4. Syn
4
SYN
The bank is in my sights when I’m pulled up short by a man calling my name.
“Synthia Fuller?”
I freeze for a moment in full panic mode, but then rush forward, hoping the crowds of workers and early morning shoppers will swallow me.
No such luck.
The man falls into step beside me before he turns and cuts me off by stepping in front of me. “Synthia Fuller.”
He seems more sure now. I look up into sparkling blue eyes that are guarded. His dark hair is cut short. He is dressed in an impeccable black cashmere coat, which is probably too warm for this Spring day, with a black shirt and pants underneath. He is tall, really tall and well spoken, and his scent of apple spice marks him as an alpha. He doesn’t look like a police officer come to arrest me for buying black market goods, but I’m not taking any chances.
“Sorry, you have the wrong person,” I mutter and duck around him.
He reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me gently out of the crowds to the side of the pavement.
“Get off me!” I say loudly as I try to yank my arm free. He is strong. Really strong. “I’ll scream!”
“Mm, now that’s a sound I’d like to hear,” he murmurs, moving closer but letting my arm go.
I’m about to do a runner when he adds, “I’m a friend of Robert Rainer.”
All the warning signs flash, but something, some-fucking-thing , stops me in my tracks. “Oh?” I ask, eyebrow arched. “And?”
He smirks. It’s cold, calculated and a little bit cruel. “And I’ve heard good things about you, Ms Fuller.”
I stand up straighter, but still only coming up to his shoulder—he is really tall—and lift my chin. “If you want my services, please go through Celeste Walker at the Walker Agency.” I step back, intending to walk away because picking up alphas on the street is not the way I conduct business, but he reaches out and grips the side of my cardigan.
“Hey,” I growl as he pulls me closer.
“Stop resisting, Ms Fuller. It is futile.”
Futile? Who the fuck speaks like this? Someone well-educated and posh, obviously.
“Look, you find me at a disadvantage,” I say, narrowing my eyes and pulling the sophisticated escort persona over me to get me through whatever the hell this is. “You know my name, and I don’t know yours.” To tell the police after I’ve run away from you.
“Forgive me,” he says, in that low, controlled tone. “My manners have been forgotten momentarily with your feisty attitude.” There’s that smirk again, only this time it’s challenging. Before I can say anything, though, he continues, “My name is Sir Tarquin Brayfield.”
I blink. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
He looks surprised for a brief moment, but then chuckles darkly. “I guess not. It was merely an introduction, so we are on equal footing.”
Equal footing, my arse.
“Well, Sir Tarquin Brayfield, what do you want with me?”
“Do you really want to discuss business on the street?” His tone makes it sound dirty, and it gets my anger flaring. I might be an escort and sell sex for money, but he is the one paying for it.
“Depends what business it is,” I grit out.
He glares down at me, but it appears to be his natural expression as opposed to being annoyed.
“And I would ask that you let go of my cardigan.”
He blinks and looks down at his hand, still gripping my clothing. He releases it, and I step back, ready to run.
He snorts gently and shakes his head, reaching out to hook his fingers into the belt loop on my jeans. He tugs, and I go flying forward. Did I mention he is really strong?
Tripping on an uneven slab of pavement, I throw my hands up to stop myself from going down, and they land on his rock-hard chest. I gulp as I feel his muscles ripple, but I can’t stop myself from looking up at him, seemingly even taller now that I’m so close to him.
He stares down at me, but the closed-off shield in his gaze never falters. I breathe in his scent and shiver. He notices, and his lips part.
“What do you want?” I ask, forcing myself to step back as far as I can with his grip still on my belt loop.
“Hey, Miss! Are you okay?” A middle-aged alpha stops next to us and glares at Sir Tarquin. “Is he bothering you?”
I blink, a slow smile appearing on my face as I look from the hero alpha to Sir Tarquin.
Tarquin notices my sly expression and growls. “We are fine, thank you.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” the hero says, turning to face me. “Are you okay?”
I lick my lips. “Well, actually…”
Tarquin’s expression turns furious, and that guard drops from his gaze. His eyes flash dangerously. It intrigues me, and call me stupid, but I want to continue this conversation.
“We’re fine. Thank you for stopping and checking on me. I really appreciate it.” I bat my eyelashes at the hero and place my hand lightly on his arm.
Tarquin growls again, a low rumble as his gaze fixes on my hand, his fingers tightening on my jeans.
“Are you sure?” the hero asks.
“Perfectly. Thank you again.” I remove my hand and drop it to my side.
“Very well,” he says, but glares at Tarquin as he leaves.
I giggle but stop when Tarquin steps into my personal space again. “You like playing with fire, don’t you, Ms Fuller?”
“Not really. Now I’m going to ask you again. What do you want with me?”
He breathes in, and it seems he immediately regrets it as my scent fills his nostrils. “This conversation hasn’t gone how I planned.”
“And how did you plan it, then?”
“Ranier has told me things about you, Ms Fuller.”
“Kissing and telling? I’ll have to have a word with him.”
“I want what he has had.”
“And that would be?”
“You.”
“Like I said, speak to Celeste.”
“No, this is off the books. I want to hire you for a week to be at my disposal, my complete beck and call.”
“Oh?” I ask, intrigued now that we are getting somewhere. “That will cost you.”
He leans in, pulling me flush against his body. His lips brush my ear. “One million pounds.”
My blood runs cold before it ignites, and the breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. “What?”
“One million for seven days. You will do as I say, when I say it. If I want to fuck you for twenty-four hours straight, you will do it. If I want to fuck you in the park in broad daylight, you will do it. If I want to tie you to my bed and punish you for being an infuriating creature, you will let me.”
My brain has shut down, and I just stare at him for what seems to be a very long time. I don’t know what to say. “Is this a joke?” I spit out eventually. A million pounds will get Jeremy off my back once and for fucking all, and will get my daughter back with me where she belongs. But if this is a joke… It’s too cruel to contemplate.
“I never joke about money,” he says steadily.
“I’m going to need that in writing?—”
“No contracts.”
We stare at each other, and the world drops away. I can’t tell if he’s being serious or if life is kicking me while I’m down.
“Why?” I whisper against my better judgement.
“Why?”
“Why?”
He lets go of my jeans, but he doesn’t step back. His hand trails up my side, over the top of my breasts before he grips my throat loosely enough for me to breathe, but tight enough that I can’t escape.
“I want to hear you purr while I fuck you so hard, you will beg me to stop.”
I gasp, my lips parting as his scent deepens.
“I won’t fucking stop, Ms Fuller. Do we have a deal?”
The purr. That’s what Ranier must’ve told him about. It drives Ranier wild, it’s why I perfected it as part of our time together. I don’t purr with my other clients. I don’t want to. The urge doesn’t hit me, and they don’t expect escorts to purr for them, but for five grand for an hour in bed, Ranier gets it.
“When do I get the money?”
His eyes gleam with satisfaction, the steel blue darkening to something more primal as his thumb strokes the sensitive skin of my throat. “When you arrive, you will get half. The other half at the end of the week.”
Five hundred thousand would be enough to start negotiating with Jeremy. It will take time, I know this, but hope blossoms in my chest.
“How do I know you’re good for it?” I challenge, forcing strength into my voice despite his hold on my throat.
He loosens his hold on me, but doesn’t let me go with a soft chuckle that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. “You don’t.” His bluntness is oddly refreshing. “But neither do I know if you’re worth it.”
We stand there, sizing each other up while pedestrians flow around us like water around stones in a stream. The weight of the heat inducers in my bag feels suddenly insignificant.
“When would this week begin?” I ask, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
“Tomorrow morning. I’ll send a car at eight.” He says it with such certainty, as though my agreement is already secured.
I swallow hard. “If I don’t get that payment up front, I’ll walk.”
“I would expect nothing less. I don’t expect my employees to work for free, Ms Fuller.”
“Employee?” This man is either obscenely wealthy or dangerously reckless. Possibly both.
His lip curls slightly. “What would you prefer I call you? My paid companion? My temporary possession?”
The way he says ‘possession’ makes my skin prickle with warning, but also something else—a dark, forbidden thrill I refuse to acknowledge.
“I need to bring my phone with me. I have… obligations.”
“I never said you couldn’t.” Sir Tarquin studies me for a moment longer, and then he releases me and steps back. A black SUV pulls up to the kerb behind him, and he turns his back to get in.
“What? That’s it?” I call out in exasperation.
He turns back as he opens the door, those blue eyes smouldering. “That’s it.”
He gets in and slams the door. The car shoots off without hesitation, leaving me reeling on the pavement at this proposal and wondering whether or not it’s genuine.
The trouble is, I can’t afford to not find out.