Inescapable

Chapter 5

Iris knew there was no arguing with him over the matter. It was going to happen whether she wanted it to or not. And frankly, she was relieved. She really didn’t think she was able to walk the distance back to the house without her legs giving way.

She was shivering—his body heat no match for the icy torrent of rain—and she curled one arm around his neck and lowered her cheek to his chest, covering her face with her free hand in a futile attempt to keep herself protected from the rain.

They’d foolishly left the oilskin behind.

She couldn’t see where they were going, was just acutely cognizant of the steady, confident movements of the man who held her so securely in his arms.

In a matter of mere minutes, they were out of the rain and she lowered her hand and lifted her head to take in their surroundings. They were back in the kitchen, probably dripping all over the floor. Luna was making happy whining sounds of greeting.

Iris waited for him to put her down, but he didn’t. After quietly commanding Luna to stay, he continued to walk through the kitchen, down the hall… back to her prison, she supposed. She was of no more use to him, no point keeping her around any longer than he had to. But he strode right past her door and continued down the hall before turning into a different room. It looked like a guest bedroom. Decorated in russets and browns.

“Wha—?”

He ignored her squawk of surprise and walked her directly into the en-suite bathroom.

“You don’t have a tub in your suite. And I think you need a warm soak,” he said, as he sat her down on the commode. He rolled up his sleeves, perched his butt on the bath’s narrow rim, and opened the faucet, occasionally holding a hand beneath the stream of water to check the temperature, and adjusting accordingly.

Oh God, the massive soaker tub looked so damned appealing Iris actually moaned in longing at the sight of it.

He rummaged through the vanity cupboard while the tub filled with steaming hot water and made a soft sound of triumph when he found bath salts. He liberally sprinkled them into the water and agitated it with his hand. The scent of bergamot and jasmine immediately permeated the bathroom.

“Strip,” he commanded her curtly and, for the first time since he took charge in the shed, Iris truly balked.

“Not with you here.”

His eyes were incredulous as he turned to stare at her.

“Yes, with me here.”

“No.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, remember?”

Iris’s cheeks lit with the fires of hell as she recalled the moment he’d slammed into the bathroom last night.

“Well, I don’t want you to see me naked again.”

“Do you think you’re capable of getting out of your clothing without my assistance?”

Her lips thinned as she considered the question. And humiliatingly, the answer was a resounding no. The hoodie wouldn’t be a problem, but the button fly of her boyfriend jeans would be a challenge. Well, not so much a challenge as an insurmountable obstacle. There was no way she’d be able to undo those buttons with her numb, aching fingers.

She shrugged out of her moisture-heavy hoodie—dropping it to the tiled floor with a wet thwack—leaving only the soaked-through black tank top she wore beneath it.

Thereafter she was at a loss, staring helplessly down at her double-knotted boots while trembling violently, her chattering teeth and shuddering breath the only noise in the room.

Trystan Abbott shocked the hell out of her, when—with a quiet grunt—he sank to his knees in front of her and made quick work of unlacing her boots, then he encircled her ankle in his large hand.

“Lift.”

Incapable of doing anything other than obey, Iris dropped a hand to his broad shoulder for balance and lifted her foot while he tugged the boot off quickly and tossed it aside. He repeated the process with the other foot.

Then he remained kneeling there, at face level with her stomach. He said nothing and for a long moment he just sat there, staring at the soaked cotton tank top she wore. Thank God it was black or she’d be giving him quite the peep show—since she hadn’t bothered with a bra.

“Let’s do this,” he finally spoke, raising his face to meet her eyes. She could see the grim determination in his expression and the steely resolve in those beautiful eyes.

Before she could register his words and the meaning behind them, he slipped his left hand between the waistband of her jeans and her cold goosefleshed abdomen.

Iris sucked in a shocked breath when she felt the cold backs of his long fingers brush against her sensitive flesh.

Oh, God!This was so humiliating.

He grasped the placket of her jeans between thumb and forefinger, his knuckles flexing against her tummy at the move. Iris gritted her teeth, refusing to react in any way. This was purely impersonal. He was doing it because it needed to be done. And as such, Iris needed to treat this intimate touch as nothing more than a clinical necessity. Like visiting her doctor’s office. Yes, that was it! This was exactly the same as Dr. Herbert’s touch.

Only… Dr. Herbert was seventy, wore ill-fitting dentures, sported the world’s most unconvincing comb-over, and had known Iris since she was a baby. While the man kneeling at her feet was in his prime, gorgeous, and the world’s biggest movie star. And he currently had a big, assertive hand tucked into the waistband of her jeans—the blunt tips of his fingers intimately close to the top of her bikini panties—while his other fingers undid the stubborn buttons of her jeans.

Iris couldn’t help it—she moaned and covered her face with both hands.

“This is so embarrassing,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

He didn’t respond, merely peeled her wet jeans down her generous hips.

Iris squealed in horror when she realized her panties were starting to slide down with the denim.

“Oh, for the love of Jesus, please stop,” she pleaded, and his hands stilled on her hips. Where before they’d gripped the top of her jeans, he now flattened them against her rounded hips and held them there, staring up at her quizzically.

“Think you can manage from here?” he asked after a beat of silence and she blinked, surprised by the question. No. Not surprised by the question, but by the odd tremble in his voice when he asked said question.

“I think so,” she said on a whisper. He looked unconvinced and she nodded assertively. “Yes, I can.”

He pushed lithely to his feet and towered above her once more, too damned close for comfort.

“Uhm, what about…” He made a vague gesture and Iris cocked her head as she tried to decipher what it could mean.

“What about what?”

He took a step back, waved his fingers at her chest before his eyes dropped to where he was pointing. They seemed to snag there and—baffled—Iris followed his gaze down before hastily folding her arms over her very, very hard nipples. She wished she could say the reaction was entirely due to the cold and wet, but… she disguised a little shudder as she remembered the feeling of his fingers sliding down her abdomen. Her frikking stupidly sensitive abdomen, which had always been one of her wind me up and watch me pop erogenous zones.

“Your bra,” he stated after another weird little silence. “Can you?—”

“Not wearing one,” she said curtly, then immediately wished the words back. His lips curled into what looked like a full-on smirk and he opened his mouth to say something, but she hijacked his words before he could utter them.

“Don’t say it,” she bit out irritably, and this time he was the one to fold his arms over his chest as he waited for her to continue. Which she did, with a bitter note of self-deprecation in her voice. “I clearly don’t need one, right? That is what you were going to say? Or some nasty variation of the same. Yes?”

He held up his hands in surrender and took another step back.

“Get into that tub before you turn into a papsicle—get it?—papsicle because you’re a blood-sucking leech of a pap?”

She gritted her teeth so hard she felt something in her jaw pop. God, ouch, she wasn’t going to be doing that again anytime soon.

“I’m not a pap,” she snapped at him.

“You should own that shit. Even a rat doesn’t deny that it’s a rat and belongs with other rats.”

“What a dumb analogy. You know, people are always raving about your intellect and emotional intelligence, but I confess, I haven’t seen much—or any—of that on display since arriving here. All I’ve seen is a mean, bitter arsehole of a guy wallowing in his self-inflicted misery.”

This time he was the one who gritted his teeth and Iris wondered if she’d actually hit a nerve.

“If I’m mean and bitter it’s because I have an unwelcome intruder in my space. You’re here on sufferance, lady”—as if she needed the reminder—“so tread fucking lightly. Hurry up and get warmed up so that I can get you out of my hair again.”

He turned away from her and stalked out of the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him, which was why she knew he hadn’t gone any further than the attached guest bedroom.

“You’re not going to give me more privacy than that?”

“Nope.” His voice drifted back insouciantly. “You can shut the door, but I have the key, so you can’t lock it.”

Iris eyed the open door. She could see only a sliver of the bedroom and she doubted he was able to see much of anything through that small gap. Besides, she was terrified that if she did shut the door, he would lock it. And she didn’t think she could stand it if he did that. She’d rather take her chances with the door ajar.

Decision made, she shrugged—eager to get into the bath—and clumsily shoved the jeans down her legs, before gingerly removing her tank top. She was sinking into the almost unbearably hot water mere moments later. She nearly added more cold water but she acclimatized quite quickly, despite the uncomfortable pins and needles skittering across her naked flesh.

Eventually, she was able to settle herself completely into the water with a blissful sigh. She lay there for a long time, allowing the heat to seep into her bones. Despite her shower last night, this was the first time she felt like she’d truly thawed since arriving here.

It was wonderful.

She hummed quietly to herself as she scooped water up over her arms, shoulders, and neck… allowing herself a moment of peace. Blocking her situation, and the awful man in the other room, out of her mind for a few precious minutes.

Just a few precious minutes, before…

“Hurry the fuck up, will you? I’d like to get warmed up as well.”

She sighed regretfully and shook her head.

“Nobody’s stopping you. Don’t worry about me, I’ll find my way back to my room.”

Silence. There was a beat of blissful silence, during which Iris allowed herself to relax again.

Then, “If you’re not done in five minutes I’m coming in there and hauling your ass out of that bathtub.”

Of course he was.

Iris clicked her tongue and idly soaped herself before—after way too short a time—she reluctantly rinsed off, got up, and wrapped a towel around her comfortably warm body.

There was an oversized fluffy, white bathrobe hanging from a hook behind the door and—after toweling herself vigorously—Iris dropped the massive plush bath sheet into the laundry hamper and shrugged into the robe.

She threw her shoulders back and lifted her head before pushing the door open and stepping back into the bedroom.

He was waiting for her there. Well, it appeared that he’d left the room long enough to at least divest himself of his own wet clothes. He was now wearing a pair of clingy light gray sweatpants—oh mama—and a form-fitting black T-shirt. He still looked pretty cold though. His hair was wet and she could see the gooseflesh pebbling his skin even with a couple of meters between them.

He was sitting on the edge of the large bed, his gaze trained on her face. His focus so intent, it was a little intimidating.

“You were in there for nearly fifteen minutes,” he grouched.

“I could easily have stayed in there for another fifteen, if you hadn’t been such a time tyrant.”

His beard twitched—what was happening under there? Was he grinding his teeth, chewing the inside of his cheek, clenching his jaw? It was anybody’s guess.

“The beard’s a bit of overkill, no? Is it meant to be a disguise? Not like anybody will find you out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“You did.”

“Thanks to your manager.”

“So you keep saying.”

Iris made a disdainful sound in the back of her throat.

“I’m ready to be escorted back to my prison cell now,” she informed him, with a haughty toss of her damp hair. God, she really wasn’t—the thought of returning to that room made her skin crawl. Her bravado was a total bluff.

“Your Medusa-like curls seem to have multiplied.” The observation was almost wrenched from him, and Iris raised a self-conscious hand to her hair. Usually she had highly controllable, gentle waves, but her hair became a different creature when it got wet and was allowed to dry without any kind of intervention. The waves morphed into crazy spiral curls that sprouted in all directions, without any care or concern for structure and organization.

“It’s not very polite to comment on my physical appearance.”

He lifted an incredulous brow at her criticism. “You literally just commented on mine. Why are you allowed these licenses but not me?”

Iris blinked and then nodded slowly, acknowledging his point.

“You’re right… I’m sorry. I think sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that public figures deserve the same consideration as the rest of the population. I was being a hypocrite.”

He stared at her, his probing gaze alit with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“I mean it,” she insisted, not appreciating his blatant disbelief. Iris took pride in her honesty and rarely said what she didn’t mean. That candor didn’t always work in her favor but she was incapable of dissembling. And this man had accused her of being a liar from the get-go, which was infuriating.

“So, you don’t think the beard is —what’d you call it?— overkill?”

“What?” That was his takeaway from her apology? Seriously, talking to him was like trying to communicate with an alien species. “No, I meant that. I just . . . shouldn’t have said it. My brain-to-mouth filter sometimes malfunctions. I shouldn’t have commented on your appearance. It was rude. I allowed myself to be provoked into saying something that was better left unsaid.”

“So, you’re blaming me for provoking you into speaking your mind? I did no such thing. I have to say, this is an extremely bizarre apology.”

“It’s an honest apology,” she corrected him. “I’m sorry I said what I did about your beard. And that crazy hermit comment I made last night was uncalled for as well. And hurtful.”

“I don’t care enough about your opinions to be hurt by them,” he told her stiffly.

Iris worried her plump lower lip with her teeth before lifting her shoulders in a minute shrug—hating that she cared enough about his opinion to actually be wounded by that stupid comment.

“Fair enough. I apologize regardless.”

She swallowed painfully, while he stared at her again, a long, scraping regard that made her skin prickle and her nerve endings feel raw. Eventually he nodded—an acceptance of her apology perhaps?—and grasped her elbow in a firm, but loose grip. His hand so cold she could feel it through the thick fabric of the bathrobe.

Iris had to be getting used to his unsolicited touches because she barely reacted to it this time. In fact, she almost liked the proprietary hold. Ugh, maybe she was developing Stockholm syndrome or something.

He marched her back to her room without a word, and once there, he stood in the doorway and watched her for a moment before saying, “I’ll bring you some lunch after I’ve had a shower.”

“Thank you.”

Another long stare and then he stepped back and slammed the door in her face. She held her breath for a few seconds, hoping… until she heard the key turn in the lock. Her breath escaped on a slow, dejected sigh and her shoulders dropped. Deep breaths… she could do this. She’d done it before.

She turned back to stare at her cell. It looked cozy. Spacious. Not prison-like at all, but it was fast becoming the equivalent of a dungeon to Iris. She hated it. Hated not being able to just open the door and leave anytime she wanted to.

She pushed down the panic that threatened to claw its way out of her throat in the form of a scream, and headed straight for the window. She shoved it up and inhaled deeply. So much for that warm bath… the frigid air immediately chilled her again. But she didn’t care. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the ground just a meter below the windowsill. And after a few more deep breaths, stepped back and shut the window again, shivering but better.

She walked to the sofa and picked up her laptop. Maybe she could distract herself from obsessing over that locked door by writing. She also needed to update her journal. When she was a teenager and starting to exhibit her anxiety issues her school counsellor, Mrs. Crowley, had encouraged her to start a journal to keep track of her events—as the woman called them. The idea was to be as detailed as possible in her entries so that they could attempt to identify what specific interactions or incidents triggered her panic attacks.

Iris had found it to be therapeutic and had kept a journal ever since.

TDH still hadn’t given her the Wi-Fi password as promised, but she didn’t need Wi-Fi to write.

“Hey.”

The deep, intrusive voice didn’t register at first as Iris continued to tap industriously away at her keyboard.

“Hey, lady! I brought your lunch.”

Her body jerked in fright and her eyes flew up to stare at the man hovering just inside the doorway. He was clutching yet another tray in his massive paws and had a dish towel slung over one broad shoulder, and…

She blinked a few times as she stared at his face uncomprehendingly. Specifically at the neatly trimmed beard.

It was still too long, but he’d definitely gone through some effort to tidy it up a bit. The bushiness had been somewhat tamed. There was a line of pale skin visible from his throat to the corner of his mouth where the hair didn’t grow. It hadn’t been as noticeable with the longer, bushier beard, but now it was obvious that he had a nasty scar hidden under the scruff. It must be as a result of his accident. Iris did her level best not to stare, but she knew she wasn’t very successful when his jaw tightened and his brow lowered into an almost defensive glower.

His burning eyes bored into hers in unmistakable challenge and Iris pinched her lips between her teeth to refrain from commenting. The scar fueled her curiosity, but the trimmed beard was a surprise as well. Had he cut it because of her earlier comments? It didn’t seem likely. Trystan Abbot surely didn’t give one shit about her opinion. He’d even said as much. Yet… the timing was suspicious.

He put the tray down on the table with enough force to cause the dishes to rattle.

“Thank you,” she said beneath her breath and the swift downward jerk of his head was the only indication that he’d heard her. “Where’s Luna?”

“You’re obsessed with my dog. Cut it out.”

“I like dogs,” she said, rolling her eyes. The man was pricklier, and more ill-tempered, than a rabid porcupine. “And Luna is a friendly face in enemy territory. I appreciate her. I wish you’d let her stay with me for a bit. She’s good company.”

He ignored her. So predictable.

Iris sighed and set aside her laptop—the writing had thankfully succeeded in distracting her from her circumstances—and rolled herself off the sofa, wincing with the movement. Her muscles were really starting to protest even the smallest of movements.

“Drink more fluids,” Mr. Unsolicited Advice offered begrudgingly. “It’ll help with the cramps.”

“I have been,” Iris said as she limped her way to the table where he still stood. He was as tense as a coiled spring and looked ready to bolt at any second. This was probably longer than he wanted to interact with her, which begged the question: Why was he still here?

Iris eyed the laden tray avariciously, her mouth flooding with saliva at the sight and smell of the generous portions of rustic meaty stew and home-baked bread.

“This looks and smells amazing,” Iris said, and her stomach growled in agreement. “You made it yourself?”

“You see anyone else around?” The words were short, his tone impatient, but Iris gave him a sanguine look that she knew would probably annoy him.

“I haven’t seen much of anything since I’ve been here. For all I know you could have a dozen guests and a full complement of house staff.”

“Up until you crash-landed on our doorstep, Luna and I were blissfully and happily alone.”

“Not even your bodyguard? That hot Aussie guy? That seems irresponsible.”

“Yeah, trust me, I have regrets about leaving him behind. Chance wouldn’t have let you come within a hundred yards of the house.”

“Why did you leave him behind?” she asked, tilting her head curiously as she watched him closely to gauge his reaction. As expected, his eyes immediately shuttered and his body went rigid.

“This was supposed to be a safe place.” The intense, resentful words spilled from his lips almost involuntarily. “A private place. But you fucking vultures keep tracking me down.”

Stung, Iris retreated into silence, not sure how to respond to that. There were those who argued that public figures couldn’t expect privacy, that they belonged to everyone, and—as such—their lives were diverting fodder for the greedy and entitled masses to feast on.

Iris had never been one of those people. She’d come here expecting a story, and admission into Trystan Abbott’s private sanctum and inner circle. But she’d believed that she had his explicit consent to step into his life and his spotlight for a short period of time. She would never have come here otherwise. And she hated that he believed that she had such a wanton disregard for his right to privacy.

“If you’d be willing to look at them,” she broached the subject tentatively, hoping he’d listen this time and not shut her down immediately as he had last time she’d brought up the subject. “Like I mentioned before, I do have correspondence between myself and Mr. Quinn.”

His already furled brow furrowed even more, and it was hard not to scurry away from such an impressive display of masculine outrage. She stood her ground though, so close to him that she was getting a crick in her neck from the height difference between them as she tried to maintain eye contact.

Shockingly, he was the one who looked away first. He took a couple of steps backward.

“Eat your lunch.”

Worrying at her lip with her teeth, Iris watched him retreat, disappointed that he hadn’t responded to her suggestion about the correspondence between her and Hunter Quinn. She tried to ignore the sound of the key in the lock, hoping that if she didn’t hear it she could trick herself into believing that it wasn’t locked.

But the sound of the key turning reverberated through her brain like a bullet shattering a silent night. Her shoulders tensed and she tried to distract herself with thoughts of her jailer.

She wondered about that scar—it looked pretty bad. How severe had his injuries been? Newspapers had only reported that he was in a stable condition. A few horribly invasive pictures had surfaced of him in hospital immediately after the accident. There had been others as well, of Trish Nesbitt, that had turned Iris’s stomach. She couldn’t understand how someone could have taken pictures like that. Evan had pored over those images with morbid curiosity, often trying to show them to Iris—who had literally gagged after one quick glance at a picture of the—clearly dead—woman. Her friend had then mocked Iris for having the wrong constitution for this job.

She shook her head and dragged a chair out from underneath the dining table before sitting down to have the meal provided for her. She found a Post-it note with the Wi-Fi password scribbled on it beneath the bread basket, and quickly signed into the Wi-Fi while she scarfed down the delicious meal.

Trystan Abbott was a good cook.

Who knew?

She sent quick apologies to her parents and Evan—who’d finally surfaced from her hangover—explaining that she’d been without Wi-Fi for a while.

Evan threatened to cut a bitch if Iris didn’t give immediate details about where she was and who she was interviewing. Iris grimaced, wishing she hadn’t teased her friend about this big reveal. It didn’t feel right to divulge any information until she’d cleared up this misunderstanding between herself and the two powerful men.

I can’t tell you anything yet, Ev. I’m sorry. Shit got a little complicated and I have to see if I’ve actually still got the interview before I can reveal anything more.

Her friend sent half a dozen poop emojis in response and Iris grinned.

Tell me what you got up to last night? You get lucky?

‘Course I did ??

That’s my girl! Who was the lucky guy? Girl? Anyone I know?

Hooked up with a hottie at that summer charity event I told you I was going to. Haven’t seen her before. Doubt I’ll see her again. But she was fun.

Iris grinned. It was hard to keep up with Evan sometimes, and she often wondered why her friend hung out with her. Evan was cool, edgy, interesting and she knew exactly what she wanted from life. She worked as a junior executive assistant to the editor of an up-and-coming gossip magazine. And she’d once told Iris that she meant to have the woman’s job in two years, come hell or high water. Evan was such a driven and determined woman that Iris didn’t for a second doubt that she’d achieve her goals with time to spare.

It was hard not to be envious of her friend, whom she’d met at uni. They had the same dream, but Evan was miles ahead of Iris. Iris had spent so much time—during and after university—helping out with the catering business that, before she’d known it, four years had passed, and she was still in exactly the same place. Writing the occasional freelance article while working for her parents. Evan, in the meantime, had interned at Vogue, GQ and Glamour. Before landing this job at Looker magazine.

She was constantly regaling Iris with stories of glitzy celebrity parties, borrowed designer finery, dressing to the nines, and dating/sleeping with influential, beautiful people. Iris didn’t envy any of that since she’d never been interested in being on trend and knowing the “right kind” of people. All she’d ever wanted to do was the work. She didn’t care about the fast, glamorous life that came with it. She was—and always would be—a homebody. And while Evan had often inferred that Iris didn’t have the right attitude or the cutthroat mentality required for this kind of work, Iris had always felt that all she needed was an opportunity to prove what she could do.

If Evan were here instead of Iris, she would have charmed—and quite possibly seduced—Trystan Abbott out of his foul mood by now. And she’d have convinced him of her credentials and legitimacy in no time flat. She would have become his pampered guest and he would never have asked pretty, fragile Evan to hoist sandbags into a wheelbarrow.

Iris sighed wistfully. Annoyed that she was comparing herself with her best friend. Something she’d promised herself she would never do.

She was just going at a different pace. Evan didn’t have the commitments Iris did. She was from a wealthy, powerful family. She’d never been asked to sacrifice any of her needs or wants for the sake of the family business. That had been one of the many fundamental differences between them, and Iris had long ago accepted that comparing herself with Evan would only lead to grief and discontent. Instead, she celebrated her friend’s wins and achievements and tried not to come down too hard on herself for being nowhere near the same level as Evan as far as career goals went.

Thiswas supposed to be a great—if not equalizer then at least—step up for Iris. Her big break. And it was all falling apart around her.

She scrolled through the many pics Ev had sent and smiled a little wistfully at how perfect and happy her beautiful friend looked in each picture.

It was a total celeb fest. A-listers everywhere. There was even a rumor that Trystan Abbott was coming, but he was a no-show.

Iris snorted at that text. Trystan Abbott had been too busy tormenting her last night to think about some fancy charity gala in London.

She sent a shocked emoji in response to Evan’s text, not sure what else to say or do when she knew exactly where Trystan Abbott had been last night.

She replied to a couple of texts from her mom and dad and a random one from her brother:

The fuck you do with my black sleeveless hoodie?!!!

Huh?

?????♀? How should I know where your hoodie is? Ask Mum.

His only reply was a middle-finger emoji, which Iris stared at for a second before shrugging and moving on from the text. She didn’t wear his clothes; they were all miles too big for her. And she shared a small flat with two other women, so she never had access to Robbie’s clothing anyway. Sometimes he’d blame her for the most random shit. But Iris liked to believe it was because he missed her and accusing her of clothing theft was his way of staying in contact with her.

She finished her—now lukewarm—stew and got up with a pained groan, picking up the tray and hobbling to the sink to do the dishes.

That done, she tried to stretch for a few minutes hoping it would help, but it only seemed to make things worse, before giving up and heading back to the sofa and her laptop.