Bad Boys of London: The Complete GYPSY HEROES Collection (38 page)

We park in an underground car park beneath a posh building in Chelsea and get into a lift smelling of disinfectant. Both of us face the gleaming doors as we’re silently and quickly whisked up to the top floor. His apartment is one of two on the top floor. As soon as he opens the front door, I say, ‘Wow!’ Most of the walls are made of glass and the view is breathtaking.

‘Oh my God! You can see across the river for miles out.’

He chucks his keys onto a metal container shaped like a leaf on the sideboard while I look around in amazement. The way homes in designer magazines look. Spotless, not a scratch or mark anywhere, fabulous furniture, everything color-coordinated with one or two bold splashes here and there, the floors shining with polish, and a bowl of fruit on a statement coffee table.

‘Does anyone actually live here?’

He looks at me strangely. ‘I live here.’

‘Wow, then you must have a shit-hot cleaner.’

‘I’ll tell Maria you said that,’ he says with a grin.

I grin back foolishly.

‘Come on. I’ll show you the balcony,’ he says and we cross the vast open-plan space. Our footsteps echo in the ultra-modern emptiness of the place. He opens the tall glass doors and I step outside.

‘This is amazing,’ I exclaim looking at the city bathed in the glow of the evening sun.

‘Yeah, it is, isn’t it? When you live somewhere for some time you start forgetting how beautiful you once thought it was.’

‘You’re very lucky,’ I say sincerely.

His face closes over. ‘It’s still too early to say,’ he says cryptically.

‘No, you’re already luckier than all the children who live in rubbish dumps in the Philippines and all the slave workers in China and India and all the homeless people in London.’

He looks down at me, and for a long time he doesn’t say anything. Then he raises his finger and pushes away a skein of hair that the wind has undone from my face. His fingers feel hard and warm against my skin. I have to resist the impulse to rub my face against his hand like some needy puppy. Thank God, he takes his hand away before I do something I’ll forever regret.

‘Sometimes you can be happier on a rubbish dump than in a palace,’ he says.

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘I don’t believe it, I know it. Growing up my family was dirt poor and yet we were happy. Fiercely happy.’

I stare up at him. In the sunlight his eyes are like blue crystals with silver flares, the pupils seeming too large for a man.

‘People don’t understand what wealth does. Wealth makes you more dissatisfied. You buy a house, you fill it with the best, then you buy another, you fill that with the best; you buy a yacht, then a plane; you buy a vineyard and then you buy a bigger yacht, and a bigger plane. Then you start a luxury car collection. And you never ever come to a place where you think, “That’s enough now. Why earn any more? I couldn’t spend it all in my lifetime even if I tried. I’ll just stop working and relax, enjoy all I have.” No, you just keep on pushing yourself, constantly expanding the business. It’s why billionaires in their eighties put in eighteen hour days.’

I think of my parents. They’re poor, yes, but they’re happy in their small world outside the rat race. And except for my resentment of the people who don’t pay their taxes, I love my little matchbox flat and my little life.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asks suddenly, jerking me away from my thoughts.

‘Ravenous,’ I admit.

And he laughs. ‘Good. There’s plenty of food.’

I hear his laugh inside my chest. ‘What’re we having? A takeaway?’

‘Sort of.’

His idea of a sort of takeaway and mine are worlds apart. Mine is a small pepperoni pizza with garlic bread, or chicken biryani and poppadoms, or a quarter crispy duck and special fried noodles from one of the takeaway joints inside the five-mile free delivery radius. His is a three-course meal from one of his restaurants.

The food—well, the raw ingredients—is brought by a man in a chef’s uniform whom Dom introduces as Franco. Franco then proceeds to cook and serve us as we sit at the dining table. I take a careful sip from my glass of wine. I woke up with a massive hangover this morning and I don’t want to repeat the experience tomorrow.

‘So, you can’t cook,’ I say, cutting into my perfectly baked leg of milk-fed lamb.

‘Nope.’ Holding his food at the side of his mouth, he says, ‘My brother Shane can, though.’

‘He’s the youngest, isn’t he?’

‘No, my sister Layla is. He’s the second youngest.’

I pick up a dab of artichoke and pearl barley mash at the end of my knife. ‘Ah, yes. I forgot. He’s the youngest boy. Being a stay-at-home mother, your sister didn’t quite make it on to our radar. But she’s married to a rather … um … interesting character, isn’t she?’

He leans back and looks at me expressionlessly. ‘He may be a rather … um … interesting character, but outside of my brothers I’d rather have BJ guard my back than I would any other man on earth. He’s a totally straight and loyal guy. Maybe one day you’ll meet him.’ He smiles. ‘He might not like you too much, though. As you’ve probably figured out, us gypsies have no love for tax collectors.’

‘And yet here I am.’

He takes a sip of his whiskey and puts it down on the table, then remarks almost to himself, ‘Yes, yet here you are. Real enough to touch.’

Whatever the thought was that passed through his head, it made him suddenly pensive.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I blurt out.

He looks up at me, one sooty eyebrow raised. ‘Doing what?’

‘Fraternizing with the hated tax collector.’

He gives my question serious consideration and then says the most unexpected thing. ‘It is a lucky man who finds an enemy who is so intoxicating.’

I frown. Hearing him say that is surprisingly wounding. ‘We’re not enemies,’ I say softly.

His eyes narrow until they are dark slits. ‘Ah, but we are, sweet Ella. We just find each other physically irresistible. That is all.
Never
make the mistake of thinking otherwise.’

NINE

W
e’re having sweet grapes and cheese from Hervé Mons on the balcony when Franco comes out to say that he’s leaving.

‘Thank you for a really delicious meal. I’d never tasted Sauternes jelly until tonight,’ I say with a smile.

He bows. ‘I’m glad. Maybe I will cook for you again,’ he says, and then shoots a wary look at Dom.

‘I’ll look forward to that,’ I say.

‘Ciao, bella.’

‘Ciao, Franco,’ I say, surprised at how normal my voice sounds. Quite frankly, I’m more than a little tipsy. From the moment Dom made that statement about us being enemies who find each other sexually irresistible, everything changed for me. Until then, I’d allowed myself to fall into a ridiculous fantasy that I was dating the most gorgeous man on earth.
I was actually drifting through my evening in a cloud of naive happiness, dreaming of a life together with him. A slice of heaven with two kids and a demented puppy. How stupid. As if someone like him would end up with someone like me.

I think I might even know the exact moment I got caught up in the fairy tale. When I was lying in bed looking at the red dress he sent me. It was so special, and I’ve never been given anything so splendid by anyone—ever. In fact, no one I know can even afford to buy such expensive items. I guess I got totally sucked into my outlandish piece of fiction when I tried on the dress and it fit me like a dream.

But really, who can blame me? It was such a delicious fantasy.

When I was a girl, I always, always wanted to be Cinderella. I wanted to go to the ball all dressed up in a glittery blue gown and have a handsome prince fall in love with me. At midnight I’d drop my glass slipper and my prince would come looking for me. He would search high and low, and no one else would do. The slipper was mine. The man was mine. Dom is the prince I’ve always dreamed of, and subconsciously I was acting out my childhood dream.

It was the throbbing emptiness inside me that made me forget my good decision to drink carefully, and I became stupidly reckless. I think I’ve consumed more than half a bottle of wine on my own. Again. Dom never comments, just watches, and silently refills my glass. He doesn’t even seem to care that I’ve gone strange and our conversation has become stilted. The harsh comment was designed to keep me at a distance. I guess he didn’t want to lead me up the garden path. He wanted me to have no illusions. We’re having sex and we’re having fun.

Yay! What fun.

Dom uncurls his long frame and walks Franco to the door. Their voices roll through me as they cross the apartment. Feeling restless, I stand up. Whoa. Why is the floor moving? I put a foot in front of me, and another, and another, and I’m leaning on the railing. The city glitters like a bed of lights below. I hear the front door close and then Dom is back on the balcony. I turn around slowly. A wind has risen and it whips my hair into my eyes. I use both my hands to hold it in place.

He doesn’t come closer. He just stands there watching me. I can’t see his expression because the light is behind him, but his body is tense and taut. I think of how he pounced on me yesterday. I think of how shamelessly I responded.

‘I think I’d like another drink,’ I slur to him.

‘Sure. What d’you want?’ His voice is cool and distant. He really doesn’t give a shit about me.

‘I’ll have that thing I saw Franco swigging from the freezer.’

I can’t be sure, but I think he smiles. ‘OK. Do you want to come in? It’s getting a bit cold.’

‘So, what do you care?’

He walks up to me and threads his fingers through mine. ‘To be honest, you look like you’re about to fall over the railing, and I’d feel a lot better if we went in.’

‘Yeah?’

He sighs. ‘Christ, you’re so drunk.’

‘I thought you liked me drunk.’

‘Come on. Let’s get you some grappa.’

We go into his kitchen and I sit on the counter while he opens the freezer.

‘Is that ice cream I see in there?’ I ask interestedly.

He pulls the carton out.

‘Let me see that. Gin and tonic ice cream! Where on earth did you get this from?’ I exclaim enthusiastically.

‘My sister buys it. She loves the stuff, but she’s on this strict organic diet, so she keeps a tub here so the only time she can have it is when she’s here. But I believe there might be a tub at Shane’s, Jake’s, and my mum’s, too.’ His face softens while he’s talking about his sister, and suddenly I feel sad. I want this beautiful, beautiful man for myself, but he doesn’t want me. Yeah, he wants me to have sex with, but not all of me in sickness and in health, till death do us part.

He looks at me with amusement. ‘Would you rather have the ice cream instead of the grappa?’

I have to think this one out. ‘Can I have the grappa poured over the ice cream?’ I ask.

He makes a face. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously,’ I insist.

I pop myself on a high chrome stool—and, believe me, that’s some feat when you’re feeling the way I am—and I put my elbows on the gleaming surface of the island and watch him scoop the ice cream out. Gosh, the way he scoops ice cream is so yummy, I want to pour the melted stuff down his body and lick it off him. He picks up the bottle of grappa and looks at me.

‘You sure about this?’

I wave my hand to indicate that he should continue with the task of pouring.

He pours the ice-cold grappa over the ice cream and places it in front of me. He opens a drawer, finds a spoon and lays it beside the bowl. Actually, it looks quite delicious. I might have found a winning combination here.

I take the spoon, dig it into the concoction and put it into my mouth. Ooooh! My eyes widen and my mouth starts moving sideways. Oh!

His reaction is admirable. He shoves the bowl under my chin just as I spit it out.

‘Sorry,’ I apologize.

‘It was a vile combination,’ he concedes, handing me a paper towel.

I wipe my mouth and tongue. ‘Oh dear, that was not very sexy, was it?’ I say weakly. How was I to know that gin and tonic ice cream with grappa poured over it would be so evil?

‘Actually,’ he says, his irises growing, ‘everything you do is sexy, sweet Ella. Can’t you tell? I’ve been wanting to fuck you for hours.’ He tilts his head. ‘My bedroom is that way.’ Slowly, I turn my head in the direction he’s indicated.

‘Get naked and sit on the edge of the bed,’ he commands.

TEN