Dirty Aristocrat(52)

'You don't talk much,' he notes and offers his hand. He knows inside I am clamoring for him.

Dazed by his appearance and the way he makes me feel I put my hand in  the cradle of his. His hand is huge. It feels like hot damp earth. It  closes over mine tightly. He hauls me up so suddenly, I yelp. I find  myself dangerously unbalanced at the back of him. The horse neighs at my  panic. He places his calm, steadying hand on its strong neck and holds  it there until it stills. He squares my weight on the horse.

'Put your arms around me,' he says.

I do it gladly. The heat and scent of him envelop me. I hear the  staccato of my heart, loud, strong, fast. I have to resist the desire to  lay my head on his taut back.

'OK?' he asks, turning his head to look at me.

'OK,' I croak.         

     



 

He clicks his tongue and eases the horse into a canter through the  fields. There are no sounds but those we make. The horse's snorting  breath, the twigs crackling underneath. He does not speak and neither do  I. There is something magical about our ride.

He slows the horse to a walk as we enter the woods. Here the air is  colder and darker and full of the scent of summer, wildflowers and  clover. Squirrels and small animals scamper in the underbush and trees.  When we get out of the woods we are suddenly on a beach.

'Wow,' I whisper.

'Hold on tight,' he says, and puts the horse to a gallop along the  shoreline. For a few seconds I am shocked and a little bit afraid and  then I laugh. The wind tears at my hair, tossing it about wildly.  Beneath me I can feel the stallion flexing gracefully as he flies over  the ground with amazing speed.

The hard man against my front, the horse underneath me, and the  fantastic sensation of total freedom: it is old magic. Magic that can  only be conjured up when all the trappings of civilization have been  stripped away. The horse stops. Jake throws a leg over and deftly jumps  to the ground. With his hands around my waist, he lifts me down. He pats  the horse's sleek neck and it runs away from us.

I look up at him. 'The horse … '

'He'll be all right.'

I notice then that he is barefoot. And unlike all the other times I have  seen him, he is wearing an old, ripped T-shirt and faded brown corduroy  trousers. I take my borrowed shoes off and hold them in my hand.

'Come on,' he says and we walk together, our hands almost touching but  not quite. We never speak. There is not a soul in sight. Salt water laps  at our bare feet. Above our heads a lone seagull circles the sky. I  cannot explain the sense of peace or the inevitability of the moment. It  feels as if there is no other life for me but this. I am not a dancer  in a gentlemen's club and he is not a gangster.

I want to ask him why-why is he sharing his paradise with me?-but I find  the words choke in my throat. Maybe because I know that this is  temporary and words will only taint it. Once, I turn sideways to look at  him and find him watching me. His hair is windswept, the hard  cheekbones flushed, and his eyes bright in the morning sun.

'What?' I mouth.

He shakes his head and whistles. The horse flies toward us, mane flying.  A beautiful sight. It stops in front of him and he carefully cups its  face and in hush tones speaks to it in a language I cannot understand.  Maybe Gaelic.

'What are you saying to him?' I ask.

'I am introducing you to him. We gypsies have always talked to our animals.'

'What are you telling him about me?'

'That's our secret.'

He takes my hand and brings it to the horse. I feel its hot damp breath  on my palm. I touch its cheek and see a flare of panic in its eyes. It  paws the ground. He cups its face and soothes it.

'What's his name?'

'Thor.'

'He loves you,' I whisper.

'I love him,' he says simply and kisses the horse between the eyes.

With a clean hop he mounts the horse and, sitting squarely on it,  reaches for my hand. With me securely seated behind him we return to the  house. The journey back seems much faster and too soon we are outside  the front entrance of the house. He dismounts and helps me down.

I look into his face and already he has changed, become distant. He  regards me carefully. 'I have other matters to attend to and will not  join you for breakfast. After breakfast Ian will take you back to  London.'

Other matters to attend to. And suddenly I remember the woman he spent  the night with. A flash of jealousy rips through me. Fuck her. Fuck them  both.

'Thanks,' I call out casually as I walk away from him.

I am dying to, but I don't watch him gallop away.

Inside the house, I find Maria hovering in the living room. She seems to  be fluffing some cushions, but she must have been at the window  watching us arrive.

'Good morning,' she says brightly.

'Morning.'

'Well then, young lass, what would you like for breakfast? Waffles, cereal, full English, continental, or something different?'

'Continental sounds good.'

'Excellent. Breakfast will be served in the dining room in ten minutes.'

After she leaves I wander over to the window. How strange it all is. Me  in this house. Me on a horse with Jake Eden. Ten minutes later I go into  the dining room. It is exactly like the rest of the house. Rich and  splendid and unlived in.

I eat my warm, perfectly flaky croissant with lashings of butter and jam  and drink my cup of freshly brewed coffee alone. But as I am finishing  my food Jake appears at the door.         

     



 

His hair is still wet from his shower and he is dressed in a charcoal  shirt, black trousers, a white silk tie and maroon shoes. I remember  again the way he looked coming in from the mist, at one with his beast.  Uncivilized and utterly beautiful. He is holding a box in his hand.

I stare at him, surprised. I did not expect to see him again this  morning. I brush croissant crumbs from my fingers and wipe them on the  napkin on my lap.

'I got you something.' He seems awkward, totally at odds with his usual macho bravado.

I stand, the chair scraping on the carpet. 'You got me a present,' I say stupidly.

He comes toward me and holds it out. I take it cautiously. It is a  square box, five inches by five. It is wrapped in dark gray paper with a  broad red ribbon. It screams expensive.

I undo the ribbon and tear the paper open. Inside a transparent plastic  box is a spray of white orchids. The stem is immersed in a small plastic  tube of water and attached to a comb-clip.

'For your hair,' he says softly. 'Wear it tomorrow night …  For me.'

White flowers. I remember the poem: Somewhere there's beauty. Somewhere  there's freedom. I nod slowly, my eyes locked on his. Hypnotized by what  I see in them. 'So you're coming to the club tomorrow?'

'Yes. Wait for me?'

I register a surge of uncontrollable joy inside my body. It makes my ears burn. I smile-happy, wistful.

'And one more thing-Miss Mornington didn't stay the night.'





SIX



It is a slow night at the club and I worry about how awkward it will be  to see Shane there, but as it turns out he does not come in. At two  Melanie and I take a cab back to the apartment.

'I'm hungry,' I say walking to the fridge. 'Do you want something?'

'Get the ice cream out,' she says flinging herself on the sofa.

'Chocolate or vanilla?'

'Both.'

I bring two bowls of ice cream out into the living room and Melanie is taking crumpled, damp notes out of her bra.

'Whoa,' I say, kicking off my shoes and curling up on the couch opposite her. 'I thought we all have to use ECs.'

'Yeah, we do,' she admits. 'But some guys want me to have cash. They  know I'd lose twenty percent during cash out and they'd rather I had the  whole thing.'

'Does Brianna know?'

'Sure.'

'So how much money do you make in a night then?' I ask curiously.

'About a thousand on a bad night and three to five on a good night.'

My eyes widen. 'Three to five?'

'Why? How much do you make?' She looks at me with narrowed assessing eyes.

'After paying the house fee and other costs about three hundred quid. Once I made seven hundred.'

'No fucking way,' she erupts, clearly as shocked as I was that she was taking in up to five thousand in one night.

'Why is that so shocking?'

She shakes her head. 'Damn, girl, if I looked like you I'd be making  five thousand a shift. That's what those blonde bimbos take home every  fucking night.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really, and you know what else? If you don't start earning at  least four figures soon Brianna is going to ask you in for a little  chat, and if your income doesn't improve real quick after that you'll be  politely asked to leave.'

'Shit,' I curse softly. I can't afford that to happen.

'What did you think? You're taking up the place of a girl that could be  earning thousands for the club. We are the sweets in the sweetshop.'

I stare at her stupidly.

'Look, it's not hard. You just have to apply yourself. Do you know what Jolene takes home?'

'Jolene?' I frown and shake my head. Jolene is the least good-looking  girl at the club. She even has buck teeth. When I met her in the  changing rooms it surprised me that Brianna had taken her on.

'That girl takes six to seven thousand. Sometimes I've heard she even makes ten when her regulars come.'

My jaw drops open. 'Ten thousand pounds?'

'Yup.'

'A night?'

'Yeah. You should see when she cashes out at the end of her shift. It's  like someone hitting jackpot at the fruit machine in a Vegas casino.'