Текст книги "Wounded Beast"

Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

FIVE

He stares at me. ‘Is that a crime?’

‘No,’ I concede. ‘But it is rather unusual.’

‘Why?’ he demands.

I shrug. ‘Everybody uses some form of social media. Twitter, FB, MySpace, Picasa, Tsu, Instagram, Plaxo, Xing, Ning … You can’t be found on any platform.’

He bares his teeth suddenly in a pirate grin. And ooh … devilishly attractive. My heart flutters a bit.

‘Can it be,’ he mocks softly, ‘that HMRC’s latest and most formidable weapon, the eighty million pound super-computer Connect, needs me to supply it with data so it can effectively spot signs of potential non-compliance from me?’

‘Hardly,’ I reply. ‘Connect holds over a billion pieces of data collected from hundreds of sources. As it happens, a lack of participation on social media is also “data”. It indicates a desire to conceal suspicious activity.’

He raises one straight, raven-black eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ I say with emphasis.

At that precise moment, the sommelier appears with a bottle and tries to display the label to Dom, but Dom doesn’t take his eyes off me. Not willing to be outdone, I stare back. When the bottle is uncorked, he makes a slight motion with his hand to indicate that he wants to dispense with the business of tasting the wine. The sommelier comes around to my side and fills my glass. When he goes around to Dom’s glass, Dom gives a slight shake of his head. Quietly, the man slips the bottle back into the ice bucket and disappears.

I take a sip of wine. It is so smooth and ripe with different and distinct flavors that it makes every type of wine I have ever consumed seem like bootlegged versions of squashed grapes and vinegar.

‘Just out of interest,’ Dom says, ‘what information does Connect hold about me?’

‘And there I was thinking I was here to learn more about your business and not the other way around.’

‘Touché.’ He chuckles good-naturedly.

I smile faintly.

‘So, what would you like to know about me?’ he offers with a reckless smile.

I slip a steamed mussel into my mouth. It is so tender it melts on my tongue. I let it slide down my throat and wipe my lips on the napkin before I answer. ‘I’d like to know why you aren’t on social media.’

The broad shoulders lift, an almost Italian gesture. ‘We’re gypsies,’ he says, as if that answers everything.

‘And?’ I prompt.

‘By nature we distrust any form of surveillance, and as you’ve just confirmed, all forms of social media are Greeks bearing gifts.’ A teasing quality slips into his voice. ‘See, gypsies wouldn’t have towed the Trojan horse into their city.’

‘I don’t want to be stereotypical or anything, but I honestly thought gypsies have always been rather brilliant horse thieves.’

His crystalline blue eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Ah yes. Perhaps it would have been a different matter if the horse had been real, or made of scrap metal. But being wooden …’

I really want to laugh with him, but I suppress the urge. I’m not on a date. I cannot allow myself to like him. I’ll just end up getting hurt.

We’re interrupted by the arrival of our starters. My order of goat’s cheese with roasted beet looks like a white and magenta millefeuille. I gaze at it with awe. Just as the amuse-bouches before, it is a precisely arranged work of art. Almost too beautiful to eat. Dom has seared scallops and walnuts served with a dinky pot of Parmesan brûlée

I cut into my millefeuille and fork a small piece into my mouth. It is so delicious I’m immediately struck by how much I’d love to be able to afford to bring my parents here, instead of all the cheap restaurants my tight budget forces me to take them to. I know they would never have tasted anything so refined and luscious, and it suddenly and painfully hits home that they probably never will. And just like that I no longer need to stop myself from liking him. That resentment for ‘people like him’ comes back into my gut. I welcome it like an old friend. It’s better this way. I am too affected by him already.

‘Why are you so afraid of surveillance if you’re doing nothing wrong?’ I ask.

‘Why do you have curtains in your bedroom windows? Are you doing something wrong?’ he shoots back.

‘It’s not the same thing,’ I argue.

‘Why isn’t it? I don’t want the government, its agents and a whole slew of marketers to have access to my private data. That’s my business alone, and I take steps to keep it so. Why is that concept so foreign to you?’

‘You’ll be pleased to know that Connect holds very little information on you, or,’ I continue, ‘your brothers.’

He smiles a slow, satisfied smile.

Smile he should. Guarding his privacy has worked. He is a closed door to Connect’s tentacles. All it managed to dig up was that at twenty-eight years old he has never made a benefit claim. He doesn’t own or co-own any property or business. Needless to say, I don’t believe that for a second. Him not financially tied with anyone? As if! He has two bank accounts that show a pathetic amount of activity, mostly direct debits for utility bills. No overdraft. He has a credit card, but he won’t even use it to pay for petrol. He hasn’t flown with a commercial airline for as long as Connect has been running. One look at that tan tells me he didn’t acquire it in London. Which only signifies he’s leaving the country using other, private means.

I flash him a fake smile. ‘It would appear that you’ve fooled the super-computer into believing that you’re a rather uninteresting employee.’

He lifts his glass of whiskey. ‘I don’t know how you meant that to come out, but I have to say it kinda looks bad when you give the impression that you believe you’re better than a super-computer.’

I smile through my irritation. ‘Connect is an amazing invention. At the touch of a button it can show an incredibly detailed picture about a person that would have taken months of research before, but it has no intuitive powers. The department relies on investigators and analysts like me to validate the data and pick up unnatural patterns.’

‘Unnatural patterns? Like what?’ he asks, fishing for information.

Well, he’s not getting anything but the obvious from me. ‘Like everything I’ve seen tonight. Like the clothes, the car, this restaurant.’

‘So, you noticed my clothes,’ he notes cheekily. It’s hard to imagine that this is the same tormented man from this afternoon.

‘One can hardly fail to notice that they’re not off a department store’s rack.’ My voice is mild.

He widens his eyes innocently. ‘I saved up for years to buy these clothes. The car belongs to the company, and I only come to this restaurant when I’m feeling particularly flush or on a really big date.’

‘It’s all a big joke to you, isn’t it?’ I accuse. I can feel myself losing my cool.

‘It’s not just a job for you, is it?’ he asks curiously.

‘No, it’s not. It’s a personal crusade.’ I lean back as the waiting staff move in to efficiently and quickly clear away our plates. My wine is replenished and a fresh glass of whiskey is placed before Dom. I notice that he’s not drinking any wine at all, which means that he ordered the bottle solely for me.

‘So, you must hate people like me.’

‘Hate might be too strong a word. Detest might be a bit closer.’

He looks at me with a perplexed expression as if he’s trying to figure out a three-headed, ten-limbed, purple-striped creature. ‘Why do you care so much what tax I pay? I couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether you pay yours or not.’

‘Because people like you play the legal game and screw the country,’ I accuse hotly.

‘Trying to avoid paying more tax than you have to is not screwing the country. On the contrary, it’s doing one’s best to avoid being screwed by people like you. I’m paying the right amount of tax within the rules. Only a sanctimonious, pompous zealot would criticize someone for seeking every legal means possible to reduce their tax bill. Tax avoidance isn’t wrong. It’s perfectly sensible behavior.’

‘Wow,’ I gasp. ‘This is a turn-up for the books. The tax dodger decides to take the moral high ground!’

He shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Let not he who is houseless pull down the house of another, but let him labor diligently and build one for himself, thus by example assuring that his own shall be safe from violence when built—Abraham Lincoln.’ He leans back, a smug smile on his face.

My main course—Dorset crab and black quinoa with tomato and Meyer lemon sauce—is put before me. It’s a world-class visual treat, but I find I’ve completely lost my appetite.

‘Bon appétit,’ Dom says when we’re alone again, and digs with relish into his Ahi tuna topped with caviar. It is lined with slices of zucchini that are so thinly sliced they’re almost transparent.

I fold my arms over my chest. ‘So, you think that you have a perfect right to pay little or even no tax if possible, because you’re wealthy enough to have access to devious accountants, slick lawyers, corrupt bankers and tax havens while the rest of us subsidize your operations by paying for the education and health care of your workforce, the roads you and your companies use, and the police deployed to guard your restaurants and nightclubs from trouble.’

He leans forward, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘If you truly feel that way then why don’t you do something about the really big tax avoiders like Google, Starbucks, Microsoft and Apple?’

I sit up straighter in my chair. ‘My mandate does not cover multinational companies.’

He raises one mocking eyebrow. ‘Your mandate doesn’t cover multinationals? How fucking convenient.’

‘Another department deals with them,’ I defend tensely.

He bursts into a sarcastic, cynical laugh.

I stare at him furiously. How dare he make out that I’m in some insidious way complicit in the wrongdoings of the multinational companies?

‘Since you seem completely clueless, let me tell you how your department for policing the multinationals dealt with the big boys last year. Starbucks had sales of four hundred million pounds in the UK last year, but paid no corporation tax at all. It transferred some money to a Dutch sister company in a royalty payment, bought coffee beans from Switzerland (hey! who knew Switzerland produces coffee beans, but there you go), and paid high interest rates to borrow from other parts of the business.’ He pauses. ‘Want to hear how they dealt with Amazon?’

I say nothing.

‘I thought not. But here’s the deal anyway. With sales in the UK of four-point-three billion last year, it reported a tax expense of just four-point-two million pounds. What percentage is that, Ella? Could that possibly be just nought-point-one percent?’

I know everything he’s said is true, but I’ve always told myself that it’s not my remit. If I do my job well then I’ve done my bit to make my country a better place. His arguments do not shake my foundations at all. I clamp my mouth shut and refuse to be drawn into an issue that has nothing to do with his tax situation—or me.

‘Why so quiet, hmm? Is it because you already know that the same story is repeated with Google and Apple and every massive multinational? The obvious question that arises in any rational person’s mind would be why should I not make my tax disappear too?’

I jut my jaw out aggressively. ‘How about because it’s morally wrong? Or because you care for the people of this country? Because your taxes will keep schools and hospitals from closing their doors? Because you don’t have to do something wrong just because others are doing it?’

He shakes his head. ‘You know what you are, Ella?’

‘You’re obviously dying to tell me,’ I say dryly.

‘You’re someone’s attack dog. The question is whose? You’ve obviously been fooled into thinking you’re the attack dog for the poor and oppressed, but answer this: Every year you collect more and more taxes, so, how is it then that every year there’s less and less for public services?’

I scowl, but he’s touched a raw nerve.

He sees my second of hesitation and presses his advantage. ‘Did you know that since 2007 our government has committed to spending over a trillion pounds to bail out banks? What does it say about their priorities if they’re able to find the money to save the banks, bomb Afghanistan, bomb Iraq, bomb Libya, and now they’re wanting to start a fresh war in Syria, but cannot find the funds for schools and hospitals?’

I stare at him in dismay.

‘The truth is there are billions to be gained by going after the big boys, but no one’s doing it. On the day our government acts to squeeze these massive tax cheats you’re welcome to break my balls about the morality of my tax avoidance schemes and lecture me about your utopian ideals of wealth redistribution. Until then, give me a fucking break.’

I pick up my glass of wine and drain it. I put it back on the table slowly. It’s possible that without realizing it I’ve drunk far too much. My head feels foggy. In my incapacitated state, I’m unable to come up with a single suitable argument to support my cause. My heart knows that even though his argument seems logical, it’s not right. It can’t be.

He looks at me almost sadly. ‘You remind me of that old Led Zepplin classic, Stairway to Heaven. You’re the woman who believes that everything that glitters is gold and that you’re buying a stairway to heaven. But your stairway is whispering in the wind, Ella.’

SIX

The strings of a lute are alone

Though they quiver with the same music.

                            —Khalil Gibran

Unable to meet his eyes, I stare blankly at a waiter refilling my glass. When he straightens the bottle I’m shocked to realize that I’ve drunk more than half of it. That on top of the vodka and the champagne cocktail! No wonder he’s running rings around me with his flawed ‘I’ll pay if they pay’ reasoning.

He moves closer. ‘Are you drunk yet?’ he whispers.

Up close and suddenly he seems wild and full of dirty promises. I lean toward him like a moth to a flame. ‘Were you deliberately trying to get me drunk?’

‘Wouldn’t you if you were me?’

My mind chases its own tail. ‘Why do you want me to be drunk?’

‘Can you handle the truth?’ His eyes are hooded.

‘Of course.’

‘Because you’re the kind of inhibited woman who needs to be intoxicated before she can explore her deepest desires. This way, you don’t have to be responsible for your actions. “I was so drunk,” you can say to your best friend tomorrow morning.’

It’s a far cry from the truth—I’d sleep with him without even a whiff of alcohol—but I’ll be damned before I tell him that. ‘Very confident of yourself, aren’t you?’

‘I like playing with fire, Miss Savage.’

His phone must have vibrated in his pocket because he takes it out and looks at it. ‘Do you mind?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

‘Hey, Ma,’ he says, and listens while she tells him something. ‘She did?’ he says, and smiles, and it is a genuine smile. A soft, warm smile. I stare at him in surprise. I don’t want to know that he has a mother whom he obviously adores. And I realize I can’t go through with my plan of sleeping with him for one crazy night. I know having sex with him will open a door and what comes through I might not be able to control. He has the capacity to hurt me. I am too affected by him. I feel things that I have never felt before.

His eyes lift up, meet mine, and the smile freezes. ‘I’ve got to go, Ma, but I’ll pass by tomorrow. Give it to me then? OK. Bye.’ He puts his phone away.

I look him in the eye. ‘I can’t have sex with you.’

‘Why not?’ he asks huskily.

I lean back against the chair, the alcohol buzzing in my veins. There’s a pulsing in my temples. Telling him the real truth is out of the question. The half-truth is the only option. ‘Because you’re a crook.’

His eyes flash with real fury. All that urbane and polite stuff before was just a façade. This is the real Dominic Eden. The hothead who can be exploited by the right person. Maybe even me.

‘On what evidence are you basing your accusation?’ he asks coldly.

‘Instinct.’

‘That won’t hold up anywhere. Until you find some evidence to support your “instinct”, I suggest you refrain from making such wild accusations.’

‘I’ll find it,’ I say, knowing it is an empty threat. Tomorrow I walk away from him and this case forever. For now I’ll pretend that I’m the big, tough tax investigator.

‘I’m sure you’ll try.’

‘Don’t underestimate me.’ My voice actually sounds harsh.

He smiles: a megawatt smile. It takes my breath away, lights up the room and registers as another warning in my heated brain.

I let my eyes travel down to his brown throat. It’s not fair that a man should be this gorgeous. My eyes slide back upwards to those firm, kiss me slow lips, and up to his eyes. They are heavy-lidded. The eyelashes thick and stubby, the blue of his irises so intense they’re piercing. To my horror, my alcohol-fueled body responds. My nipples tighten and harden.

‘I need to go home,’ I choke.

He lifts his hand. A waiter brings the check in a leather book. He opens it, glances at it, and leaves a wad of notes between the leather.

I play my part. ‘Cash?’ I taunt.

‘Every fucking time.’ His eyes suck me in.

I resist the pull. ‘Why’s that?’

‘I like the smell of money.’

‘People with things to hide pay with cash.’

‘At the risk of repeating myself, people who don’t want their bank and every fucking government surveillance agency in the world to have access to their entire fucking lives do, too. You ready to go?’

I nod and stand, swaying slightly.

His brows knit. It makes him all dark and brooding. Like my favorite hero of all time, Heathcliff. ‘You all right?’ he asks.

‘Absolutely,’ I say, and, straightening my shoulders, precede him out of the restaurant. We go back down the stairs. A man is coming up and he stares at me with barefaced interest. As he passes us, Dom stops, puts his hands on either side of the man’s head, and turns his face so that it’s pointing straight ahead instead of at me. The man’s eyes bulge with shock and fear. He’s only a head shorter than Dom, but he looks like a scared rabbit in the jaws of a tiger.

I watch Dom pat the man’s cheek condescendingly before he turns to me and we carry on down the stairs. I glance back and the man is walking on up, his head stiffly held forward, too frightened to turn around and look at either of us. Fuck! That was like a scene from a Mafia movie.

I turn toward Dom. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Asshole was lucky. I was in a good mood. He was looking to get his head fucking kicked in.’

‘Because?’

‘Because he fucking looked at my woman, that’s why.’

A totally inappropriate but powerful thrill flashes through me, lighting up cells that have never seen light in their sad little lives. For that second I want to be his woman, I want him to speak so possessively about me. But that second passes as fast as it made its unexpected visit, and an odd sense of loss replaces it. I never suspected that inside me was such a needy being. What the hell is the matter with me! I’m so mentally unhinged by my own pathetic reaction that the words that leave my mouth are like cold, hard bullets.

‘I’m not your woman.’

He glances at me, unembarrassed, unfazed, and without missing a beat says, ‘He doesn’t know that. I’d never disrespect another man by looking at the woman he’s with like that.’

There’s no more to be said after that.

She bends her head, and honey-blonde, silky hair tumbles over her shoulder. Something jerks inside me. Jesus, I can’t do this. It’s too fucking painful. She looks up at me, her eyes as large and enquiring as a child’s.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asks.

The look scorches me. ‘Nothing.’ My voice is harsh. I had not intended that.

She stiffens, her eyes becoming more distant.

I crack a smile and pretend to be the polite gentleman I’ve been all night long even though it kills me inside. I do it because I need her in my bed. I want to run my fingers along the wet seam of her pussy lips and I want to see how fierce and wild she’ll be when my cock plunges into her.

Maybe she can stop the pain.

When he opens the passenger door our hands accidentally touch and both of us draw back as if we’ve been burnt.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

He inhales sharply and says nothing.

I slide in and he closes the door for me. When he gets in I glance covertly at his long, strong body. It’s as tense as a coiled spring. Then the car guns into action and we’re speeding through the cool night air.

The car stops outside my little flat. I turn toward him. ‘Thank you for dinner. I really—’

‘I’ll walk you to your door,’ he says, cutting me short.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, but he’s already opened his door and slipped out of the car. I shut my mouth and stare straight ahead. I think I’m a bit petrified about what might happen next.

He opens the passenger door. I put my hand in his outstretched palm and, placing my legs together, I swing them out as gracefully as I can and he heaves me out. He holds open the entrance door of my building and we walk together toward the lift. He presses the button to call it and it makes a clanking sound. It’s stopped working again.

I turn to him. ‘It’s broke.’

‘Thank God,’ he mutters. ‘I don’t think I can bear the smell of piss at this time of night.’

I wave a hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry, you can go. I’ll be fine. I always use the stairs, anyway.’

He looks down at me expressionlessly. ‘I took the stairs when I came up to get you. I can’t do bad smells. I only used the lift on the way down because of your high heels.’

‘Oh!’ I exclaim, blinking fast enough to have a seizure. ‘All right, if you’re sure,’ I say airily, and, turning away from him, start walking toward the stairs.

We walk up three flights of stairs without saying much. Outside my door I bend my head and rummage around in my purse for my key. I fish it out and hold it up.

‘Goodnight and thank—’ I begin brightly and then I come to a dead stop.

He’s staring at me in a way that should be outlawed. No man has ever looked at me like that. As if he’s starving and I’m triple-seared rib-eye steak. I feel the breath rush out of me and I don’t think I can remember how to take the next one. I’m still staring into his eyes with my mouth open when he takes the key out of my nerveless hand.

‘This is a grave mistake,’ I whisper.

‘I need it, and you want it,’ he says harshly.

He fits the key into the keyhole. I shake my head. ‘It’s wrong. We’ll regret it.’

He opens the door and walks me backward through it. ‘You might, I won’t.’

He kicks the door shut. I take a deep breath and his eyes drop to my heaving chest.

‘Dom,’ I breathe.

He backs me up to wall, his mouth inches away from mine. His energy is like a force field that is pressing me to the wall. A soft growl rumbles in his throat. It’s electrifying. My body responds by freezing. Blood rushes in my ears, deafening me, and every thought, sane or otherwise, flies out of my stunned brain. He cups the back of my head while his other hand comes around my waist like a band of steel and slams me into his hard body, crushing my breasts. It’s a good thing he’s holding me because my body feels boneless, as if I could melt and disappear into him.

I feel his breath waft over my face. It smells sweetish, like maraschino cherries soaked in alcohol. I’ve never felt so alive, or so vibrant, or so precious. I could have climbed mountains, flown to the stars, melted the sun. It’s as if he’s my secret dream. Something I’ve dreamed of and never known. I gasp with a mixture of shock and desire, and he clamps his lips onto my open mouth.

It’s like falling into a giant tidal wave.

And drowning. I don’t see him produce the condom, tear the foil, or even feel him fit the rubber. It’s all done while I’m sinking deeper and deeper. He snatches his mouth away. I gasp for air. Grabbing the edges of the slit in my red skirt, he rips it right up to the waist. My panties are flung, wet and torn, to the floor. His hands run down my back and over my ass, cupping and lifting me until I’m dangling off the ground at almost eye level with him. Slowly he grinds his erection against me.

Then he points his cock at my entrance and rams into me, hard. Enormous … Foreign … Dominating. The shock of the sheer size of him makes me grunt. My muscles convulse to accommodate the unexpected intrusion.

‘Does this feel wrong?’ he snarls.

I curl my legs around his thighs. ‘Fuck you,’ I spit, and squeeze his cock tight.

‘Yesssss, do that. Just like that,’ he approves hoarsely.

He withdraws and thrusts up into me, so forcefully that my body climbs the wall behind me.

‘Argh,’ I cry out, but in fact it feels fabulous. This is the way it was always meant to be.

‘Want it harder?’ he asks, his voice raspy.

‘Yeah,’ I whimper.

He slams into me again and I start to quake: Oh fuck! I’m ready to come apart—right here—right now. Electric volts shoot through my system. My body begins to tense and contract. My heart pounds so loudly I hear it from the edges of consciousness. I try to push against it, but I’m standing in the way of a juggernaut. I climax with my head thrown back and screaming. He carries on thrusting through my orgasm until with a roar he, too, climaxes. I’m still panting hard when his eyes meet mine.

We stare at each other. Enemies again.

He pulls out of me and I feel a pang. Loss. Having him inside me felt right. Without him inside me I can think rationally again, and I’m suddenly ashamed and angry with myself. What an idiot I am.

He allows me to slide down his body, but when I try to wriggle away, his grip is steely. I quickly push the flaps of my skirt down over my throbbing sex and trembling thighs.

‘Don’t be expecting a repeat of that,’ I say through gritted teeth.

He loses the condom, zips up, and fixes his eyes on me. His voice is unyielding. ‘Don’t kid yourself, baby girl. I’ll have a repeat whenever I please.’

‘Don’t bet on it,’ I snap.

‘I’ll bet my last tax dollar on it,’ he says. He takes my chin in his hand. It’s a hard man’s hand, the fingers long and square. He pulls my face up and gazes down at me, his eyes deliberately veiled. I stare up at him resentfully.

‘I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow night,’ he says with a frown.

‘I have another appointment,’ I lie.

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. ‘Cancel it,’ he says brutally.

I open my mouth to argue, but he catches the hair at the back of my neck in his fist and covers my mouth with his palm. I stare up at him with wide, half-fearful, half-excited eyes.

‘I haven’t even scratched the surface of what I fucking want to do to you,’ he growls.

Then he’s gone, shutting the door quietly behind him.

My chest heaves as if I’ve just run a marathon.

‘It’s just a physical thing. Just sex,’ I whisper to the empty air.

I stand on the street and stare up at her bedroom window. For a long time I don’t see anything. Then … her shadow passes … fleetingly. I behold the momentary vision eagerly. She is wearing something diaphanous and white, and her hair swims down her back and catches the light in such a way that each silky lock seems to be individually illuminated. It gives her a wild look, as if her very soul is untamed and free. She moves away.

I wait another hour, but she never again appears at the window. I stare up at the window even after the light goes out. What a thrill it used to be to watch her while she was unaware. I spent hours imagining her in bed, her beautiful hair spread across her pillow, wondering which duvet set she was using that day. But today there is no joy at all even in the mind fuck of imagining her masturbating, climaxing, and falling asleep with her thighs wide open, her pussy wet and ready for me.

Hatred bursts into my gut like burning lava. Even though he had stayed for a short time I know he fucked her. He had the air of man who had shot his load. Proud, satisfied, disheveled.

I never thought she would betray me in this way. I feel like rushing up to her apartment. What a fucking shock she’d get. My feet start to move and then I catch myself.

Patience. Patience.

She will be mine…