The Architect

Title Page

THE ARCHITECT

C.A. Bell

Publisher Information

The Architect

published in 2015 by House of Erotica

an imprint of Andrews UK Limited

www.houseoferoticabooks.com

The right of C.A. Bell has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Copyright © C.A. Bell 2015

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my loving husband for all his support and encouragement, and for taking the reins on our busy household from time to time to give me the opportunity to write. My heartfelt thanks darling.

Thanks also goes to my editor Lucy, for her patience with a first-timer, and for the skill that she possesses within the editorial profession.

Finally, I would like to thank House of Erotica for publishing my story and seeing its potential.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my husband.

Without you there would be no me, no inspiration, and no story.

Chapter One

Locking my front door, I turn and head for my taxi that has inconveniently parked over the road, probably just to watch me tackle the ankle-snapping covering of pebbles on my driveway. Being a woman in my mid-twenties, I really should be used to wearing high heels, but when it comes to gravel and curbs, I still don't have the art down to a ‘T', shall we say.

Making it to the cab without losing my shoes or having any unladylike stumbles, I take a seat in the back and tell the driver my destination. As he steadily pulls away, I notice that up ahead dark clouds are rolling in and consuming the summer sky.

“Heard on the radio we're in for a storm tonight,” the tired-looking driver states as he catches my eye in his mirror.

“Oh really?” I reply, turning my head to the window, hoping that he's not the chatty type, as this evening I'm really not in the mood for trivial conversation. This is the first time I've been out since my divorce. For the last two years I have just worked and quietly existed in my own little world, but finally I have snapped out of my depressive state of singleness and plucked up the courage to break my mundane life and get back out on the social scene. I have been full of assumptions and worry at how much society has changed, and my nerves are all over the place, hence I'm not in the mood for chit-chat.

As luck would have it, not another word is spoken until the car pulls up across the road from my destination. Reluctantly I pay the overpriced fare and step out onto the hurried streets of London.

With my heels clicking on the concrete I cross the road - handling the curb very well I must say - and head towards the narrow grey building that's guarded by a broad and bulky man with a shaved head and bulldog-like jowl. As I approach I see him give me the once over. Smiling on the outside, but not very amused on the inside, I ask him if he would like to see my identification.

He looks me over once more, and with his eyes glued to my slight hint of cleavage replies with amusement in his tone, “No thank you, my dear, I'm sure you're plenty old enough.” He pushes the door open and signals for me to enter.

Feeling a little disappointed that I don't get ID'd any more, I step inside and thank Broad and Bulky for his chivalry.

As soon as I step foot through the doorway the aroma of the club hits me. A mixture of booze, warm bodies and expensive aftershave invades my nose. Walking down the lengthy corridor, I notice framed lyrics and pictures of jazz musicians on the walls, all made visible by the small blue spot lights in the ceiling. As I near the end of the entrance hall, I can hear the sound of jazz music and the buzz of conversation.

Inhaling deeply, I prepare myself before opening the solid black door and taking an unseen glance around as I push it closed behind me. Relief replaces my nervousness as I walk to the bar and catch sight of couples laughing, and groups of friendly-faced people scattered around.

Approaching the softly lit counter, I very gracefully slip onto one of the bar stools and wait patiently for the bartender to stop gossiping and serve me. After finishing his flirtations with the blonde at the end of the bar, he coolly saunters over and asks what I would like.

“A double brandy and no ice, please.”

He nods, and I watch as he takes a fresh glass from the rack above him and pours a meagre amount of autumn-coloured liquid, before placing it in front of me, charging yet another high-priced London sum. Handing over his requested payment to the penny, I take the glass from the bar and swirl the warm liquid into a whirlpool before turning to the band.

The quartet is set up quite compactly on a small semi-circular stage, and is made up of the usual; a pianist, saxophonist, drummer and a bass player. They all have the whole jazz attire going on quite well, with their matching dark suits and slick hair.

Moving my observation from the musicians and becoming familiar with my surroundings, I get an unsettling sensation, and feel as though I'm being watched. You know that feeling you get when you walk up the stairs in the dark? The feeling that there's someone following you, forcing you to lengthen your stride; subconsciously making you skip a step or two? Well, it's that sort of feeling.

Reducing to mild paranoia and fighting the urge to turn and see if there is in fact somebody looking my way, I focus turn my full concentration on the opposite side of the room and observe the hanging pictures. My particular favourite is the
Great Day in Harlem
image. I can't see it very well from where I'm sitting, but I know what it is - a classic. It's a black and white group portrait of fifty or so jazz musicians taken somewhere in Harlem, New York. Skimming the rest of the photos on the wall, my self-distracting technique starts to wear thin and the burning eyes are hot at my back again.

Giving in to temptation this time, I swivel around on my stool to see a handsome man in a black pinstripe suit at the end of the bar looking at me. As soon as my eyes meet his he casually turns his head away and acts as if he didn't notice me intrude on his gaze.

Positioning myself so he is in my sights, I tilt my head, let my long dark hair cover one side of my face like a veil, and discreetly give him the once over.

He is tall, mid to late thirties I would guess, with neat-looking stubble the same shade as his floppy brown hair, which is a little too long for my liking. But still, it's not the Guns ‘n' Roses look. The first few buttons of his grey shirt are undone, and I can just make out the curling of chest hair trying to escape out the top of it as he leans against the bar in his unspoiled suit, with his hand curled around his glass like a sleeping cat.

After checking him out, and very naughtily wondering how his body looks under his finely tailored suit, I turn my attention back to the quartet and finish my drink.

Trying not to cough too loudly and draw attention to myself as the brandy hits the back of my throat, the bartender catches my eye and strolls over.

Knowingly, he takes my glass. “Same again?”

“Yes, please,” I reply, raspy and Bonnie Tyler-like.

With drink number two in hand, I swiftly down it and order the bartender to keep ‘em coming, like they do in the old westerns.

As the night progresses, and the tender does as instructed, I find myself becoming tipsy and more confident as I gaze at the stubble-chinned guy with the great suit, and occasionally try to catch his eye. But no such luck.

Turning my back to him and giving myself a telling off for being so desperate, I notice that the club has grown busier. With the ever-increasing number of bodies giving off their warmth, the bar suddenly becomes unbearably hot. I shrug my shoulders high and shake my jacket down, imprisoning it between my back and the bars on the top of the stool. Then, tossing my long hair to one side and exposing my bare neck and shoulder, I sit and watch a couple that have just got up to dance. Their casual swaying soon turns suggestive, and I keep my eyes glued on them as I blindly reach out for my glass, grasp it, and place it on my lap.

“Can I buy you a drink?” A warm hand rests on my naked shoulder.

Turning to see that it's the dish I have been ogling all night, I nervously bite my lip and murmur an indecisive, “Umm.”

“I'm not taking no for an answer,” he says with a smile across his angelic yet troubled face.

My lips curl mischievously. “Well, in that case, I suppose I'll have to say yes.”

He lifts his hand to the barman and says, “Another for the lady, and I'll join her,” before walking behind me and creating a breeze that causes goose bumps to rise on the back of my neck.

With my eyes anchored on him as he straddles the stool beside me and hands the tender a crisp note, my thoughts become all sorts of inappropriate as I imagine what his fuck face might look like if I straddled him like he just did that stool.

My filthy thoughts are interrupted when our drinks are placed in front of us.
My God, Ruth, stop it, you hussy.

I refocus my thoughts and thank him for the beverage as he pushes his hair back from his face. I admire his strong jaw line, and how he clenches it every now and again as though he is chewing over his next sentence.

“You're welcome.” He smiles, holding out his big manly hand. “I'm Heath.”

I take it without hesitation. “I'm Ruth.” In my head it's more like, ‘I'm yours' as I rip his shirt off his back, and we have breathless frantic sex like they do in the Hollywood blockbusters.
Jesus, what is the matter with me? I had no idea I was so frustrated.

Exchanging smiles, I begin to feel a little uncomfortable as we sit silently, and desperately scramble through my mind to find something interesting to say. Then, as if by magic, the band saves the day, and we simultaneously tell one another that we like this song. It's Diana Krall's
Temptation
.

The cool double bass player plucks out the tune and the rest of the instruments follow. Humming and occasionally singing along with the pianist, who has now switched to lead vocals, I watch as Heath taps along with his foot against the stool, until the song ends, and we applaud together with the other appreciative patrons.

“So, what brings you here tonight?” I ask, before taking a sip of my drink.

“To be honest it was just by chance. I was walking back to my hotel after getting some cigarettes, when I saw this place, and couldn't resist a look.”

I laugh out loud and make reference to the venue's name, “Well, now you can tell all your friends you've seen inside London's ‘Long John's.”

He raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Well I'd rather say I've seen inside somewhere else.”

If I wasn't so liquored up, I probably would have blushed. Instead, I ask, “What exactly would you like to see inside?”

He laughs. “I'm too much of a gentleman to say such a thing in public.”

I give a knowing lift of the head and smile.

“So, same question to you, Ruth,” he says as he raises his glass to me and knocks the rest of the liquid back.

I frown. “What would I like to see inside?”

“No.” He chuckles. “What brings
you
here?”

“Oh, I see. Well, after watching one of my favourite musicals the other night, it put me in the mood for some jazz, so I searched on the web for the closest bar, and here I am.”

“A musical fan, huh? I like that. My particular favourite is
The Phantom of the Opera
, but in my opinion the Phantom should have gotten the girl.” He winks at me.

“I agree. Nothing like a masked man who calls you his ‘angel of music.'”

He laughs and we continue in conversation, revealing little bits about our lives and what we do. I tell him that I am single, work on a reception desk, and love to cook, secretly hoping that one, or all three, will entice him somehow. He in return doesn't reveal much, just that he is staying in a hotel for convenience while he is working in town, and would love to be able to tell the difference between a colander and a sieve.

Listening to him joke and drop innuendos, I completely lose track of the time, until I glance around the bar to find it almost empty.

Looking down at my watch, my eyes widen. “Oh God, I didn't realise the time.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it's just I've got work in the morning, so I better be getting home.”

Standing and straightening his jacket, he gestures with his elbow pointed towards me. “I'll walk you to your car.”

Rising to my feet, I teeter a little. “Do you really think I'm driving in this state?” I laugh. “I think I should grab a taxi.”

“Then I will walk you to your taxi,” he announces as he threads my arm through his.

Smiling up at him, I grab my belongings, and try to control my sway as we leave the club and step out onto the now dark and drizzly street.