The Parlour (VDB #1) (32 page)

I can play cards. Hopefully I can even prove that I’ve got a brain if I have a go at that with him. Plus, we don’t have to talk if we’re playing.

“Yes, okay,” I reply, making my way back over and trying to keep my superior status at high alert. If I can hit Pascal and have difficult conversations with Mr. White, surely I can just keep my damn mouth shut and play a hand of cards with this man.

“Blackjack? Or is snap still a better option?”

“Blackjack’s fine,” I clip out. What a twat.

He deals quickly, showing how skilled he is as his hands mould around the cards with the acumen of someone who’s been playing for years. It makes me wonder how he’s known Pascal all these years. Who is he? What does he do? It’s most likely not legal, although his suit and demeanour show a quietly authoritative air similar to some of the businessmen I used to work with at the office. Not edgy or scary, more a combination of wit and intelligence. Regardless of the gun, he doesn’t appear to be a rash character, more a forty-five-year-old settled individual. Maybe he has a wife and children waiting for him at home in some suburban residence. In fact, the more I look at him, the less likely it seems that he would even be somewhere like this, let alone know someone like Pascal.

“How do you know Pascal?” The words slip out as I pick up my cards and put them in order. I really need to gain some element of control over my mouth, although I would like to know.

“We schooled together,” he replies, puffing on his cigar again and crossing his legs.

“Really? Where?” At least I’ll know if he’s honest.

“Switzerland,” he says, throwing a card on the table and tutting to himself about something. “How do you know him?”

“He rescued me from the hands of another,” I reply, because I can’t think of anything else that is truthful that doesn’t bring up Roxanne or the streets, which he doesn’t need to know anything about. This seems to amuse him. The bark of laughter that resonates around the room has me looking up in confusion.

“Rescued? You’re just another one of his street sluts, aren’t you? How much?”

“What?”

“How much is he selling you for?”

“He’s not fucking selling me.” How many times am I going to have to scream my not-for-sale status around these people? Jesus. Fucking selling people.

“Pascal does nothing unless he’s making a profit. Come on, how much? How much is that cunt worth? Ah, or has he already sold you to Alexander? That must have been why he protected you from Jackson, didn’t want the goods tainted for his precious Alexander. Is that what you’re doing for him?”

“I am not, nor have I ever been for sale.” I’m still trying for pleasant, although indignant reactions are flooding me, causing anger to rear its very ugly head. Is it not enough that I have to deal with these people? This anger could be a problem because the itch to hit something is crawling through me at a rate of knots.

“Everything’s for sale,” he eventually says, staring me down. “You included.” He’s up and pacing around to me before I have chance to move, grabbing my hand and hauling me up to him as if I weigh nothing. My gasp when he flings me across the room turns into a scowl as I stare back in shock. “Perhaps I should counter Alexander’s offer. I quite like a feisty little thing to toy with.”

My hands shoot up in front of me and I find myself backing up to the door slowly.

“Leave me alone. Pascal won’t be happy if–”

“Do I look like a man who gives a fuck about what Pascal wants?” Arsehole. Where has this person come from? I halt my retreating feet and stand my ground against him.

“Do I look like the kind of woman that gives a fuck about what you think?” I snap back, snarling at his reaction to Pascal. For someone who claims to be his oldest friend, he’s not exactly being very nice. Fucking man. My hackles come into effect the moment he turns back to the table and aims for the gun.

“What exactly are you going to do? Shoot me because I won’t suck your dick? Fuck off, you inbreed. Intelligence goes a lot further than brute strength with me.” I’m not sure where that came from. I kind of quite like its sound, though, and the way it just came out of me without thought.

He pockets the gun and casually sits down again with a smile, picking up his cards and waving his hand at the chair again.

What? Is he assuming I’ll sit and play cards again? He throws me across the room and then suddenly it’s all happy families again? I think not.

“Sit, Lilah, we have a game to finish.”

“I’m not playing with you. You’re mad.”

“No, not mad. Just playing,” he counters, lifting his glass and toasting something to himself. “I suggest you sit before he walks in and finds you all dishevelled. More than you are already, that is.”

I hear the main door of the building close around the corner and wonder what the hell to do. One of his oldest friends? And I’m going to accuse him of wanting to rape me? That’s not going to go down well, is it? He didn’t actually do anything, short of flinging me at a wall, I suppose. My eyes find the door and then shoot back to Jon, who is now chuckling away to himself about something.

“Don’t touch me again,” I hiss out as I aim for the sofa and compose myself for Pascal. I have answers I need from him, and being unprepared for him is not going to help that cause. I gently place myself back down, raise my head while trying to brush my hair back into place, and pick up my cards again.

An unknown voice begins talking in the hallway outside as I take a sip of my drink and look across at Jon. He looks completely unconcerned as he lounges and still chortles to himself.

“Seems Thomas is here,” he says casually, as if nothing has happened. It occurs to me that they all must do this, switch from aggressive to calm and composed in seconds. Was he actually even aggressive, or is it just a demeanour he used to have an effect? Mr. White does it. Pascal does it… Do I do it? Not that I’m aware of. Is this all just a game of who’s got the bigger balls, or is it real?

“How long have you been a Dominant, Jon?”

“What a strange question,” he says, laying down an ace and a queen then leaning back again. I stare at it and wonder why on earth I just asked that. Could I look any more stupid?

“No, Thomas, you may not.” Pascal’s voice comes swirling around the corner as I turn my head and find his frame gliding in, clad in yet another perfectly pressed suit. My eyes immediately move to his face and those ever consuming eyes of his. Try as I might, I can’t stop my heart from racing through me. Calm and collected I am not. He halts and quickly flicks his head between me and Jon, and then scowls a little as he gazes back at me.

“What are you doing in here?” There’s not one ounce of emotion other than irritation lacing his voice. I frown in response and continue to stare at him as he walks back out of the room and snaps again at Thomas. I stare after him rather than looking back at Jon and proving my inferiority in this room full of strange behaviour. The only thing I appear to be remotely interested in is who the hell he thinks he is, talking to me like that? My frown deepens as I listen to more words echoing in the hallway. It’s that foreign language of his that I don’t understand, probably Dutch, and the chuckle that leaves Jon’s mouth at one point leads me to believe he understands it.

“Another hand?” he asks, still puffing on his cigar and appearing superior. I suddenly feel completely out of control. Pascal has just snapped me at, and now he’s talking in a language I don’t understand, which he probably knows, and this twat is laughing at me because he more than likely knows that, too. And I’ve lost my game of cards.
Fuck.

I’m standing and walking out of the room to confront the issue before I’ve even thought about it. I swing around the corner to find Pascal towering over a young man and spouting off about something aggressively. His whole frame is full of anger and confrontation, and the boy is shrinking from him and trying to back away. In fact, he looks scared out of his mind, as if he’s about to be hit and he knows full well it’s going to hurt. I fold my arms and cough as loudly as I can. Both heads swing towards me.

“Would you like to say hello a little more pleasantly this time?”

“Go to my suite. I will meet you there in ten minutes,” he replies, waving his cane in the direction of the club in dismissal, then turns back to Thomas.

“No,” I say as powerfully as I can manage, trying to stop the foot tapping that has mysteriously begun beneath me. Fucking man. Thomas’ eyes widen as I see the slow turn of Pascal’s entire body towards me. “You will say hello properly, and then we will have the talk I have come here for. Whatever this is, it can wait. As can Jon Insbrucker. You asked me for this, did you not?” He takes three strides towards me so abruptly that I brace my knees to keep me in place. He walks a circle around me with his cane clamped behind his back. Keeping my eyes fixed on Thomas, I raise my chin as high as I can. Even if the young man still looks scared to death and now slightly worried, presumably for me, I will not be belittled in this moment.

“Oom, I will leave. Do not take it out on her. She is–”

“Be quiet, Thomas,” he practically shouts in my ear. Once again, I hold in my flinch and eventually turn my head to meet his gaze. His mouth twitches at the corner as he looks as deeply into my eyes as possible. “You are not scared, hmm?”

“Of what?”

“This,” he replies, opening his arms and letting me get the full effect of his perfection. Today, he is dressed in an immaculate black suit, and white shirt. He looks almost normal by Pascal standards, relaxed. I scan my eyes over him and then remember my own causal dress. It’s very sadly lacking next to his attire.

“No. Why would I be?” I really should have dressed better. “Actually, I think this would be better done properly, don’t you?” I assert as my feet head me towards the exit. I’m not even sure why until the next thought springs into my head. “Pick me up at 8pm. I’ll expect the most expensive restaurant you can muster at short notice.” With that, I pull the door closed behind me and just stand on the street trying to tell my body to leave.

It doesn’t, though. It just has me standing here staring at the snow and wondering what the hell just got into me. I’m not sure why I thought that was the most appropriate form of action, but I did. And I still do, regardless of this need I have to turn back around, walk in there and kiss him. Or wait till he kisses me. God, those lips are divine. I can feel them on me now. I can feel how they swirl across mine and take me to another place. I can feel the connection between us, that spark of something that I can’t quite place, but know that it is all-encompassing, something that binds us together in a way I’ve never felt before. Just me and him. Together.

The door creaks behind me and I sense rather than see him. He doesn’t say anything. He just walks until he’s standing behind me, and I suck in a breath, continuing to stare at the snow. White, cold. Nothing like this feeling between us. This feeling is warm and inviting. It may be different, but it offers beauty and absolute captivation, something completely private, honesty in its richest form.

His hand brushes my hair from my neck to expose my ear from behind, then he very gracefully places a lingering kiss at the base of it – smooth, soft lips leaving an imprint of something unique on my skin. Possibly something just for me. His version of love. My neck bends away from him to offer more to his mouth. Just the thought of his closed eyes in our moments of bliss is enough to cause me to smile. Yet, there’s an inclination riding across my skin to pull away from him, maybe tell him he wasn’t offered the chance of a kiss, and therefore he shouldn’t presume to do so. What the hell is wrong with me? All I can sense is the overwhelming need to have him inside me again, but in the same breath, I can’t stop my mind from needing to regain control of the situation. His mouth lifts away from my skin carefully and then hovers, almost cautiously. Can he feel my indecision, too? Not that there really is any. I’d lay down on this cold floor with him instantly if he pushed me for it.

“Crimson,” he says, quietly, rolling the R and still breathing into the nape of my neck while flicking his tongue over it lazily. “You will look exquisite in crimson, Lilah James.” And with that, I feel his heat move away from my back until I feel alone again. I smile down at the street and let my feet walk me back in the direction of the apartment. I don’t know who I am or what the hell I think I’m doing, but the one thing I do know is that whatever it is, life will probably never be the same again.

~

Three hours later and I’m strapping myself into a red dress because that’s what he said I’d look good in. It’s not a dress I like very much. In fact, it doesn’t even look that nice, and as I stare at myself in the mirror, I snarl at the reflecting image. It’s not me in the slightest. It’s too short, too tight, and too slutty. It’s not something I feel in control wearing at all. I swing back around to the wardrobe and look at the rest of the offerings. The only thing that’s remotely me is a long black evening gown. It attempts floaty to some degree. It has a one shouldered top half and a long trailing back hanging from a knee length front. It’s really quite beautiful the more I stare, and as I gaze at it, I wonder what possessed Emanuelle to buy it. It’s certainly not something I can imagine her wearing. But I suppose it is the sort of thing one would wear to a cocktail party. Although, why she thought I’d be going to a cocktail party is a mystery. Nevertheless, I pull it from the hanger and begin stripping myself of the repulsive red creation.