Unbound (12 page)

Yesterday evening he felt I had to be there when he met with Yuuto Nagako, and today he’s shutting me out. I just can’t keep track of what’s going on.

Shortly afterward, I hear the ping announcing the arrival of the elevator, and then male voices in the corridor. One of them is Jonathan’s, and he’s speaking Japanese with his visitor. I wait until the office door closes again, and then I go downstairs. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on some random files right now anyway, so I might as well visit Annie briefly.

Shadrach Alani is sitting at his desk when I get there, so Annie and I go into the kitchen, where we can be alone.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, concerned.

“Nothing. I just have to wait. He has an appointment which I can’t be present at, and I thought I would come visit with you for a little while.”

I take the mug of tea that Annie hands me.

“Who’s he meeting then?” she wants to know.

“That Japanese man who was there when I arrived—do you remember?”

“Yuuto Nagako?”

I nod and frown because Annie looks as though as she’s just heard something dreadful. “What? Is there something wrong with him?”

“No. He’s just a business associate, well, not really, more like some kind of a mentor. I mean, he helped the boss back when he was starting the company.” She leans forward. “And I think that, when he’s here, he goes with him to the club.”

I sigh deeply. “But since we don’t know what kind of a club it is, it’s not our concern.”

“It must be some kind of a sex club, Grace.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. A sex club, I think, and am startled by how little that shocks me. I can’t help thinking about my dream. And about the kinds of things Jonathan Huntington probably does at a club like that. “Are you sure?”

Annie nods and looks at me earnestly. “It’s just a rumour, but a very persistent one. And I just don’t want you to …”

The door opens and we both whip round, shocked. Jonathan is standing in the doorway.

“Grace, would you please come back upstairs with me?” he says in the implacable tone of voice I’ve gotten to know so well. It’s not a request. It’s an order.

With slightly trembling fingers, I put the mug down on the draining board. Annie is staring at Jonathan and me by turns, without saying a word, looking shocked. “See you later,” I whisper to her before following Jonathan, who’s already gone on ahead. He’s striding along the corridor with huge steps, so that I almost have to run to keep up with him.

He doesn’t speak until we’re in the elevator.

“What were you doing down there?” The reproach in his question is unmistakeable.

“Passing the time until your meeting was over.”

“I told you to wait in your office.” He almost yells the last sentence and I wince. But then I get mad because his changing moods have baffled me all day long. What makes him think he can treat me like this?

“Yes, you told me to wait. But since I didn’t have a specific task to do, I had a right to decide for myself where and how I would do that. Perhaps your secretary and your chauffeur always do as you say but you pay them for that.”

His face displays a mixture of disbelief and surprise. He obviously wasn’t expecting an answer like that. His expression darkens and he takes a step toward me, which makes me shrink back. But I don’t get far because I can already feel the mirrored wall against my back.

“I pay you too.” His blue eyes flash angrily but I don’t balk. I return his gaze.

“Yes, but not enough for me to put up with this. I’m not a dog that you can order to lie down somewhere and wait till you come back, like a good girl. It doesn’t work like that.”

He comes even closer, till he’s standing right in front of me. I have to lift my head to be able to go on looking at him, exposing my throat. He places his hand there. His fingers stroke my skin. His face is so close to mine that I can see the dark sprinkles in his eyes quite clearly.

“How does it work then, Grace?” he asks hoarsely. “What do I have to do to make you do what I want?”

I can only stare at his lips. I can’t breathe and I definitely can’t think. He’s going to kiss me, I think. I feel his breath on my cheek, his hand on my neck. I want him to kiss me.

My hands stray to his shirt collar, as if of their own accord, and pull him down toward me. And then I feel his lips on mine. The contact pulses through me like an electric shock and I draw my head back again, moaning, because it’s almost more than I can bear. But it’s too late to reconsider now. Jonathan grabs hold of me with a growl, and pulls me toward him roughly, nearly folding my back as he presses his arm against it. I can feel his body against mine, his hard muscles beneath the fabric, and heat radiating out from him, which I absorb from head to toe. He pushes his other hand into my hair, pulling my head back so that I am helplessly and completely in his power.

And then he kisses me, hard and madly, heedlessly. His tongue thrusts itself into my mouth, explores every corner, caresses the inside of my lips, runs itself over my tongue. My knees give way and I have to cling to him, because he’s my only means of support. Although his kiss renders me completely submissive, it also awakens something in me and, after a little while, I begin to return it, to press myself against him, try to get even closer to him, while our tongues surrender themselves to their passionate duet.

A moment later, I can feel the elevator wall against my back and his hands are on my breasts, stroking my erect nipples through the thin fabric of my shirt. His touch sends bolts of lighting down to my lower body, much more intensely than in my dream, and for a while I’m overwhelmed by a wave of feelings too powerful for me, as I try to return his kiss, almost despairingly. He’s my superior, in every way; he’s dominating me. But that’s exactly what excites me in a way I’ve never felt before. I cling to him as if drowning and surrender myself to the onslaught of his lips and hands.

I feel one of his hands stray down to my thighs and push up my skirt. And then he presses his hand against my damp panties. Shocked and aroused by the intimacy of his touch, I pant loudly—and suddenly it’s over.

He lets go of me abruptly and I slip back down onto my feet. I stand there shivering and I can taste blood in my mouth as he turns away and runs a hand through his hair. He grips a fistful tightly before letting his arm fall again.

It’s only now that I am gradually able to think again that I remember his words and their meaning begins to dawn on me. Is this what he wants from me?

I catch his eye, confused, and sink into the depths of those blue eyes. I think I can see something in them, which I’ve never noticed before. Pain. I instinctively lift my hand to his cheek, but, at that moment, the elevator stops with a ping and the doors open.

Jonathan leaves the elevator and crosses the lobby with the same long strides as before. I hastily adjust my skirt and follow him on wobbly legs.

Catherine Shepard is sitting at her desk, examining me in her impenetrable way. She can probably tell exactly what I’ve been doing with the boss in the elevator, just from my rumpled hair. But I don’t pay any attention to her; I’m far too busy thinking about what just happened.

This time, Jonathan doesn’t stop me like he did before. Instead, he leaves the door to his office wide open, like an invitation. I close it behind me and lean against it, happy that he is standing right at the back, by the window, leaving a lot of distance between us, because my knees are still shaking so much. But I want to do what we did in the elevator again. At once, if possible.

I’m anxiously waiting for him to say something. But he’s turned his back to me and is staring out of the window.

I push myself off the door and make my way to the desk—carefully, because I don’t fully trust my legs yet. When I reach the guest chair, I cling onto the back.

“Jonathan?”

He turns to me. His face looks calm again. The rage and passion of a moment ago have disappeared and he’s the calm, self-assured businessman again.

“Forget what just happened.” His voice sounds measured, almost indifferent.

I look at him in surprise. He wants me to forget it?

“I can’t.”

“Then I will have to end our working relationship.”

“But …why?” He can’t just kiss me like that and then send me away. Is that what he always does to women? If so, I can understand why they flee in droves. Because he’s somehow managing to make me feel guilty. Even though he wanted it just as much as I did. In fact, he probably wanted it much more than I did, because, unlike me, he knows what he’s doing — and what he wants. “Why did you kiss me?”

He comes round from behind the desk and I turn to him, with only one hand on the back of the chair. He stands right in front of me. There’s no smile on his face but he no longer has that unapproachable expression either. I can tell that he is just as shaken up as I am.

“It won’t happen again.” He says it earnestly, almost as if to reassure himself again. I am filled with cold disappointment. Because I want it to happen again. I want him to kiss me again. If that was a kiss, it felt more like an earthquake.

A shiver overcomes me when I realize that he would only have to stretch out his hand in order to pull me to him. But he doesn’t.

“So, let’s forget about it,” he explains once more, and he doesn’t phrase it as a question. It’s an instruction, which I have to comply with.

It hurts my feelings. What just happened was so earth-shattering for me, yet he can just dismiss it as if it had been something unpleasant, annoying almost. What’s he thinking? I can’t forget it. Definitely not. But I don’t want my internship here to end either, so I shrug my shoulders.

“People always do as you say anyway,” I say and it sounds snippy because I can’t conceal my anger.

“Except for you,” he answers calmly and our eyes meet again and interlock. This time, it doesn’t sound like a reproach. I think it’s actually a compliment. That gives me courage.

“I’ll do what you want.” Try it, I think, and I hold his gaze with a beating heart. I can tell that he knows exactly what I mean. But he’s obviously serious about forgetting it, because he brushes his hair off of his forehead and returns to his desk, entrenching himself there. At least, that’s what it looks like to me.

“It won’t happen again, Grace,” he repeats once more, in that tone that won’t tolerate contradiction, and indicates the guest chair. “Can we continue?”

I nod unhappily and, after he’s explained what’s next on the agenda, I return to my office next door. It’s so arrogant of him to simply go back to business as usual, I think. As if we had nothing to discuss. As if nothing had happened.

But something did happen between him and me. There can be no doubt about it. And, as I skim over the documents for the next appointment, I find I simply can’t concentrate on them, no matter how hard I try. It’s becoming increasingly clear that I can’t ignore what happened. I can’t stop thinking about how it felt to be pressed up against him, with his hand between my legs. I remember my dream again. It was nothing compared with what happened in the elevator. There was nothing tender about his kiss. It had a sinister, seductive quality, which completely captivates me. And suddenly I find I can no longer help reading something into it.

Perhaps, a small voice within me says, perhaps you’re not just another unimportant little intern, after all. Jonathan must have felt drawn to me if he kissed me, even if he denies it now. And if that’s the case, he might do it again. Or even do more than that.

The thought is exciting and I dwell on it for the rest of the day. I catch myself carefully observing and analyzing Jonathan’s every move, his slightest gesture. It’s unhealthy, I know. But I can’t help it, I feel compelled. When Steven takes me home around seven, Jonathan comes with us again. He didn’t mention any other appointments but somehow I’m sure he isn’t taking me home. Is he going to the club again?

Now, I’ve become even more obsessed with asking myself what kind of a place it could be. My imagination gets fired up picturing the things that happen there. What he does there.

I don’t know London well enough to remember the route we’re taking but it seems different from yesterday’s. And in fact, after just twenty minutes, I recognize the houses on Upper Street in Islington, which I’ve already walked along with Annie. So there’s to be no detour through Primrose Hill this time.

When we stop in front of my house, I can’t suppress my curiosity anymore.

“Do you have another appointment or are you going home?” I ask Jonathan, who has been silent the whole time. We’ve talked about our “encounter” in the elevator very little, in fact. And this is the first time he’s really smiled since then.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he says.

Perhaps he’s going to the club then. Annie said he goes there often. I run my tongue over my lips and don’t notice that I’m staring at him until he points to the door.

“We’re there, Grace.”

I jump, shocked. “Yes, of course,” I mumble and open the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Actually, I don’t want to go. I want to be with him. But I’m afraid of my own boldness. Besides, he would decline anyway. Wouldn’t he?

The front door is only a few steps away and I’m expecting the big car to turn around and drive off. But the limousine stays where it is. The windows are tinted, so I can’t tell whether Jonathan is observing me, or whether he has another reason for waiting.

I nervously search my purse for my house keys—and can’t find them. Shoot. It happens to me sometimes. My sister teases me about it because, if I lose something, it’s always my keys. Nothing else. But I seem to be at war with the little devils, and it really bugs me that it’s happened again just as I’m being watched.

I rummage around in the depths of my purse, increasingly panicked, without success. I ring the doorbell in desperation, hoping Marcus might be there. Annie and Ian have been invited out with friends, she told me about it this morning, and the two of them wanted to meet back in the city as soon as Annie got off work, because their friends live in Southwark south of the river. Marcus is my only hope. The limousine is still not moving. What is Jonathan waiting for? I wave over at the dark windows. Perhaps he’ll take that to mean that he really can drive off now. But it has exactly the opposite effect, because the door opens and he gets out.