He takes her around the spacious four-bedroom apartment and shows her how things work. Which buttons on the remote cause the curtains to open and close and which one makes a gorgeous painting rise onto the wall to expose a TV screen. There are buttons for the shutters, buttons for working the wine cooler, buttons for the lights, the media room, and for the coffee machine.

  She nods but it hardly registers. The opulence has numbed her.

  ‘Any problems, just call the caretaker. The number is over there,’ he says finally, indicating a card that has been placed on a side table near the front door.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Be back for you at eight thirty. Mr. Barrington hates people to be late.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Peter, you won’t have to hang around waiting for me. I’ll be ready.’

  She closes the door, finds her mobile, hits home, and waits for her mother’s soft voice to answer.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ she says brightly.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Blake’s apartment.’

  ‘Oh! When are you coming home?’

  Lana swallows. This will be the first time she will not return to her own bed. She knows it will be difficult for her mother. ‘Not tonight, Mum. I won’t be home tonight, but I’ll be there first thing in the morning.’

  First her mother goes silent. Then she expels a soft sigh.

  ‘All right, Lana. I will see you tomorrow. Be safe, daughter of mine.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, mum.’

  She walks down the enameled corridor and goes into the main bedroom. It is very large with a huge bed. The décor is deep blue and silver. She kicks off her shoes and walks barefoot on the luxurious carpet towards the bathroom. The bathroom is a green marble and gold fittings affair. There is a Jacuzzi bath and a large shower cubicle. By the washbasin lush toiletry still in their packages have been laid out for her use. She unwraps a pale green oval of soap and washes her hands. Afterwards, she opens cabinets and finds them all empty. She goes back into the bedroom and walks through to the walnut dressing rooms. The built-in wardrobes are all as bare as the bathroom cabinets. So he does not live here. This is a place purely for sex.

  She walks out of the bedroom and heads for the kitchen. It has been done up in sunny yellow with glossy black granite worktops and surfaces. There is an island in the middle and stools around it. When she was young she dreamed of just such a kitchen. She perches on one of the tall stools, swivels around a few times, and hops off. She goes to a cupboard and opens it. It is full of stuff— expensive stuff that is never found in her mother’s cupboards. Tins of biscuits from Fortnum and Masons, Jellies from Harrods, French chocolates with fancy names.

  She takes a few down and admires the exquisite packaging.

  She shuts the cupboard and goes to the fridge.

  More exotic stuff: truffles, handmade blue cheeses, gooseberries, cuts of dried meats, wild smoked salmon, a dressed lobster, caviar… The vegetable drawer is packed with organic produce. Even the eggs have blue shells.

  There are two bottles of champagne lying on their sides.

  She takes one out and looks at the label. Dom Perignon.

  ‘Hmnnn…’ she says into the silence.

  Carefully, she peels back the foil and the wire that holds down the cork. Holding the bottle between her thighs she twists the cork as she has seen the waiter do, but it takes many tries, and when it finally pops out, she has shaken the bottle so much, it sprays everywhere.

  She cleans up with some paper napkins, then finds a glass in one of the cabinets and pours herself a drink.

  Carrying the glass she goes back into the living room. She slides back the doors and steps outside. She stands there for a moment looking at the wonderful view of the park and surrounding area, but can feel no joy in her heart. Her thoughts are with her mother. She closes her eyes and prays that all will be well. Then she raises her glass to the sky. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she whispers, ‘be well again.’ Then she brings the glass to her lips.

  There is not enough time to try the Jacuzzi bathtub, so Lana has a shower. The showerhead is wonderfully powerful unlike the weak one she is used to. The shower invigorates her and she goes into her shopping bags with some measure of excitement. The bruises from the night before mean that she is only able to wear the Versace silk shirt. She pulls on the tight leather trousers that end at her ankles and slips on the strappy stilettos. Then she does her eyes the way Aisha taught her to and paints her lips soft pink. She is so nervous her hands tremble slightly. She goes into the living room and pours herself another glass of champagne.

  At eight thirty sharp the bell rings. Peter comes in with a large, flat cardboard box, which he carefully places on the side table. ‘I was asked to drop this off for Mr. Barrington.

  You look beautiful, Miss Bloom,’ he compliments awkwardly.

  ‘Thank you, but will you call me Lana, Peter?’ The champagne has made her feel light-headed. She smiles at him mistily.

  ‘Of course, Lana,’ he says smiling.

  The reception desk is no longer manned by Mr. Nair.

  A small, white man with small, suspicious eyes is introduced as Mr. Burrows. He smiles politely, but distantly. This was a man who did not want to get involved with any of the occupants of the
building.

  After that Peter drives her to a private club in Sloane Square called Madame Yula.

  Eleven

  lake is waiting for her at the bar. He is wearing an Boyster gray lounge suit and a black shirt. He is even more disturbingly attractive than she remembers. He stands when he sees her and she stops, frozen by his eyes.

  Neither move. It is as if they are again in a world of their own. Just his smoldering eyes and her strong desire for more from him—what exactly she does not quite know.

  Then he breaks the spell by moving towards her.

  ‘You look edible,’ he says, his eyes lingering on the curve of her hips.

  She blushes and touches her bangs.

  ‘I like the hair, too,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Thanks.’ Her voice sounds nervous and shaky.

  He reaches a hand out to touch her and instinctively she pulls away. She had not meant to, but her body has its own reactions to him.

  He drops his hand and eyes her coldly. ‘Look,’ he says.

  ‘We can make it a totally sex thing or we can dress it up a little and it will look pretty in the corner. It’s up to you.

  It’s all the same to me.’

  Pretty in the corner. Strange turn of phrase. She studies him from beneath her eyelashes. ‘Dress it up a little,’ she says.‘Good. Can I get you something to drink? A glass of champagne? You’re partial to it, if I remember correctly,’

  he says, and leads her to the bar.

  Lana looks around the bar. It is decorated in dark wood and deep red curtains. It actually looks like an old-fashioned French brothel. ‘I’ve already had two glasses.’

  His eyebrows rise. ‘You found the alcohol.’

  ‘It found me. I opened the fridge and there it was begging me to drink it.’

  ‘Yes, alcohol has a habit of doing that.’

  ‘I’m hungry, though.’

  ‘Let’s get some food into you then.’

  They are shown into a private booth. The sommelier arrives and she listens to Blake order a bottle of wine that she has never heard of, and realizes that the poor and the middle classes have been conned into believing that Chablis, Chateauneuf-du-Pape, Pouilly Fume, and Sancerre are superior wines for the discerning, but the truly rich are imbibing a totally different class of drink.

  He picks up the menu and her eyes are drawn to his wrists. It makes her stomach tighten.

  ‘How was your day?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because I really am very grateful, but why did you buy me so much stuff?’

  He leans back in his chair. ‘Did you have a doll when you were young?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you make little clothes for her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did it give you pleasure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was my doll and I wanted it to look good.’

  ‘That is how I feel about you. You are my doll. I like the idea of dressing you the way I see fit. I want you to look good. Besides, I like that every stitch on your body has been paid for by me.’

  Lana feels a frisson of electricity run up her spine. ‘I’m not a doll.’

  ‘To me you are. A living, breathing doll.’

  ‘What happens in three months’ time?’

  ‘Did you eventually get bored with your doll and stop playing with her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lana’s voice is soft. She knows where this conversation is going.

  ‘So will I and when I do I will put you aside as you did your doll.’

  ‘Well, that’s clear enough.’

  ‘Good. What would you like to eat?’

  Lana looks at the menu. There is fish and chicken. She hopes he will order one of those. But there is also foie gras, which she’d rather die than eat. The waiter appears at Blake’s side. ‘Are you ready to order, monsieur?’

  Blake looks at Lana enquiringly.

  ‘I’m just going to have whatever you’re having.’

  ‘Mussels in white wine to start followed by the herb crusted lamb cutlets.’

  ‘Pommes sables or pommes soufflé?’ the waiter enquires.

  Lana looks blankly at Blake.

  ‘Try the potato soufflé,’ he says. ‘You might like it.’

  ‘OK, potato soufflé,’ she agrees. When the waiter is gone, she takes a sip of wine. It must have been good, but she is so nervous she registers it only as a cold liquid. ‘So,’

  she says. ‘You are a banker.’

  ‘And you have been on Google.’

  ‘Wikipedia actually. I was curious. All my life I imagined bankers were thieves utilizing fractional reserve banking to create money out of nothing, and then they take your house and car and business when you can’t keep up the repayments.’

  ‘Ah, this is like all bankers are thieves, all lawyers are liars, and all women are whores.’

  ‘I’d rather be a whore than a banker.’

  ‘That’s handy then. I’d rather be a banker who buys a whore.’

  ‘Why do you need to buy a woman, anyway? With that flashy car of yours, they must be leaving their phone number by the droves on your windscreen wipers.’

  ‘You were an impulse buy.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners. She amuses him.

  She looks at his perfectly cut suit, his beautifully manicured hands, and the Swiss precision watch glinting on his wrist. ‘There is nothing impulsive about you.’ Her eyes take in that delectable lock of hair that falls over his forehead. ‘Other than your hair.’

  He laughs out loud. She looks at him. The man had lovely teeth. ‘This might turn out to be a lot more interesting than I thought,’ he says.

  The mussels arrive in tiny, covered black pots. When Blake opens his she follows suit. The smell is maddeningly good, but she waits until Blake reaches for his utensils before she copies him.

  ‘Bon appétit,’ he says.

  ‘Bon appétit,’ she repeats.

  The mussels are meltingly soft in her mouth.

  ‘Good?’ asks Blake.

  ‘Very.’

  But the portion is so small it is quickly gone. ‘I don’t understand something,’ Lana says, daintily dabbing the corners of her mouth. ‘How come the paparazzi never follow you around like they do other celebrities and eligible bachelors, and expose all your escapades and wrongdoings?’

  ‘For the same reason my family and the other great families are not on the Forbes richest list. We don’t like publicity. Unless it is sanctified by us you won’t see it in the papers.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me your family has that much power?’

  ‘I’m not trying to, I’m telling you. It’s easy when you control the media.’

  ‘Your family controls the media?’

  ‘The great, old families do. It is in our interest to work as a group.’ His eyes glitter in the soft light. Suddenly his lips twitch. He leans back and flashes a smile. ‘But enough about me. Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Other than the fact that you live on a council estate and don’t earn enough, I know nothing at all about you.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true. You know I am AIDS free, don’t have any sexually transmitted diseases, own a clean bill of health, am on contraceptives as of today, and have had a full body wax.’

  His smile becomes a grin. ‘How was the waxing session? Not too painful, I hope.’

  ‘Not at all. You should try it sometime.’

  He laughs outright. ‘The day you pay me to have sex with you, I will.’

  She cannot bring herself to smile back.

  The lamb arrives. She looks at her plate. Blood has eddied under the meat. She cannot eat that. She sighs inwardly. It will be vegetables and potato again.

  ‘Where do you get your unusual coloring from?’

  ‘My grandmother on my mother’s side was Iranian.

  The hair is from her and the eyes are from my father’s side of t
he family.’

  He let his eyes wander around her face. A Middle Eastern influence. It had fleshed out her face and given her the generous mouth.

  ‘Have you been to Iran before?’

  ‘I went once as a child, but it is my dream to take my mother back to Iran.’

  ‘It’s dangerous there now.’

  ‘For you maybe, but not for me or Mum it isn’t.’

  ‘Still don’t you think you should wait until all this talk of war is over?’

  ‘There will be war. It is better to go now, before Iran becomes another Iraq or Libya.’

  ‘What was it like when you were there?’

  ‘When I went it was a wonderful place. We stayed in the desert. It was very beautiful. At night there was pure silence. And the sand dunes sing.’

  ‘You can go to Saudi Arabia for sand dunes. Do you need to go to a country that is preparing for war?’

  ‘You don’t understand. Isfahan is in our blood. I remember when my mother was leaving she climbed to the top of the steps of the plane, then she turned around and did this.’ Lana opened her arms out as if to gather something in the air and bought it back to her face and kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘I asked her what she was doing and she said she was kissing the air of her motherland goodbye. I remember thinking even then that I must bring her back to that beloved land of hers.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Iran.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t. Iran doesn’t have a central bank. My mother says it is why the world wants to wage war with it.’

  ‘Does she also believe Elvis is still alive?’

  Lana’s eyes flash suddenly. She glares at him. ‘We can dress this arrangement up and play it any way you want to, but don’t you dare criticize my mother. Even the dirt at the bottom of her shoes is better than you,’ she cries passionately.

  He gazes at her flushed cheeks and glittering eyes without anger. She will be great in bed. ‘You brought her up,’ he murmurs.

  Her anger subsides as suddenly as it came. ‘Yes, I did,’

  she agrees flatly, and suddenly looks so young and lost, he reaches out to cover her hand with his. She pulls hers away.

  He takes his hand away and looks at her coldly. ‘OK, have it your way,’ he says, and looks for the waiter.