The billionaire's mysterious lady

Episode 12

Moving to stand a few feet away from him, I slip off my killer heels and stand barefoot in the dirt, and God knows what else, while I slowly sip my wine. I think back to the time when Nancy found me, virtually in this precise spot. Letting myself be taken back to the best of worst times, I sway to the soft music drifting from inside.

“I haven’t seen you at these things before, are you new?” His eyes openly roam my body, and I mentally chide myself for not fetching my jacket. At least if I had, he wouldn’t be staring at my breasts like a starving man. I seem to be good at setting myself up for unwanted attention lately.

“No, my aunt owns the catering company. I’m just filling in for the night,” I say, looking down the alleyway, my mind caught up in visions of my fifteen-year-old self.

“Ah, family favour, something you can never refuse,” he replies with a laugh.

“Something like that.” I’m still staring past him, but again, I don’t mistake his look of appreciation in my peripheral vision.

“I’m Jefferson, nice to meet you…?”

I turn in order to be hospitable. He holds out his hand, and dread washes over me as I stare at it.

I hesitate.

Touching Castro wasn’t so bad. Actually, touching him was really good. So good, in fact, I can’t get the man out of my head - or my subconscious bed. Is it possible he has single handily managed to eradicate my aversion at long last? Is it too premature to believe I might finally be cured? Maybe it’s time to test my theory.

Tentatively reaching out to Jefferson, I wait for tranquillity to replace the wretched feeling of anxiety. His fingers graze mine, and I hold my breath… Nope, the dull prickle is still alive and well, and I quickly snatch my hand back. He looks annoyed, but I can’t do something I’m not comfortable with.

“Nelly. Nelly Grayman,” I reply, reverting back to the name I had used for years whilst evading the police, the social services, and any other authority that could either cart me off to Desmon care or throw Nancy’s arse in prison.

“Ne-lly,” he says, testing the sound of it, letting the two syllables roll off his tongue. He thinks he’s flirting well; I think he has lost the plot. I couldn’t even tolerate his hand on mine for a split second, heaven knows what on earth he is expecting from this.

“So, what do you normally do then, Ne-lly?” And there he goes again.

I want to tell him to f**k off, but since he is one of the hotel’s chefs and I am the hired help for the evening, I best keep my big gob shut. The last thing I want is for Nancy’s name to be trawled through the mud because I can’t keep myself in check. Jefferson is still watching me, and I quickly take another sip of my spritzer, turning away from his lusty, lecherous grin.

“Clerical.” Short, one-word answers usually do the trick.

“What kind of clerical? Where do you work?” Maybe not this time.

I am about to answer when, suddenly, I feel at ease for the first time since I stepped outside. I close my eyes in provocation, already aware of who is standing behind me. I rotate on the balls of my feet slowly; if I move any faster, the contents of my glass won’t survive. The pleasurable sensation eases through me, but in a split second it’s destroyed, when Jefferson turns suspiciously and moves closer. He puts his hand on me, and I tense as the atmosphere shifts around me - from desirous to desolate in less than ten seconds flat. I step away from Jefferson, and his expression turns from pleased to pissed off. He looks from me to the man behind me, and his face purses into a scowl. Electricity then ripples inside me, adding further fuel to the already smouldering fire, when the soft, yet firm caress of a hand at my waist, and warm breath on my neck, come into contact.

“Is the kitchen not busy tonight, Jefferson? Are there not a hundred or so guests waiting for their desserts, Jefferson?” Castro’s hard voice punctures the silence of the night, and his hand tightens its hold on me. His fingers cut into my flesh, and I’m on the verge of telling him to get off me, when I turn around to look at him, and he is seething, absolutely furious. Whether it is because of me, or Jefferson - or both of us - I’m not entirely sure.

“Erm, sorry, Mr Desmon, just having a quick fag.” He looks ashen like he is about to face the firing squad. Not bothering to die out the butt, he throws it into the darkened space in front of us and turns to leave.

“I’ll see you later, Ne-lly.” He smiles expectantly.

“No, you won’t, Jefferson!” Castro replies with venom. The door slams shut, and timidly, I stare at the burning ember on the gravel, unable to look at him any longer.

I stand, staring with an open mouth, shocked that he has just treated one of the kitchen staff with such disrespect, and equally pleased with the new revelation that only he can affect me in such a sexually charged way. He tips my chin up to shut my mouth. Bringing his hand from around my waist, he pulls me close. So close, in fact, I’m sure he is… hard. I squeak a little when I feel that on my stomach. His face looks stormy, and I mentally brace myself, ready to see him up close and personal for the first time since Tuesday morning.

“Was I disturbing something?” his deep, hard voice asks. I quickly shake my head, and he breathes out content.

“Good, I’m pleased to hear that.”

He studies me carefully with a slight smile on his face. His beautiful eyes are dark, full of mystery, while his fingers move, attempting to run up either side of my waist. Shaking my head a little, realising I am in trouble here, I step away from his rebellious hands, creating some much-needed space. He looks both dejected and pleased. How very peculiar.

Holding out his hand to me, he asks, “May I have this dance, Miss johnson? Or do you prefer Miss Grayman?” My eyes narrow at his insinuation. Was he out here when I said that to Jefferson? If not, how would he know that?

He presses me closer to him, waiting for my answer. His smile and beautiful face do things to me no other man has previously. It’s a look that makes me want, in a primal, basic instinct, kind of way. I quickly memorise him from head to toe and back up again. I shift a little further, because in this extraordinary, beautiful moment, I can’t decide if I want to flee from him faster than an Olympic sprinter…or devour him on the spot. My blood flows quicker into every major organ, while my skin perspires under his scrutiny. Feeling the heat begin to flame higher in the hollow space between my legs, I want nothing more than to rub my thighs together again to assuage the growing throb.

“No, thank you,” I decline, hoping to sound more controlled and blasé than I actually feel.

Coolly, I take a sip of wine, determined to lie convincingly and show him he doesn’t affect me in the slightest. But in his presence, it’s easier said than done. I tip my head back, allowing the cold liquid to run down my throat. It doesn’t douse the fire that is mounting deep within; if anything, it only incites it to burn stronger.

He steps closer, and pushes back the errant strand of hair that has been doing its own thing all evening. The touch kindles something inside me, and I tremble, as his flesh comes into contact with mine again. My eyes close involuntarily, and pure desire pulsates through my body. Instinctively, I find myself leaning into him, absorbing his individual, intoxicating scent, committing it to memory; woody, masculine. Castro.

All my senses are heightened in a way they have never been subjected to before. Usually, I wouldn't allow anyone this close to me – ever - but I can’t stop it. I can’t stop him. And truthfully, I don’t want to. I hear his sharp intake of breath when he realises I’m not going to resist him.

I open my eyes and look straight at his beautiful face. It’s only now I notice his eyes are virtually black. He lifts his palm up, then brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. My core undulates furtively from his touch. Shying away with embarrassment at my abnormal behaviour, he smirks in satisfaction. His eyes cast over me a little too carefully. Shifting back once again, I have never been good with being admired. For me, it is right up there with showing emotions - it makes me feel both uncomfortable and exposed.

“Don't ever be ashamed of how you feel.” He grasps my chin, incapacitating me on the spot. “Have dinner with me.” Again, it’s not a question, and a part of me knows there’s no use in fighting the unavoidable any longer. Deep down, I know this is going to happen, whether it is the right thing to do or not.

And he knows it too.

I sigh and wiggle out of his hold. I’m confused by both his unwelcome, yet wanted touch, and the fact I don’t want him to stop whatever it is about him that makes me feel calm and tingly. Inside, I’m torn between doing what is right for me, and doing what my body desires. I raise my glass and drain the contents, then set it down on the step beside me.

“You don't hear the word no very often, do you, Mr Desmon?” I probe rhetorically, already knowing the answer. My confidence is firing on all cylinders, fuelled namely by the little alcohol running through my system - which is emboldening me beyond belief - and the fact I’m acutely aware that I hold all the power right now.

His face pales, and he frowns, and I wonder if he’s searching his memory for all the times he has been told it before. I’m slightly shocked when he opens his mouth.

“No, Miss johnson honestly, pulling me back closer to him. He guides his thumbs across my cheeks and mumbles quietly to himself. My skin catches on fire under his touch, and my body betrays me by responding, as my core fills with liquid heat and dampens profoundly.

“Well, I’ve heard it my entire life, and I’ve said it more times than I can remember, Mr Desmon.” My mind carries me back to the multiple times I have said it – no – begged it. Why it chooses this moment to come flooding back in full force is unknown to me. The tears are already fully formed in my eyes and squeezing them together is futile. Too late, I remember. A lone tear flees and runs down my cheek. I open my eyes to see Castro's features twist in anger, and his look of pure hatred makes me flinch.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper, as he slowly drags his thumb up my cheek, ensnaring the wetness and wiping it away. I attempt to slap his hand away, but he is having none of it. I’m angry at him for weakening me in such a way after only meeting him once, but I’m even more pissed off with myself for showing him the easiest way to do it. I’m actually letting my walls down for him. That, I didn’t realise until a moment ago.

Without warning, he wraps his arms around my waist. I gasp out loud when one hand splays wide over the middle of my back, and my front is pressed up against his, hard and tight. “I want to hold you Miss johnson, please stop moving away from me.” I stop, and he continues. “Nelly, listen to me, I would never tell you no, and you would never have to beg me for anything,” he says assertively, withdrawing a little to evaluate my expression. “Please, have dinner with me. I really would like to spend an evening getting to know you.” The hand on my back eases its way up to my neck. He supports my head at my nape. I don’t know what the hell is happening to me, but all I know is that I really do loath to be touched, especially like this, yet this feels so natural, I’m intoxicated by it. Somewhere inside, it feels right. He feels right.

“I'm sorry, but I need to get back,” I tell him, struggling to get out of his grasp, but it’s nearly impossible. He has me where I stand, and his satisfied grin confirms it.

“Please, say yes. You know, as well as I do, that this is going to happen,” he tells me in an undeniable tone. His eyes burn into mine, the intention and meaning behind them is crystal clear. “You’re going to be mine in every way imaginable, and there’s not a thing you can do to stop it. You know it, and I know it. It’s merely just a matter of time. Now, we can do this the easy way, to which you say yes, or we can do it the hard way, in which I will wear you down until you have no choice. Although I would rather you say yes to this willingly.”