Chapter 63
Cal
How’s it going over there? Press still hanging around?
The security guy’s arrived but it’s still a fucking circus
You OK?
I’m pissed. I can handle it but I hate this feeling of being hounded in my own home
How’s the coverage looking this morning? Saw The Times
Fucking Lorna Davison.
She’s a dried-up woman-hater. The WORST kind of woman. Ignore her
I guess
IGNORE HER. Seriously. You want me to come over?
No. I’m just having a pity party. I’ll be fine, honestly
I’m coming over
I don’t want them getting a photo of you at my house. That would just add fuel to the flames
There are ways around that. See you in an hour
* * *
Ijump on the tube from Green Park so I can head home and grab my car.
We’ve had a few reporters sneaking around Alchemy, but nothing like what Aida’s had to endure.
Still, Gen had the foresight to put some of our evening doormen on a day shift, and our muscle quickly got rid of the journos. That’s why she’s the best COO ever.
It only takes fifteen minutes to get through the park from my place to Notting Hill.
I park up on Aida’s road, and pay the parking charge on my phone before reaching over to the passenger seat and grabbing the balaclava I bought for the Masked Ball.
I tug it on and check in the rearview mirror that it’s on straight before grabbing the man-bag I stuffed a few bits in.
Yep.
That’ll do nicely.
I know exactly what she needs. In fact, I’ll bet I know better than her what she needs.
I call Aida from the car. ‘I’m on your street. I’m disguised. Tell your guy to let your good friend Rafe in.’
She giggles at that.
I must look fucking weird, strolling down one of Notting Hill’s leafiest and most exclusive streets in a Tom Ford suit, a Dunhill man-bag and a cheapo balaclava, but I couldn’t give a shit.
A mother with a toddler in a stroller hurriedly crosses the road to avoid me, and I don’t blame her.
There’s a crowd of reporters with cameras and those big fluffy mic things on the pavement outside Aida’s house, but her front garden is clear and there’s a massive scowling guard standing in front of her gate.
He looks like a Bratva enforcer, which pleases me enormously, because none of these parasites are getting past him. ‘She’s expecting me,’ I tell him, pushing through the crowds. His mono brow doesn’t move at the sight of me. Clearly this guy has seen it all.
‘Name?’ he barks.
‘Rafe,’ I lie smoothly.
As he stands aside, the reporters vie for the attention of the masked guy sauntering up the immaculate limestone-tiled path to Aida’s swanky villa. There’s the click of cameras and the inevitable cat-calling.
‘Oi, mate! Who are you?’
‘You a friend of Aida’s, then?’
‘Why you wearing a mask, mate? You going to rob ‘er?’
I ignore them all and bang hard, twice as I make a fist with the other hand. I would really enjoy punching some of these wankers in the face. The door opens, the woman of the hour presumably hiding behind it, and I push through the space and slam it behind me, pulling her into my arms.
‘Hey,’ I croon as I stroke her hair. ‘How are you holding up?’
She sags against my body, but I’ve got her. ‘I can’t believe you’re wearing that. They’ll have a field day.’
‘Don’t give a fuck. Tell the boys one of your friends from work came to see you and he disguised himself.’
‘My hardened criminal in shining armour.’
‘Believe it, baby.’
She pulls away a little so she can lift her face to mine. She looks tired but absolutely stunning. Her lips are my favourite red, and she’s in sleek black trousers and a fine knit sweater that hugs her tits far too perfectly.
‘Do you normally hang around the house looking like a supermodel?’ I ask her.
‘Definitely not. Knowing you’re going to be splashed all over the tabloids has a motivating effect when it comes to one’s morning routine, I’ll tell you.’ Her gaze flits over my masked face, and she licks her lips.
So she already has a Pavlovian response to my mask, does she?
Interesting.
Her dark eyes are shining as she stares up at me. She is the sexiest, most sophisticated woman I have ever, ever seen. Having her in my arms, my senses full of her, leaves me reeling.
I make a decision.
My hands on her biceps, I push off the door and march her backwards so she’s up against the wall.
‘Tell me,’ I say in a low conversational tone, my mouth so close to hers, ‘do you know what happens to rich, bored, sexy-as-fuck housewives when they’re na?ve enough to let a masked thug into their fancy Notting Hill home?’
This woman is no bored housewife, and I’m only a thug some of the time. Still, I see the second she understands the game. She swallows, her bare throat a long, smooth column, eyes glittering.
‘I don’t.’
A step forward has me pinning her to the wall with my hips. I twist my upper body, reaching into my man-bag and pulling out a length of rope that I hold up for her to see before chucking the bag onto the glossy tiles. Only then do I lower my mouth to her ear.
‘They get exactly what they deserve.’