Текст книги "The Billionaire Banker"

Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Eighteen

In the bathroom her eyes are smoky in the mirror.  She undresses quickly and pulls on the bathrobe hanging behind the door.  She still hasn’t got used to her hairless body.  It seems too girlish, somehow, but she knows why he wants it so.  Everything in his life is neat and tidy.  Not a pubic hair out of place.

When she hears him in the corridor she freezes.

Wear nothing.

She takes the bathrobe off, slips into the bedroom and stands inside the door.  He is already there.  He is dressed in grey trousers.  His tie is loosened and his shirtsleeves have been haphazardly folded up his arms.  His watch glints on his strong wrist.  He goes to her and leads her to the big black armchair by the large mirror.  She sees herself in the mirror.  Nude.

‘Porcelain skin and fuck me now, blue eyes.  How beautiful you are,’ he says, watching her through the mirror. His eyes are heavy-lidded and cloudy with desire.

Fully clothed he stands behind her.  Gently, he hooks his handmade leather shoe underneath her right foot and lifts it.  The leather is cool and smooth and the laces rub erotically against the soft sole of her foot.  His shoe deposits her foot on the padded seat of the big black chair.

The position has exposed her sex in the most indecent way.  She doesn’t recognize the woman in the mirror.  She looks wanton and shameless.  Now she knows why she is bald.  There is nothing to hide behind. It is so shameful it is exciting.  She looks away.

‘I want you to see what I am doing to you.’

She meets his eyes in the mirror.  He kisses her neck and she moans and tries to turn towards him.

‘No, watch.’  She looks at the mirror.  She is throbbing with excitement. She has willingly spread open her sex and allowed him access into her most intimate parts. She feels his fully clothed body brush against her.  Vaguely: buttons pressing into her back…soft wool against her buttocks and thighs.  Then his hand is moving towards her navel.

‘I love your skin.  It is like the finest silk.’ His hand moves downwards without any resistance.  All the while he is watching her watching herself.

His palm comes to press on her pubic bone.  She watches the palm make circles.  The circles become tighter and tighter until they are moving the flesh over her clitoris.  Suddenly his index finger taps at her clit.  She shivers with helpless wanting.

‘Not yet,’ he whispers.  ‘I will decide when you come.’

Then his fingers move quickly in a sweeping motion along her crack, gathering juice.  There is enough there.  The lubricated finger circles the swollen, throbbing bud.  Watching him pleasure her is the most unexpectedly erotic thing she has experienced.

She gasps and longs for the feeling of being full.  That feeling of having him inside her, but he does not give that to her.  Instead he rubs around her sex, his fingers are cunningly methodical.  The same movement again and again.

In minutes she feels the waves coming, but as she pushes eagerly towards them, towards release, his fingers stop, and even though she pushes her hips towards them, they stubbornly refuse to move, until the waves dissipate.  She sags against him, frustrated, and he slowly pushes his finger into her.

‘Wet, hot and tight,’ he says.  She looks at his large hand; the thick, masculine wrist peppered with silky hair.  Again that longing to be filled, not with one finger, but with the magnificently thick, long shaft inside his trousers.  She bites her lip to stop herself from crying out, ‘Fuck me.’

‘Kiss me,’ he orders.

She twists her neck around and gives him her mouth.  His tongue enters it.  She sucks greedily.  A finger becomes two and increases speed.  Just as she is beginning to enjoy the rhythm the fingers are withdrawing, slipping and sliding around the lips.  He takes his mouth away.  His other hand leaves her waist and cups her chin and makes it face the mirror.  She stares at herself in shock.  At his big hands moving and the glistening redness of her engorged sex—it is as if it is alive.  A shameless greedy creature.  And suddenly she is coming.  Hard.  She feels herself losing balance and his hand like a vice around her waist.  She leans her head back against his chest for a moment.

‘Hold onto the chair,’ he says, and bends her over.  He puts a hand on her back at waist level and pushes down, so her hips are angled, her sex is more exposed. She hears his zip and the soft sound of his trousers dropping.  Putting his palm on either side of her face he turns her head and makes her watch what he is doing to her.

‘I want you to watch me fucking you.’

With wild eyes she looks at the image their bodies make as he grabs her by the hips and his proud cock disappears inside her.

‘Now, let me hear your cries.  Purr for me, Lana,’ he commands and rams ferociously into her willing, dripping wetness.

She cries out with the sensations.  The fullness, the depths that he has gone into.

It is surprisingly painful, but such is her need to have him inside that she welcomes the pain and pushes against him to take more of him.  So he goes even deeper, until his thick shaft is buried all the way to the root.  One hand falls on her back, pushing her into the armchair, while the other grasps her shoulder.  The solid armchair rocks with his thrusts.  Then the animal in him takes over.  With bestial urgency he drives into her.  Harder and faster.  Grinding her against him.  At that moment she is utterly possessed by the man.  His to do anything with.

As he slams into her she realizes that the palm of his hand that is pressed against her pubic bone is bringing forth different sensations.  The rubbing is causing her to come again.  It is explosive this time, makes her body convulse uncontrollably and lasts, even through his last urgent thrusts and his groan of release.

She feels his body slacken against hers.  With both his arms around her waist he straightens her, and holds her close to him while he is still inside.  She looks at him in the mirror and finds his eyes unreadable.  He withdraws out of her and goes into the bathroom.

She looks in the mirror.  Without him in the mirror she seems alone and abandoned.  On trembling legs she moves to hide her nakedness inside the bathrobe.

Nineteen

Lana is so anxious she forgets to warn him of her mother’s wasted appearance.  It is only when her mother opens the door in her best blue dress, a new blue scarf, and smiling through freshly applied lipstick that she remembers.  But when she looks up at Blake he is smiling and suave.  He hands her mother the bouquet of flowers he has brought for her and steps through the door into their poor home.

‘Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Bloom.  It is a great pleasure to finally meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you too, Mr. Barrington.’

‘Please, you must call me Blake.’

‘And you must call me Nys.’

‘Nys?  Ah…French.’

‘Yes, not many people know that.  My mother loved the sound of it.’

‘I agree with her.  A pretty name it is.’

‘Come in, come in,’ Lana’s mother says..

Blake takes Lana’s hand.  She is surprised at how casually he does it.  As if he has done it many times before.  Her mother has decorated the table with fresh flowers and candles.  The door to the small balcony is open and the sound of children swearing floats up.  Her mother closes the door and puts on some music instead.

‘Something smells very good,’ Blake says.

Her mother glows with pleasure.  It is obvious she is taken with Blake.  ‘Oh, it’s just chicken and rice. A Persian recipe.’

‘With fruit.’

‘Yes, pomegranates.  How did you know?’

And so the night goes with her mother glowing and charmed and Blake urbane and genteel.

When the food appears it is delicious, and Blake makes it a point to polish his plate.  Occasionally, he looks with adoring eyes at Lana, and other times reaches for her hand, never too obvious, and so real it makes her freeze uncomfortably.  Once he even reaches forward and lightly brushes his lips against hers.  She blinks.  Another time he looks mockingly into her eyes.  She turns away in confusion.  This Blake she cannot understand or deal with.  This Blake is dangerous to her well-being.  This Blake she will want to keep beyond the three months stipulation.

Her mother serves a chocolate melt in the middle pudding.

Again, Blake makes it a point to finish every last drop.

When her mother offers Blake a strong, Middle Eastern coffee, he immediately accepts.

There is only one uncomfortable moment in the evening when her mother turns to Blake and asks, ‘Have you ever done anything that you wish you could go back and undo?  Something you regret?’

‘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

Lana wakes up early.  She presses the remote button for 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 her 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.’