Love Beat (13 page)

I peer again. The background’s a blur of figures and patches. Maybe there’s some momentous event taking place, or maybe it’s just traffic. But the foreground is sharp and clear. It shows two young children, a boy and a girl, sitting on a mound. The boy’s reaching out to the little girl, who seems to be crying.

Odd, I think, that with all the excitement going on in the background it’s the children who caught the photographer’s eye.

But the more I look, the more powerfully it strikes me, the extreme tenderness of the child—so protective so young. The shot hints at a private moment amid public activity—the classic essence of a great photo—yet they’re probably nothing to do with the scene. In essence, it’s just a couple of kids sitting on a bank.

I frown, sure I’ve seen it before somewhere. But the moment eludes me.

“And the signatures on the top copies are all fake.”

Cade’s voice echoes through the room. It’s followed by a stunned silence. With a snap I drag my attention back to the problem of the paperwork and the photo is forgotten.

My subconscious patches up the conversation into a rough version of what was said. The paperwork appears to be in order, but the signatures on the top copies differ from those on our earlier disclaimers, so technically the top copies of the non-disclosure agreements are invalid.

In effect, it means that none of us has promised to keep quiet about what we see and do here. There’s nothing to stop us from calling a reporter or gossiping on the Internet. And if we want to sell our story to the highest bidder, the Love Beat Corporation has no legal redress.

“So unless we find a solution right here and right now, we’ll slap on a super injunction and you’ll have to leave.” He looks round at us with eyes of steel. I sense his fury and wonder briefly if the others have any idea how serious this is.

He leans forward, looking at each of us turn, his tone deadly quiet. “And what I have to know is, was it one of you? In which case, we just might be able to fix this. Or was it someone back in some office somewhere? Because if it was, you’re all leaving as of now.”

His eyes rest briefly on me but show no emotion as they pass on round the group. It’s like being back at school, called to the principal’s office about a broken window.

The silence lengthens. None of us look at the others.

I feel a stirring of alarm. Something’s wrong here.

We’re behaving as if we’re guilty.

Surely we should be denying this? Protesting? Heaven knows there’s enough at stake.

After a long moment, Ben clears his throat. “I—ah… I think it may have been me.”

I hold my breath as the room slowly comes to life and the protests and clamor I’ve been waiting for suddenly drown out Ben’s sheepish explanation.

When the final copies came through, he thought he’d save time by signing them all himself, one after the other. No, he’d no idea it was so important. Yes, of course he understands the significance now, but he hadn’t at the time.

At last he stammers to a halt and looks down at his hands. I wait for him to apologize but he says nothing more. It makes me feel uneasy. He’s usually so careful about paperwork.

Cade eyes him with distaste then for a second his eyes flick over to meet mine.

Oh no.
He must think I’m part of this.

His gaze drifts back to the unhappy Ben. “Okay. So far no harm seems to have been done. Your emails and calls are being monitored, so I’ll give you a second chance. Sonja’s prepared duplicates of the top copies of all the relevant documents. You can sign them now. We’ll witness them before you leave this room, unless you’d like to call in your lawyers and let them battle it out with mine.”

We all sign. As the atmosphere eases, I breathe a sigh of relief as I follow the others down to lunch. Cade joins us, easy and relaxed. There’s no trace in his manner of his earlier tension.

At one point Mel looks up with a grin. “Hey, Tunis, what about showing us your upgrade? We asked around, but no one seems to know where you are.”

I feel Cade’s eyes on me. I look up and smile brightly. “Well, I would, but there’s an extra layer of security on that floor, so I wouldn’t recommend it. You’ll probably get a strip-search.”

It’s meant as a feeble joke—a play for time while I think of a way to put them off—but to my amazement, it works. After a moment’s shocked silence, Mel changes the subject.

At that moment I remember where I’ve seen the photo before.

There’s a huge copy of it hanging on the wall of Cade’s sitting room.

Chapter Ten

I spend a shaky afternoon setting up interviews. It helps being almost famous myself, even if I’m only a humble TV presenter. It irritates me that for all her Glasgow bullishness, Mel is so coy with the stars.

She has a tough time explaining why she’s in such awe. “I know. I know. I’m just a groupie at heart. Goes with the turf.”

Garth Delaney, her catch of the week, is a case in point. Like millions of women all over the world, Mel blushes at the very suggestion that Jake should get him on film. She’s still working out how to ask him when I lose patience, stroll casually past his sun lounger and murmur a lighthearted request. He simply turns over, raises his shades a fraction and sleepily agrees.

Easy-peasy.

Mel’s jealous at first then ecstatic. She hauls Jake away from some distant part of the golf course where his hopes of completing an early round instantly nosedive into a bunker. Soon the second version of her interview with the great man is triumphantly captured on film with a blushing Mel gazing adoringly up into the eyes of her hero, unfazed by the scowls of his hovering agent.

As we walk back along the poolside, Mel runs through all the useful new tidbits of gossip she’s gleaned from her session and gives me a hug. “Thanks, Tunis. You’re a star.”

I giggle from one too many spritzers, glad I’m forgiven for slipping off the radar yesterday. “Hey, he’s the star. I’m just the presenter. Correction,
ex-
presenter,” I add carefully, mindful of Cade’s all-seeing, all-hearing security system.

He has spies everywhere.

* * * *

When I reach my room later that afternoon, I hurl my sun hat onto the bed, strip off my linen crops and head for the shower with a sigh of relief. We’re on track.

Another long day, another successful chunk of film. The project’s under control, even if my part in it—like my grip on things—is still uncertain.

With Cade Fitzlean around, it’s impossible to tell whether things are going well or if some new crisis looms. All this week I’m inextricably linked to him while his life seems to lurch from one drama to another, dragging me with it.

As I wander out of the shower, swathed in a large fluffy towel and idly running my fingers through my wet hair, I pull up short.

He’s sitting in my room, watching me. Once more he’s stolen up on me but I feel it’s me who’s intruding.

I start to smile a greeting but something in his look stops me.

“You’re late.”

Instantly I panic.

My session.

I’d forgotten. Is it after four? A glance at his face warns me it probably is.

“Come here and kneel.”

If his voice sends ice through me, his look sends pure flame. Clutching the towel tightly around me, I take a few steps toward him and sink to my knees.

“Lose the towel.”

Arousal sets up a slow, steady beat between my legs as my skimpy towel slides from my shoulders and pools around me in a fluffy nest.

He’s as elegant as ever and also recently showered. His short hair curls damply along his forehead and I catch the faint scent of his elusive aftershave with its heady hint of bergamot. He’s wearing black jeans and shirt, the top three buttons undone, the cuffs folded back at his wrists.

He looks casual, stunningly beautiful—and angry.

“What did you know about that business this morning?”

I’m instantly wary. “Nothing. Why should I know anything about it? You heard what Ben said. It was a simple mistake. That’s all.”

But even as I say it, I feel there was more to it than that. Our project here is important, the biggest job we’ve ever taken on. It’ll be a huge boost to our careers if all goes well. Ben would have been super careful to get things right. So why be careless about this?

Cade’s eyeing me steadily. “What?”

My worried frown gives me away. Either that, or he has an uncanny knack of guessing my thoughts. “If you must know, I think it’s out of character for Ben to make that kind of mistake. But I also think this would be a lot easier if you were less hostile. Why are you still so set against Jake, for instance? Are you jealous?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s ridiculous. I told you—”

“Not necessarily for you.”

I stare at him in shock. He’s jealous—for
someone else?

This is a body blow. Instantly I sense how far I’ve traveled down this road.
I’ve got serious feelings for this man.

And once more I’ve forgotten the simple fact that he may have other women, maybe even here, mingling with the guests, and maybe—in spite of what he says—they even work for him.

After all, I asked him to do this. And now I come to think of it, he took some persuading. And here I’ve been happily daydreaming about making love in magical towers.

What did he say?
Hold the violins…
I know nothing about him except he’s rich and he’s beyond good-looking. There must be other people in his life. How would I know?

My blood runs cold.

At that moment my eye falls on the photo. “What’s the story behind that picture? Are you especially fond of it?”

It’s a simple ruse to play for time, but for a few seconds, he sits very still.

“Ah, your friend the photographer again. I saw you whispering about it in my office. Yes, I like it. It reminds me of the need to stay in control. Did he tell you it’s an original? Nathan Gemmel signed it for me shortly before he died.”

“Jake thought so. We did a feature on Gemmel once. We tracked down most of his work, but this one’s rare. I’ve never seen it before, nor has Jake. And he’s even worked with him.”

“I bought up all the negatives. It’s the only copy, that and the smaller one in the group downstairs.”

I catch my breath. How much did all that cost? It’s like buying a Rembrandt. “But you should let other people see it. It belongs to the culture—”

“It belongs to me.” He cuts in with an angry gesture and rises to his feet. “Our session’s overdue and you’ve just earned another punishment for delaying tactics.”

I make as if to rise, but he frowns. “Stay where you are. Since you asked, I’ve got more than one beef with your team. It’s very high risk bringing you all here. I knew it would be tricky. Also, your photographer friend verges on a psycho, in my opinion.”

“Oh? At least he doesn’t whip people.”

His eyes narrow in the icy silence. “Meaning what, exactly? That I’m a psycho because I do? At least I keep control, and I always get consent. Or did he ask your permission to throw you off that bridge? Maybe that was the bit I missed.”

He paces the room, lithe and fierce. “And what does that make you? You’re the one who wanted me to do this, if I remember.”

He pauses in front of me, his expression opaque but his jaw tense. “Tyne-Follet and Mel Macallan are investigative reporters. In my book, that makes them dangerous. You know—and they probably know—that they’re on a short leash, but I’m sure they’re itching for a story. If we pull this off without a hitch, it’ll be a terrific launch. If not, we’re all in trouble—them too. I’ll make sure of that. They don’t know what they’re getting into.”

I open my mouth to speak but he puts a finger on my lips. “Uh-uh. No sound. From now until the end of this session, you stay silent unless I give you permission to speak. This is only your fourth day. You’re doing well, but we’ll have to speed things up if I’m to get you in shape by the end of the week. To be fair, it would normally take months, but I’ll do my best.”

I stare up at him in alarm. For me this week is unexpectedly searing. It’s not only an emotional rollercoaster, but it’s also physically hard work, even harder than dance. How much more of this can I take?

“From now on, you’d better start taking this a little more seriously. I’ll make a point of correcting lapses in your manners.” His face softens into a smile, and he reaches over to the table beside him. “And since you like dressing up and I particularly like the undressing part that comes afterward, we’ll try out a little costume play. Today you’re going to wear this.”

He holds up a flimsy assortment of straps with gleaming buckles attached. I stare at it, my mind blank. “
Wear
it? How?”

His smile is calm, his voice low. I sense an edge in his tone that instantly puts me on my guard. At the same time I feel myself start to
burn
.

“It’s a bondage harness but without the collar. You’re going to try it for size. Stay on your knees.”

His air of suppressed excitement sends a shaft of heat straight to my groin. This turns him on?

I’m instructed to hold out my arms and he slips it into place over my shoulders then buckles it tightly down the back. The straps are black leather and form a tight, strict rectangular grid, leaving my breasts sharply exposed and pinching in tightly at the waist. The arrangement of the straps also pulls my shoulders back, thrusting my breasts forward.

When he’s buckled it tightly behind my back, he slips two of the straps between my legs. They pass underneath, exposing my slit, then widen out between the cheeks of my bottom to force me open.

“Stand up and turn around slowly then bend over and touch the floor. How does it feel? Point to anywhere that chafes or feels too tight.”

I stretch and bend double, pointing toward the lowest strap around my ribcage, which pulls too tightly to breathe comfortably. He frowns and quickly refastens it, watching me intently as he does so.

At his direction I bend over again and stretch my arms wide. Movement is tightly constrained and newly disturbing. For one thing, it’s humiliating, like I’m wearing an animal harness. I’m getting the same tiny thrill I get when he ties me up—a loss of control, the surrender of my will that somehow frees me to enjoy what comes next.