Chapter 2
TWO
I WOKE UP with the worst headache and my body crying out in pain, disoriented and not sure what had happened last. Then, I remembered.
“Oh, shit.” I jumped up, regretted it the instant I did and sank back onto the numerous pillows. I was alone in the bed, extremely thankful to be alone in the bed, and mortified over my behaviour last night. Where was he? The room was quiet. Oh shit, shit, shit. The last memory I had was of Matt going down on me and giving me the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced. Had I freaking passed out? Oh, the shame. A knock sounded lightly on the door and I pulled the covers up to my neck. He knocked on his own bedroom door? Weirdo.
“Come in,” I called.
The door opened and a white-haired man popped around it with a covered tray. I screamed—he frowned—I screamed louder.
“I have brought your breakfast, Ms DuMont,” he managed to shout over my screams.
I screamed again. Who was this old white dude with the tray who knew my name? What the fuck was going on in this place?
“Ms DuMont! Ms DuMont, please stop screaming.”
“Who are you? Where’s Matt?” I yelled, clutching the sheet to me and looking around for a weapon. The guy was old and he’d mentioned something about breakfast, I think, but he could be a ninja master or a British spy fully capable of killing me. And no one would question it. I could see the headlines now: Black female intruder killed during home invasion in upscale Kensington property. I’d be killed and the papers would paint me as the bad guy, and this man would get a pat on the back and say shit like, “I thought she had a gun” or “I was in fear for my life.” Shit like that happened all the time back home in the States.
“Mr Bradley is at his office. He instructed me to ensure you ate. It is ten thirty in the morning, and you should be out of bed.”
“Excuse me?” I did not like the undertone of censure in the old man’s voice. No, I didn’t like it one bit. “Who are you?”
“My name is George and I work for Mr Bradley. He has instructed me—”
“To make sure I eat. I heard you the first time.” I cut him off bad-temperedly. I was naked under satin sheets with this George in a stiff suit judging me silently. Bite me.
“Well, I was not certain. You were screaming so loudly I’m surprised you could hear yourself.”
There it was again: that censorious tone. I ignored it and asked, “Did you say ten thirty?”
“I did, Ms DuMont,” he replied dryly. “I’ve sent your clothes to the drycleaners and they should be back within two hours. Would you like me to procure garments for you to wear in the meantime?”
I gulped, grateful no one could tell when us black folks blushed. “Um, you sent my clothes to the drycleaners?”
He nodded, eyes crinkling around the corners. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to glower at me or smile. “Yes, Ms DuMont. They were in the kitchen upon my arrival, and I assumed they were in need of cleaning. It is my job to anticipate the needs of my employer.”
I tried to hold my head up high. No wonder he was judging me. The thong I had worn under my dress wasn’t one that implied a woman of propriety.
“I’m a virgin,” I spluttered, and pulled the sheet up to cover my mouth. What the fuck was wrong with me? I might as well get a megaphone and stand atop Big Ben screaming out my inability to get laid.
George eyed the bed and me in it before nodding in an extremely slow and patronizing manner. “Of course, Ms DuMont, but that is none of my business, and your eggs are going cold. I shall leave your tray here.” He marched over to the table. Was that a high coffee table? In a bedroom? Why hadn’t I noticed that last night?
“I will return in thirty minutes with garments for you. I assume that is enough time for you to eat and shower?” Reproach, reproach, reproach. George was dripping with reproach.
“Yes, George,” I mumbled, then remembered my manners. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Ms DuMont.” He disappeared behind the closing door.
I slumped back on the bed and tried not to wail. I should be in the studio dancing, not lying about in a well-to-do white man’s fancy bed in his fancy house. George would think I was a slut; he’d tell the neighbours Matt had brought a prostitute home, because I was sure that was what he was thinking. And Matt had a butler? Or a P.A? Or whatever the hell George was. Fact was, I’d shamed myself. I needed to get out of here. I crawled off the bed; I had to after my first attempt to launch off it resulted in serious pain across my abdomen. I would never be able to go through my routine today. Dante would be pissed. I shrugged into Matt’s shirt, found the discarded tie and looped it around my waist. The running bottoms went back on, too. I would get my shit and get out of here. This would be my dirty little secret, never to be thought of again.
On my way to the door, I got a nice whiff of eggs. I minced over to the table and lifted the cover. Mmm, scrambled eggs and they weren’t wet. I hated wet scrambled eggs. How did George know the way I liked my eggs? My suspicions that he was a ninja master reared. I could see him with a long white beard to match his hair becoming one with nature and all its forces. I tried a bit of the eggs. Then had another forkful, then wolfed it all down like a ravenous beast. There was bacon, too, but I was trying to cut down on meats. Hell, I ate the bacon after staring at it for half a minute. And the small glass of orange juice washed everything down nicely. With the tray in my hand, I made my way downstairs, forgetting which way to the kitchen.
“George?” I called out softly. Feeling like a trespasser, I balanced the tray on one hand and started knocking on doors. How big was this place?
“George?” I pushed a heavy door open and faced an empty room. There was nothing more than a grand piano and accompanying seat. Fancy schmancy.
“Is there something I can help you with, Ms DuMont?”
I was halfway up in the air when the voice came from behind me. The tray clattered to the floor and the nice china plate smashed. The glass shattered. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me up.
“I’m so clumsy. Oh, let me get that.”
“There’s no need, Ms DuMont,” George said coldly. I jerked back, shocked by his tone and calculating appraisal as he took in my borrowed attire. “Is there something you wish me to do for you?”
“No, not really. I was bringing the tray down and I got lost, then you scared me—”
“I apologize, Ms DuMont. I didn’t intend to startle you.” The crisp black suit he wore matched exactly with his demeanour. Polite to a fault, but cutting. He didn’t sound genuinely apologetic. I need to get away from these snobby white people, and fast.
“I wanted to know if you could call me a cab. I have to go.”
“Mr Bradley gave me the impression you were to await his return,” he replied in that snotty voice of his. His face was lined with wrinkles. I wanted to think it was due to him smiling all the time, but it didn’t seem likely.
“I have to go to work, and I can’t stay here waiting for Matt.”
George’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly when I’d said the word ‘work’. The judgemental s.o.b.
“I’m a ballet dancer, you know.” I was in a huff as I bent down to pick up the stupid tray. “Not some sort of loose-morals woman. I own seventy percent of a dance studio, and we’re doing great. So don’t look down your nose at me.” I started picking up the broken pieces of china and glass and plopping it on the tray.
“Ms DuMont, I must insist you cease at once. I shall take care of it in a moment.” George sounded alarmed as he bent down in an attempt to pry the tray away from me.
“Stop it.” I yanked it back. “I’m fully capable of cleaning up my own mess, and it’s appalling having someone waiting on someone else. Plus, you look like what? A hundred? Are you sure you can straighten up?”
His bushy grey eyebrows waggled. He was going to blow his top if the red stain creeping up over that starchy collar of his was any indication.
“I beg your pardon?” The pitch of his voice increased slightly.
Yep, he was going to blow his top. I continued picking up the pieces, had gotten most of them before I straightened up. George straightened up, too.
“As you can see, Ms DuMont,” he said with those shaking eyebrows. “I’m quite able-bodied and far off one hundred years old.”
“My mistake. I do beg your pardon.” I think it was my best rendition of a stuffy British accent yet.
George did a quick intake of air. Gloved hands clenching at his sides. Was he serious? Gloves?
“Which way to the kitchen?” I asked curtly. With a ramrod-straight back, he brushed past me and marched away. I marched right after him. I was back in the first hallway and could see my shoes propped neatly by the living room door. George stiffly opened a door and revealed the kitchen.
“Thank you,” I said, fuming. I stormed over and placed the tray and its cover on the uncluttered surface of the island. I spotted my license and snatched it up, then marched out of the kitchen without another word. George followed.
“Ms DuMont, I must insist—”
“No way, buddy. Either call me a taxi or leave me alone so I can get out of this lunatic asylum.” I stomped over to grab my shoes and headed towards the door. My purse was on the little table. Perfect. Money, house keys, cell phone and Oyster card. If he didn’t call me a taxi, I would walk to the nearest tube station and ride the underground away from this nightmare.
“Ms DuMont, please.”
It was the faint traces of panic that made me pause in my grand exit. I spun around and saw George hurrying towards me.
“If I have offended you in any way, I am truly sorry, but Mr Bradley is under the impression you will be here when he returns.”
I was distracted by George’s red-stained cheeks, wondering if he was going to have a sudden heart attack. He did look one hundred. That distraction meant he was able to slip past me, easily done in the large hallway, and position himself between me and the front door.
“Why are you standing in front of the door?” I asked shrilly.
“Ms DuMont, if you can calm down for a moment, I can show you the way back upstairs—”
“I’m calling 911,” I warned, dropping the straps of my heels from one hand and fumbling through my purse. This was turning out to be the craziest twenty-four hours of my life. “You can’t hold me against my will.” Cell phone in hand, I keyed in the security code and waved my iPhone in a threatening manner at the red-faced George.
“Ms DuMont, if you would but—”
“Nine.” I pressed the screen. “I’ve pressed the first number, George. You better let me pass or the cops will be here in minutes. Minutes. I’ll tell them you’re keeping me here against my will. You’ll do serious time. Think about it. A man your age—ha—you wouldn’t last a day in prison. And I’m an American citizen. That’s an international mess waiting to happen.”
“Ms DuMont.” George was trying for authoritarian now. “I suggest we go into the kitchen where I can make you a calming cup of tea and we can have a pleasant discussion—”
“First ‘one’, George,” I warned after pressing my screen again. He was acting as if I was the crazy one. “All I have to do is press number one once more and the cops will be here. How are you going to explain this? If you step away from that door right now, I won’t press charges.”
He tilted his head sideways and surveyed me closely, before saying with the barest hint of amusement, “Seeing as we are in the United Kingdom and not the United States, I’d suggest you hang up and re-key 999, Ms DuMont.”
Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that. I chewed my bottom lip. “Thanks for the reminder, but don’t think I won’t do it if you continue to hinder my escape from this madhouse.”
“I will call you a taxi if I must, Ms DuMont,” he cajoled, his whole demeanour changing into a ‘hail well met fellow’ sort of vibe. “But what would you have me tell Mr Bradley about your departure? I fear he would be most disappointed in me for failing to ensure you were here when he returns. I’ve worked for the Bradley family all my life and never once failed to carry out my duties,”
Oh my God. He was trying to play me.
“So, it would be a great help to me if you would but return upstairs while I procure proper clothing for you and you await Mr Bradley’s return.”
I knew he was trying to manipulate me, but on the off chance Matt did get angry with him…
“Do you have a pen and paper I can use?” I asked nicely. George didn’t look like he trusted me not to escape as soon as he went looking for pen and paper. Then, he beamed at me.
“Of course, Ms DuMont, right here.” He skipped—it looked exactly like a triumphant skip—over to the table in the hallway where he opened a drawer. “Pen and paper as per your request.” He rested a pad of lovely stationery and pen on top of the table, with him between me and the door.
“George, here’s the deal. I’m going to write Matt a nice, long letter, stating that you are in no way, shape or form responsible for my leaving before he returns. I do have to get to work.” I ended on a pleading note.
George glanced at me from head to toe. “Then I shall call you a cab at once, Ms DuMont.”
“Thank you, George. You’re a nice man after all, and I don’t really think you’re a century old.” I flashed him my brightest smile and he looked startled for a second, then a small smile spread across his face.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms DuMont,” he said quietly. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at him. His face seemed sincere, so I accepted it for what it was and picked my shoes back up before heading to the table and writing Matt a brief letter thanking him for rescuing me last night, apologizing for putting him in an uncomfortable position by practically forcing myself on him, and mainly for taking care of me when he didn’t have to. I felt horrible for leaving without seeing him, but I couldn’t bear facing him. Not after everything that had happened. I folded the letter, put lipstick on and left a perfect imprint of my lips over the two edges. A kiss goodbye for my unexpected knight. I propped the letter up on the table, kissy-side up.
“Your taxi is here, Ms DuMont.” George was as quiet as a church mouse. I hadn’t heard him approaching. He swept past me to open the door and inclined his head in my direction.
“Goodbye, George. Sorry about the mess and the drama at the door.” I grinned at him as I walked out of Matt’s place, heels in hand and purse tucked tightly under my arm. “Just think, every time you walk towards this door, you’ll remember me.”
George’s lips compressed in a thin line. Was he trying not to laugh or annoyed at my lack of class in his eyes?
“Ms DuMont,” he said in a strict tone that matched the sternness on his face. “I sincerely doubt I’ll ever be able to forget you.”
I waved, then hurried down the stairs to my waiting taxi. I was going to chalk this up to life’s experience. When I got home I would freak out over how close I’d come to being killed in a back alley Croydon-side.