"I love you," he cries desperately.
I don't answer him. Staring at my own reflection blankly, I hit the disconnect button. What will be, will be. I take a deep breath and walk out of my bedroom. As I come down the stairs I see a shadow fall on the bottom step. Nikolai Smirnov is standing there looking up at me. He has changed into a dark suit and a snow-white shirt.
Chapter Eighteen
Start
These violent delights have violent ends
-Shakespeare
His gaze locks on mine. In the cluster of lamplights by the stairs, his eyes glow like a wolf's. He doesn't move or say anything. Just looks at me. I feel it then. How completely isolated he is. Like those strange twisted, gnarled trees that grow on barren wastelands. They get their nourishment from deep within the earth so they have no need for anyone or anything.
Suddenly, I feel unsteady on my feet.
I grip the banister and carefully, continue on my journey down.
As I reach the third step from the bottom I come level with him. Something flickers in his hooded eyes. He has secrets. Rooms of them. Rooms I can never enter.
He reaches out a hand and touches the skin of my stomach. Desire snakes down my spine, the hair on my skin stands, and my whole body comes alive. I have to fight not to reveal how affected I am by that simple touch. I inhale deeper, and without meaning to I breathe him in, the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin. I already know what he will taste like on my tongue.
"I had a dream last night," he murmurs. "You were riding me. Up and down my cock. Your hair loose and bouncing."
My eyes widen with shock.
"And when you came you screamed my name."
"I don't think it's your name I'll be screaming," I say sarcastically, but my body responds differently. It aches for him.
He smiles slowly. So slowly, it's like watching ice melt. "Careful with your claws little pussycat. That sounded like a challenge. Was it?"
"Take it how you want," I reply defiantly.
His eyes flash as he wraps his hand around my waist. "Hmmm … I've always liked a feisty lay, but let's eat first."
"I told you I'm not hungry."
"Nevertheless, I've ordered food for you. I assumed you hadn't eaten all day."
"Well, I'm not hungry," I repeat in a bored voice, even though I am surprised by how perceptive he is.
"We'll see," he says mildly, and lets his hand slip to the small of my back. He is barely touching me, but I can feel the warmth from his hand as he leads me to a vast, red room.
At one corner of the long dining table, two places have been set. Light from a candelabra makes a circle of soft glow. It looks romantic.
A man, he looks like he might be Greek, or Spanish, or even Middle-eastern, steps forward and pulls out a chair for me. I thank him and sink into it. He nods and fills my glass with champagne before quietly withdrawing from the room.
I turn towards Nikolai and find his eyes on me. The intensity of his gaze unnerves me. "Don't you get lonely living in this massive place by yourself?"
"I don't actually live here. Just some weekends."
"What a waste of money," I say scornfully.
"Would you rather I gambled it away?" he mocks arrogantly.
That veiled criticism of Nigel immediately gets my back up. I'm loyal to a fault. How dare he criticize my husband. If he carries on in this vein I'll end up hating him. "Addiction is a disease, Mr. Smirnov. Like cancer. Would you blame a person because they had cancer?"
His expression doesn't change. "Do you plan on calling me Mr. Smirnov when my cock is in your cunt?"
I glare at him furiously. "I find that term incredibly vulgar and distasteful."
His eyes fill with amusement. "Which one? Cock or cunt?"
"The latter," I say between clenched teeth.
He lifts his glass and looks at me curiously. "What term would you prefer?"
I drop my eyes. "Vagina."
He laughs.
I lift my head and stare at him. Suddenly he seems younger, carefree and different.
"A vagina is some cold intellectual's attempt to turn an incredibly mysterious and beautiful body part into just another organ. Like a kidney or a liver. A vagina, little butterfly, is not the proper receptacle for a cock. A vagina is dry. You can't spread it open and suck it. Or finger it as it drips for you. A vagina is what you find in a biology textbook."
He leans forward and I stare at him, mesmerized.
"Now, a cunt. That is a whole different ballgame. It is sweet and pretty and greedy. Very, very greedy. So if you are calling your cunt a vagina, it means you've never been fucked blind by a man."
I bristle with anger. "I have been fucked blind by a man, thank you very much."
"We'll soon find out, won't we?'
He takes a sip. "To your education."
I refuse to join in the toast.
There is slight noise in the corridor, and the door opens. The man from earlier comes in with two dishes. He puts a deep dish of soup in front of me.
"Leek and potato soup with crème fraîche," he murmurs politely.
I raise my eyes to Nikolai Smirnov. He is watching me. His eyes veiled. It cannot be a coincidence.
I slide my gaze over to the server. "I'm not hungry. I don't want it."
He has kept his face totally expressionless until now, but at my refusal an expression of surprise shows in his eyes. He veils it quickly, and reaches out to remove the plate.
"Leave it, Gregorios." The sound is like a whiplash in the vast room.
Gregorios freezes, then straightens, nods respectfully, and leaves the room without ever making eye contact with me again.
I wait until the man has gone before I say, "It's not a coincidence that you are serving my favorite soup, is it?"
"Of course not," he agrees blandly.
"How did you know?"
"My head of security."
Gregorios enters with a bread basket. He holds it out to me to make my selection, and I shake my head.
"Put a mixed seed roll on her plate," Nikolai says.
The man obeys and I clench my hands under the table. He goes over to Nikolai, serves him a bread roll, and leaves. Nikolai breaks his roll and the smell of freshly baked bread wafts over to me. My mouth starts watering. Nikolai butters his roll. I drag my gaze from the bread to his face.
"Did you have me investigated?"
"Naturally. You didn't imagine I would bring anyone into my life without knowing anything at all about them?"
I lean back against the chair, angry. "What else do you know about me?"
He bites into his roll. He has strong straight teeth. "I know you're on the pill."
My jaw drops. "How did you know that?"
He chews. "What would you rather believe? That my security guard saw the contraceptives in your purse, or someone went through your garbage for the last few weeks."
I stare at him in astonishment. "What? You paid someone to go through my trash?"
He picks up his spoon. "Why are you so surprised? Teams of people working for the Eastern European Mafia regularly go through the rubbish of Londoners. That is also why you shouldn't tear your bank statements into four pieces and leave them out for the trash man to take away."
I gasp with shock. He knew how much money I had in my account! My eyes narrow. "Your security man didn't find out about my favorite soup by snooping about in my black bin bags, did he?"
"No. You must have mentioned it in your emails, or your phone calls."
I stare at him in disbelief. "Someone has been listening to my calls and reading my private emails?"
He stops eating and laughs. He actually laughs. "You've obviously not taken Snowden's revelations very seriously. Someone is always watching and listening, Star. This time it happened to be one of my men."
"Watching?"
"I'm afraid my head of security tends to take his job very seriously."
"Stop pretending to be uninvolved in this disgusting invasion of my privacy. He does that because you expect him to," I shout angrily. I am so angry I feel like picking up the fancy deep dish of soup in front of me and pouring the contents over his smirking, self-satisfied, arrogant head. How dare he snoop about in my personal communications. The debt wasn't even mine to begin with. My breath comes fast.
"Do you have cameras in my home?" I demand.
"No."
"I should report you to the police."
He smiles. "And say what?"
"Tell them what you've done. It's illegal."
He picks up his glass of champagne. "Your husband gave me permission."
"I don't believe you."
"Are you calling me a liar?"
Chapter Nineteen
Star
His voice is polite and his eyes glitter, but I don't care. "Yes, I am," I reply. "I know Nigel wouldn't have given you permission to pry in my affairs."
He takes a sip of his champagne, returns the glass back to the snowy tablecloth, and raises his eyes to meet mine. "When one decides to play little housewife and bury her head in the sand, it is always a good idea not to throw around accusations like that. Your husband signed a contract where it clearly states that anyone taking a debt from us will be closely monitored. And that includes their family members and friends."