TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (20 page)

He lowers his mouth and between steamy, uneven breaths begins sucking my nipples through the

thin fabric, making me convulse and fold myself into him. This is turning into something very raw and

primal.

“Find your voice for me Beth. Stop holding back.”

“Yes,” I call out, stiffening and stretching, throwing back my head, losing myself to the sensation

of him pinning me down and making me come hard. At that moment he takes his hand from mine and

cups me firmly, positioning his fingers against my sex to feel the pulsating orgasm that has me jerking

and moaning hoarsely.

“Let it go.”

And I do. For him.

I hit the duvet with a gentle landing and allow the fog to lift. When I open my eyes, Ayden is at my

right side, looking mighty satisfied. Seeing that smug grin makes me smile.

“You look very pleased with yourself,” I comment, still smiling and turning my eyes to the ceiling,

escaping his penetrating stare.

“And so I should be. That’s the kind of welcome home I’m talking about.” He kisses me softly and

pushes back a strand of hair off my face.

“Hard day at the office dear?” I tease.

He grins. “Hard for you Miss Parker.”

Feeling suddenly impetuous, I flip over to his side and straddle him. “Ayden, I want to make love to

you.”

He cradles my face in his hands. I catch a glimpse of sensual need in his eyes a split second before

he jerks my lips onto his with a powerful pull. His mouth seals itself onto mine and I feel his tongue

lusting after me. He lifts me back just far enough for him to speak; the breath leaving his body is hot

waves. “I’d like that Beth, but can I take a rain check?”

A what?

Surprise is etched on my face. “OK, but I thought…” I wriggle around on top of him.

“I’m like a rod of iron but …” By the look on his face, he’s paused for comic effect. “… But some

of us have self-control.”

I squeeze his lips between the forefinger and thumb of my right hand and make him pout. “Ha,

bloody ha!” I slide down and off the bed. “I’m going to change.”

“Into what? A set of dry clothes?” he calls out after me, making me smile on route to the lift.

“I don’t know but it definitely won’t be another pair of boy shorts, that’s for sure.”

“I’m taking a shower and I’ll see you upstairs in half an hour, alright?”

I refuse to answer. I press the button and ascend one storey to the lounge. I pad my way towards

my bedroom muttering, “
some of us have self-control,”
and spot an enormous bouquet of flowers on

the kitchen counter top. Preparing to put all my night school training into practice, I look for a vase.

Once arranged they look beautiful: red poppies, orange sunflowers and yellow ranunculi

interspersed with golden roses. The heart-warming colours lift the spirit yet look out of place in this

ultra-modern, stainless steel environment, but that’s fine. They have served their purpose and have

made me feel less like a wallflower in a sea of glistening lilies. Ayden does not make accidental

purchases …

Sure enough, Dan’s mood has been much improved by Elise’s assertion that justice will be served,

with what seems like a generous helping of revenge. She seemed to know more about Stone than he

could have hoped, so much so that getting close to both of them now seems easy. She may be

punching above her weight but she’s got fighting spirit and he’s got to give her that.

The inclement weather keeps shifting from wet to windy and back again, making it impossible for

him to attend to outside jobs and Ernie, still conscious of his physical impediment, is ticking off

duties requiring a one-handed approach.

“Perfect, just bloody perfect,” Ernie declares, setting his sights on Item 4 on the Jobs’ List. “We’re

to clear out furniture in the main offices, ready for decorating.”

“Why not? They like their comfort over there, don’t they?” Dan is not about to object. It’s light

work; the likes of which even a one-handed man can tackle. They are carrying computer screens and

moving desks across corridors into unused rooms and stacking chairs, creating space to erect ladders

and platforms. To the untrained eye they look busy but Dan knows this is Ernie’s way of filling time

until his hand heals and he’s grateful.

By lunchtime the first office has been given a lick of paint; cracks have been painted over and

cream walls have been brightened, creating a sterile looking working environment.

“Time to grab a bite to eat champ,” Ernie says, stepping out of his white overalls. “I could murder a

cuppa.”

“I could wet my whistle,” Dan agrees, accepting minimal help in removing his extra-large overalls.

“My stomach feels like my throat’s been cut.” He follows Ernie in the direction of the canteen.

Making the most of the free lunch, Dan sits himself down behind a mound of steaming shepherd’s

pie and peas. Also arranged on his tray, is a mug of tea, a bowl of soup and a sponge pudding

drowning in a sea of custard.

Ernie starts to laugh. “Good to see you’ve found your appetite.” He flicks over his newspaper to the

back page to check the sports news. “You’ve been a right bloody misery lately, I don’t mind telling

you. Good to have you back.”

With a partially empty mouth Dan engages in the banter. “I’ve been feeling under the weather.

Things haven’t been going my way, but I’m on the mend now.” Preoccupied with the contents of his

plate, Dan ends the conversation.

Ernie lowers his newspaper. “What’s not been going your way? You and your lady friend? Is she

back in your good books now?”

Dan stops eating and looks across the table at him. No-one has ever asked him about his ‘lady

friend’ before. He’s taken aback, but not so much he can’t manufacture some sort of lie. Thinking on

his feet he explains. “Yes, you could say that. We had a disagreement. She wanted one thing and I

wanted another, but the time wasn’t right. We’ll work it out.” On the far side of the canteen Blue Jeans

catches Dan’s eye. “I think my luck’s about to change …” Dan doesn’t complete the sentence. Internal

rage resurfaces and sits there as a layer of perspiration on his skin. He has to look away eventually, but

not first and not until
he’s
backed-down.

Ernie follows his line of sight. “It’s not worth it champ. Don’t let him reel you in. He’d love

nothing more than to get a rise out of you. Now you finish your lunch, we’ve got a couple of hours of

hard graft ahead of us and it looks like the sun’s coming out.”

10

As
with everything else in the life of Ayden Stone, dinner is no small affair. I’ve made myself

presentable; styled my hair and applied a little tinted moisturiser and lip gloss. A Ralph Lauren silk

shirt dress in a flattering mocha colour seems the most appropriate. Besides, it’s the only dress I have

that will look less than ridiculous with flats.

Fizzing with anticipation I make my entrance, stopping to take in the spectacle of Ayden sitting on

the enormous white sofa, arms outstretched across the back of the headrest, right leg across his left

knee. He’s wearing deck shoes minus socks, another hot button of mine. His dark blue jeans grip his

thighs and calves like a second skin and the black V neck T-shirt, well … that’s clingy too. Now

here’s a man who knows how to dress to impress; whether he’s relaxing or ‘ruling the fucking world,’

as he would say. I know I should be used to looking at him, but I doubt that will ever happen; even the

under-floor heating could not prevent a shiver of excitement from running through me now. There he

sits, master of all he purveys and, the moment our eyes meet, I know that includes me.

“Hey, I didn’t recognise you with your grown-up clothes on,” he chuckles, beckoning me over.

“I’ve poured us an aperitif.”

I saunter over, trying for nonchalance but really wanting to skip. “Thank you.” The sparkling wine

glass slips from his hand to mine and I glance over at the dining table set with cutlery, crockery and

candles. The aroma of well-seasoned food has me salivating.

“You’ve been busy. Have you rustled up beans on toast for us?”

He shrugs, pleasure emanating from an emerald stare and a broad smile. “Not quite. I had The Ivy

send food over. I chose for you. Is that okay?”

“Yes. I know you’ve got good taste in everything so …”

“I like to think so,” he says, giving me the once over. “Come on, I’m starving.”

Before eating my shellfish and avocado cocktail, I take a minute to get my bearings. “I don’t know

why you said I wouldn’t like it here Ayden. You have a beautiful home. You have some remarkable

artwork and objet d’art.”

“I’ve collected lots of things on my travels, they each tell a story …”

I hold the delicious piece of crab meat on my fork before popping it into my mouth. “I love stories

…”

He pours out the white wine into our second glass and prepares to regale me with tales from exotic

territories. “See that Indian tapestry over there on the wall?”

I cast my eyes to the far side of the room where a striking piece of wall art takes pride of place. It’s

a complex pattern combining textures and colours ranging from blues, purples, sea greens and even

gold, embroidered with beads, sequins and pearls. I‘ve never seen anything like it. “It’s stunning

Ayden. Where did you get it?”

“I was out on a fact finding trip with a couple of investors out in Jaipur, north west India. We were

looking at a possible location for a manufacturing unit and the road, or should I say dirt track

disappeared on us. Even our four wheel drive couldn’t tackle the terrain so we got out and walked for

about a quarter of a mile. On the way, there were these shanty homes, you know, poor people

scratching around trying to make a living; kids running around holding out their hands begging. You

get the picture?”

I’ve stopped eating and he nods for me to continue while he speaks. I stab at a prawn.

“So, I take a look around, see if they have anything worth buying. I’ve got some money in my

pocket, why not?” Forgetting about the meal completely, he places down his cutlery. “And inside this

small hut I see this kid, around ten or eleven with this enormous tapestry across his legs, and he’s

sewing on beads and sequins and …” He points over to the wall art. “All that stuff. So I decide to take

a look and I’m amazed. I mean, who wouldn’t be, right?”

I’m nodding and totally enraptured by his recount. “So what did you do?”

“The only thing I could do. Ask him how much he wanted for it.”

“And what did he say?”

“I can’t remember exactly but it was a pittance. Can you imagine how much you would have to pay

for a handmade, silk tapestry like that in Selfridges?”

“No.” I have absolutely no idea.

“Well, twenty times what he was asking for it.” He picks up his fork and begins eating hurriedly,

itching to finish his story. “But … this kid is so proud of what he’s produced that he won’t sell it to

me …”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t finished.” He throws back a couple of mouthfuls of wine. “I tell him, look, I’ve got

money, even get it out and flash the cash but he’s adamant and I like that. What I was offering him

would keep his family in food for a year and yet he wouldn’t hand it over.”

I pick up my wine and hold it in the air in front of my face. “So did you persuade him to sell it to

you?”

Well, obviously …

“I got the translator to make a deal with him on my behalf. I said I would give him half the money

up front and in two days, when he said it would be finished, he was to bring it to my hotel and I’d give

him the difference. I gave him my card so he could show it to the concierge.”

“And he did.”

“Yes. Turned up two days later with it wrapped in an old blanket. I had the guy on reception bring

him up to my room so I could check it out and hand over the money personally.” He shakes his head

from side to side, moved by the recollection. “Poor kid was knackered, what with the heat and the

weight of it. I poured him out a glass of water and he was so fucking grateful.”

“That’s a good story Ayden.” I smile and give his hand a squeeze across the table.

“Oh, I’m not done, there’s more. Turns out this kid was a bit of an entrepreneur, reminded me of

myself. Always looking for ways to make money and get ahead.” He’s laughing at himself and it’s so

endearing. I tip my head to one side and watch him, riveted.

“He’d got hold of cast offs from sweat shops and scraps of material from old wedding saris. In

terms of raw materials, it cost virtually nothing. The value was in the labour and his workmanship.”

“Well it’s a masterpiece.”

“
I
like it and I liked the kid. I paid him what I owed him and gave him some investment money. I

said, if he could double my money in six months, I’d set him up in his own business.”

Will this man ever fail to surprise me?

“And tell me, does this story have a happy ending?” I look expectantly to him for an answer.