CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mr. Charming
“You get a faint accent sometimes. What is that?” he asked, breaking the long silence.
It was almost a relief to have him do something other than just stare at me, brooding, though I didn’t care for the question. I would have preferred that he not notice my slip.
“Another exchange, so soon?” I asked cooly. “I would have thought the last one was enough for one night.”
He didn’t speak for a long time, though I knew without looking that he was angry.
“Fine. Ask me anything,” he said through clenched teeth.
“How many women have you slept with?” I asked, and immediately wanted to kick myself. If I was going to reveal my feelings so recklessly, I would have preferred a better question.
“A lot. I haven’t been counting. More than I’m proud of. Mostly submissive’s in the last five years or so, and, for the most part, very short acquaintances.”
“Have you ever had a serious relationship?” I plowed on, hoping he wouldn’t make me reveal two things as well, though if he tried, I was ready to point out that he hadn’t technically answered my first question.
“No. I was basically a slut in college, if I’m honest. I fucked any hot woman I saw. And after that, I found girls with very specific tastes, but it was never about anything but sex and dominance.”
I sighed, not knowing if I was relieved or appalled. I’d have to examine my feelings later.
“I was born in the states,” I began. “My parents, however, were both from Sweden and spoke with heavy accents. I had a slight accent myself, until they were gone. Then I tried to lose it. It comes back sometimes. I don’t know why.”
“It’s lovely. I don’t know why you would make an effort to disguise it.”
I gave him my little shrug, not looking at him. “Stephan and I stood out enough already. We attended a few high schools together. We were inseparable even then, but I didn’t want to make us stand out even more with a strange accent. We were already the only two ridiculously tall blonds at every school we went to. We were a head taller than everyone else there.”
I glanced at him.
He was focused on me with that certain look on his face that made me think he was soaking up every scrap of information I fed him.
I fell silent. He had actually gotten me to chat about myself. I was a little dismayed at the realization.
Eventually James went back to answering his phone, and I went outside to put the chicken on my tiny charcoal grill. I texted Stephan that dinner would be ready in twenty minutes.
He brought a bottle of red wine, revealing it with a flourish.
I gave him a wry smile. We both knew he would be the only one drinking it. He grinned back, going directly into the kitchen to open it and pour himself a glass.
“Would anyone like some?” he asked politely.
James shook his head, ending his phone call quickly.
I refused, and James sent me a warm look. The man did not like alcohol, it was clear.
I served dinner as soon as it was ready, and there wasn’t even a hint of awkwardness while we ate dinner, chatting amiably. I enjoyed it while it lasted. Both men complimented the simple meal lavishly.
“So Bianca tells me you two went to high school together here in Las Vegas. And that you towered a head above everyone else there.”
Stephan laughed, sending me a surprised but pleased look.
“Yes,” he said. “Everyone called us Barbie and Ken. They all thought we were a couple, since I carried her backpack and walked her to every class.”
James smiled a cheshire cat smile.
Sneaky bastard, I thought. I saw his plan clearly now. He was going to get some free information out of Stephan.
“Bianca wouldn’t admit it at the time, but the nickname embarrassed the hell out of her,” Stephan continued.
James was all charm and smiles now, a man getting everything he wanted through a clearly easier route. “And what about her other nickname? Where did Buttercup come from?”
“Remember that old movie, Princess Bride?” Stephan asked James, not even hesitating to open up.
James nodded.
“We used to love that movie. This…” Stephan’s glance shot to mine as he paused, “place where we used to hang out a lot used to show it on movie night. It was the only movie on movie night. Ever. We could both quote you every single line. So I took to calling her Princess Buttercup. You have to admit she kind of looks like the actress in the movie, the one that played the princess. And as a teenager, she even kind of acted like her, very haughty and proud, but still so sweet to me. She was annoyed with the nickname at first, but it grew on her when it became just Buttercup.”
“Good movie. Now I want to watch it again. I haven’t seen it since I was a kid,” James said, still smiling.
Stephan smiled brilliantly. “I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more. I have the movie at my house. And ice cream. What do you say, Buttercup? Dessert and a movie at my place tonight?”
I agreed readily enough.
Stephan headed next door to find the movie and get his house ready. We stayed behind to clean up dinner.
James insisted on helping, clearing the table and washing dishes while I put the food away.
“This is not exactly what I pictured when you talked about not dating,” I told him carefully. “Hanging out with my best friend and watching movies feels pretty personal.”
He turned to me, looking baffled. “I never said anything about not getting personal. I intend for us to get very personal, Buttercup.”
His answer perplexed me, but I chalked it up to him being too rich and spoiled. Even his most casual affairs had to have a rich eccentricity to them…
We watched the movie and had ice cream and then popcorn at Stephan’s house. It was a highly enjoyable day overall, I thought, even with some bumpy conversations in the road.
We got ready for bed in silence later, and my body sang with anticipation as I lay down to wait for James, who was still in the bathroom.
He joined me a few minutes later, sliding in beside me and spooning me from behind. I tensed, waiting to see what kind of a move he would make, but he just nuzzled against my hair and settled down to sleep.
I tried to turn to him, but he kept me securely in place, placing a soft kiss on my temple.
“I’m letting you recover for a few days, Love. Just sleep. I’m content to hold you for tonight.”
I was in that house again. I lay in my hard, tiny bed. I was hugging my knees to my chest, rocking and rocking, and trying to ignore the harsh shouts just a few thin walls away.
If I stayed in my room, it would all go away. They would forget I was even here and in the morning my Dad would sleep all day and leave us in peace so I could tend to my Mother.
But that wasn’t meant to be. Not this time.
The yelling grew louder, my mother’s shouts turning into terrified screams. When I couldn’t stand the horrible noises a moment longer, I crept quietly through the house to investigate.
In spite of my overwhelming fear, my need to at least attempt to aid my mother almost always thrust me into the violent thick of things.
I looked down at my thin bare feet, wishing I knew where some clean socks were. I was so cold, an achy kind of cold, down to my very soul.
My parents were speaking in Swedish, and I pieced together some hysterical words as I got closer to the kitchen where they fought.
“No, no, no. Please, Sven, put that away.”
My father’s voice was an angry roar. “You’ve ruined my life. You and that brat. I’ve lost everything because of you. My fortune, my inheritance, and now, my luck. You’ve taken everything from me, just by living. Tell me why I shouldn’t take everything from you, you silly cunt?”
“When you’re sober, you’ll regret it. We have a child together, Sven. Please, just go to sleep. If you sleep on it, you’ll feel better.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! Fuck sleep. Fuck you. And fuck that little brat. Look at her, hovering in the door, frozen like a frightened little mouse.” His cold eyes went to me.
I was frozen in place, as he’d said.
He changed his tone when he spoke to me, and it turned into a mockery of a gentle tone. “Why don’t you join us, sotnos? Come be with your pretty Mama.”
I moved to my mother, having learned a very long time ago not to disobey him when he was in this mood.
He sneered at the two of us when I stood beside her.
I was in my early teens and tall, already taller than my mother, but he towered over us both.
My mother didn’t look at me, didn’t reach for me. I knew she didn’t want to draw more attention to me. She tried to protect me, as I did her, though she did a better job of it than I did.
“Look at my pretty girls. The daughter is even prettier than the mother. What use, then, is the mother? Tell me why you’re useful, Mama?” he asked her.
I didn’t hear her answer. My gaze was focused solely now on the object he was holding at his side. It was a gun. My gut clenched in dread. The gun was a new and terrifying addition to this violent scene.
My gaze flew back to my father’s face as a laugh left his throat. It was a cackle of a laugh, dry and angry. I began to back away, shaking my head back and forth in denial.
“Wrong answer, cunt,” he said.
He waved the the pistol in front of her. “You can’t take your eyes off of this. Do you want it? Would you like me to give this to you? Take it, if you want it. You think I can’t touch you with a gun in your hand?”
My mother watched him, her eyes almost blank with terror. She must know, as I did, from the mocking tone of his voice, that he was testing her. She would pay dearly if she took the gun from him, even if he had told her to.
He laughed. “I insist. Take the gun.”
Unexpectedly, and horrifyingly, she did. She pointed it at him with hands that shook.
“Get out,” she said, her voice tremulous and awful with her terror. “You can’t do these things, especially in front of our daughter. Get out, and don’t come back.” She was sobbing, but she managed to pull the hammer back.
He laughed again. With no fear and no effort, he grabbed her hand. His hand covered one of hers, ripping the other one away. He turned the gun, slowly and inexorably pointing it away from himself and pushing it into her mouth.
I had backed myself against the wall as I watched their exchange, but when I saw his clear intent, I suddenly rushed forward, sobbing.
“Mama,” I cried.
I stopped as though I’d run into a wall when my father pulled the trigger, covering us, and the entire room, in bright red blood and gore.
My horrified eyes met my father’s. His showed no expression at all.
I screamed, sitting up.
I was out of the bed and in the bathroom as fast as my body could move. I began to scrub at my face, over and over again. My breath was shaky and gasping.
The light turned on behind me.
“Are you alright?” James asked, his voice soft with concern.
I couldn’t look at him. I especially couldn’t look at my reflection. I hadn’t had that dream in a very long time. I usually couldn’t look at myself for days after I had that dream.
“Yes. Just an old nightmare. I need to be alone, please.”
I turned on the shower, knowing that the sink could never get me clean enough to wash off all of that blood and gore.
I stepped into the shower without checking to see if he’d listened. I got under the still cold spray, shivering and hugging myself. I sank to the bottom of the tub as the water turned warmer.
I didn’t realize that I’d left my thin shift on until James was pealing it off of me.
“Don’t,” I warned. He ignored me, sitting behind me to curl himself around me. “I just need to be alone,” I told him.
“Not anymore, Love,” James murmured into my ear.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t break down. I just washed myself, again and again, until James took over the chore, turning the scrubbing into soft strokes.
“You ready to dry off and go back to bed?” he asked, after several minutes under the spray.
I nodded.
He dried me and carried me back to bed, cradled like a child. He wrapped me in the covers, then wrapped himself around me. He stroked my hair comfortingly until I drifted back to sleep.
We passed the next day together pleasantly, James staying almost glued to me the entire day.
I woke up first, watching him sleep for awhile, marveling at his beauty. The sun streamed into my bedroom, touching pieces of his skin. It looked flawless even in the bright sun, his tan set off darkly against my pale blue, washed-out sheets.
I made myself get out of bed. I was infatuated, and it wasn’t a condition that I planned to cultivate.
I threw on a thin cotton sundress, not bothering with any kind of underwear. I slipped quietly from the room.
I mentally beat myself up as I brewed a pot of coffee. I was feeling things that I was too smart to be feeling about a man like that.
At the end of this, I must at least keep my pride, I thought. And my heart, I added to myself, cringing, because I knew I already felt too much for the mercurial man.
James joined me not long after I’d made myself a cup of coffee.
I leaned against the counter, sipping it.
He made himself a cup and perched a hip on the counter at my side. He was wearing only black boxer-briefs, and they were tight enough to show me his clear, heavy arousal.
I looked deliberately away from the sinful display, my eyes fixed sightlessly on the cupboards.
He took a sip of my coffee and winced. I laughed. I made my coffee strong. It wasn’t for everyone. He took another drink, trying to adjust to the harsh flavor.
“You walking around like that should be illegal,” I told him, without looking at his body again.
He smirked, eyeing up my tiny sundress, and my conspicuous lack of underwear. I was way too busty to get away with going braless and not have it be obvious.
“I could say the same about you.”
“You’re a tease,” I told him.
“I am not that. A few days won’t kill us. Besides, I need to prove to myself that I can exercise some self-control where you’re concerned.”
This was news to me. “Why?”
“Your…pain threshold is a concern to me. I need to know that I can put your welfare before my own impulses. I would hate myself if I went too far with you. I know I’m a bastard, but even I’m not that much of a bastard.
My brows shot up. He had been so much more caring than I had expected him to be. I was surprised he thought of himself that way.
“Why do you think you’re a bastard?”
His expression darkened. “I know it’s all consensual, but the fact is, I like to hurt women during sex. There’s a reason you fear me. My strongest impulse is to control and to dominate, but make no mistake, I’m a sadist. It doesn’t exactly make me a good guy.”
I was sad for him, and the weak part of me wanted to ease his torment.
But how could I? I had my own demons that I didn’t know how to control. My need to comfort him won out. The need to comfort us both.
“Even masochists need lovers,” I told him, my tone gentle. “What would a girl like me do without someone like you? Perhaps everyone is good for someone.”
He leaned down and kissed me. “Thank you. What a beautiful thing for you to say to me. Just when I think you don’t care for me, you give me some hope.”
I looked away, embarrassed.
We picked out samples from my paintings for hours in the morning. James seemed endlessly patient and didn’t pressure me to choose.
I held up the two small paintings I was debating about.
“Which one, do you think?” I asked.
He pointed at the desert flower. “This one for the sample.”
His finger moved to the other picture. It was of the cat that seemed to live in my backyard part-time. It was fat, and loved to sleep on top of my tall concrete barrier on its back. The picture captured just such a pose. “But this is good,” he added. “It should definitely be in the gallery showing. It seems like a good candidate for print sales, as well. People are really into cat pictures right now. Especially quirky cats.”
I smiled. “I love that cat. I don’t know who it belongs to, but it can’t be a stray if it’s that fat. Though it does try to come into my house half the time when I open my back door.”
“I saw the other picture of it in your kitchen. Fat cats are cute,” James said, meeting my smile.
“You’re determined to make me like you,” I told him playfully.
He looked a little hurt by the comment. “You don’t like me?” he asked.
I thought back to my words. I hadn’t realized how rude they could be taken when they were coming out of my mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just teasing you. You’ve just been so well-behaved, so charming. It’s like you’re trying to make me become attached to you.”
He studied me intently, like I was a particularly fascinating novelty to him. “Well, yes, I want that. I don’t know how to show you any more clearly that that is exactly what I want.”
I just raised my eyebrows at him, staring for a long minute.
“It seems rather pointless and selfish to me that you would want to make someone become attached to you, while you remain detached yourself,” I told him quietly, raising my chin almost defiantly.
He never looked away from me as he spoke. His eyes were snapping with intensity as he caught my hand, pulling it to his chest. “You silly girl, I’m caught fast. I’ve been attached from the start. How can you doubt it?”
I pulled my hand away, skeptical and uncomfortable.
Is this some game to him? I wondered.
“I can doubt just about anything, Mr. Cavendish. I am, by nature, a skeptic.”
He raised a hand to my cheek, stroking it with a featherlight touch. “How can someone so young and innocent also be so cynical?” he asked me.
“Life hasn’t taught me to be anything else. Forgive me, but I wouldn’t even begin to know how not to doubt someone I barely know.”
He pushed me down onto my guest bed, its surface recently cleared. He loomed over me.
“Then I will make sure that you know me, Bianca,” he said, and kissed me with bruising intensity.