On impulse I decide to check the wardrobes, all finer feelings regarding respect for Tom Shore’s privacy now effectively quelled. The first one is full of clothes, no surprises there. I reach behind the hangers, check the back. Nothing—no Narnia-style BDSM wonderland lurking there. I check the second one. And strike gold. Sure enough, no clothes in here. Just Tom Shore’s collection of whips and canes. And an extensive collection at that—I count at least a dozen canes and paddles made of various materials—rubber, leather, rattan. And leather straps, some looking especially lethal with chrome studs. I lift one of those, my hand shaking. It’s heavy, solid. I test it on the palm of my hand, the studs adding extra impact. It hurts. A lot. There are whips too, mainly leather but a couple made of suede. Several riding-style crops. And one whip seems to be made of feathers! Maybe that’s what he’d use if I caught him in a good mood.
Shit! Where did that come from? No way is he using any of this stuff on me!
I slam the wardrobe door shut and lean my back on it, sliding down into a squat. My head’s reeling, but really, what did I expect? Why pry into his personal possessions like the thief he’s been so convinced I am, then be so shocked at what I’ve discovered? I know what his preferences and habits are, he made no secret of it. But—who does he do it with? I know he lives alone and I’ve seen no evidence of visitors except for Nathan Darke and occasionally the Appleyards. But really, how would I know? I know nothing about his habits, where he goes or who else comes here besides me. Or maybe he meets his—his what? Girlfriends? Partners? Whatever, maybe he meets them somewhere else.
With a sharp shake of my head I dismiss all that speculation. What do I care? It really doesn’t concern me. It’s Tom Shore’s private life, and I’ll never be a part of it. I owe him money and I’m working here to pay it off. End of story. No way am I ever getting into anything more with him. Not that he’d ask me. And if he did I’d turn him down flat. I would. Really.
He’s been pleasant and polite since that first morning, but no more than that. He did say that he thought I was lovely, but he’s done absolutely nothing since to reinforce that view. I think probably he was just being kind. He knew he’d upset me and was trying to make amends, make me feel better. And it worked, for a while.
But now, now I feel lonely. Dissatisfied. I spend too much time alone, much too much. The evenings are long, the days even longer. Why shouldn’t I have some fun in my joyless existence? I definitely don’t need a jerk like Kenny to make my life complete. Or Tom Shore for all his apparent sexual expertise and sophistication. If this range of kit is anything to go by he needs a lot of help in that department! But it does look like it could be fun. At least the stuff in the box under the bed does. That’s just toys designed for pleasure, to enhance not hurt. No harm in that, surely, as long as everyone agrees.
And there the idea starts to form, curling around my head like smoke. Taking shape. Crystallizing. I couldn’t, not for one moment, imagine getting into a situation with Tom Shore where I’d let him use any of his toys on me. Too intimate, too exposed. I’d be far, far too vulnerable. I almost fainted with embarrassment when he made me undress that first day we met, I couldn’t possibly do that again, and nudity does seem to be a bit of a prerequisite for what I have in mind. But as a solo enterprise? Now that could work. Surely he won’t miss one item. Maybe two. I could borrow something, amuse myself, relieve some of my frustration and loneliness. Those long winter evenings would simply fly by. Probably. Possibly.
It’s worth a try. It’s Christmas, everyone else is having fun, why not me? And when I’ve experimented a bit I’ll bring the stuff back. He’ll never even know. Or maybe I could just ask him, ask him straight out if I can borrow some of his kit. He could only say no, but somehow I don’t think he would. And he wouldn’t be shocked, how could he be? Even as I think that, though, I know I’d sooner die than broach such a subject with Tom Shore. He’d ask me why I wanted to do it on my own, maybe even offer to help, God forbid!
No, not going there.
I swear, apart from the incidents with Kenny, when frankly I had no choice, I have never before taken anything that wasn’t mine. It’s some sort of temporary insanity that makes me wipe my damp palms on the sides of my jeans, reach into that box and pick up a small, purple vibrator and a tube of lubricant. Some madness that makes me slip my ill-gotten gains into the pocket of my loose-fitting hoodie while I carefully put everything else back as I found it. I even mess up the leather straps again before shoving them back under the bed, to conceal the fact that they’ve been disturbed. Not that that should really matter—he asked me to clean this room and must have expected me to look under the bed. Mustn’t he? Maybe he intended for me to find his stash. To be fair, though, he most likely didn’t think I’d be poking around in the boxes, and certainly not in his wardrobe.
And he’d be right to think that. I had no business touching his private belongings. Even less taking something of his. Guiltily, I finish putting the room to rights and slink off downstairs. For the first time in a while I am distinctly not proud of myself.
And matters take a further nosedive as I make my way back along the hall toward the kitchen. I can hear voices. Tom and…Nathan Darke.
“I spotted her car outside, tucked up nice and cozy next to your Land Rover. So, you’re still messing around with your pretty little thief? You must be fucking her by now—no other reason I can see why she’s not in jail. So, where is she then, the lovely Miss McAllister? Helping herself to your family silver?”
Nathan Darke’s low voice drifts out into the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. I stand, rooted to the spot, chew my lip as I try to decide what to do. Should I go in there, let them know I heard what he said, bear the brunt of his rabid dislike again? Or do I just slink away somewhere, sneak back upstairs to avoid him? It’s tempting. Nathan Darke scares me, intimidates me, and frankly it’s too bloody wearing to be constantly defending myself, trying to explain why I did what I did, when he just thinks I’m making excuses. This is awkward. It’s already after three o’clock and I should be leaving. But my coat and car keys are in the kitchen. Shit!
“She’s upstairs, I think.” Tom’s response is non-committal. He doesn’t seem inclined to defend me.
“Tied to your bed, I hope?”
What?
I jerk to attention, my heart racing.
If there’s any response from Tom I can’t hear it. I do, however, hear the clink of crockery and chairs scraping on the floor—it seems they’re settling in for a nice man-to-man chat—with me as the principal subject under discussion. I definitely ought to interrupt, ought to let them know I’m here.
But I don’t do either of those nice, ordinary, honest things. Instead, I stand there, listening. My moral fiber is sadly depleted today, it would seem.
“Not fucked her yet then?”
Uh-oh.
Silence, then, “Nate, you’re my best friend. You know I love you like a brother—some of the time. But there’s a real chance you and me could fall out big-style over this. Ashley’s off limits. Leave her alone. I’m not discussing her with you.”
“You
are
fucking her then?”
“Nate, don’t push me on this. Back off. Now.” The warning note in Tom’s voice is clear, sharp. I smile to myself. Not defending me, true. But near enough. For now.
“All right, I get it. And I can see where you’re coming from. She might be a hard-faced cow but she’s also sex on a stick. Got an arse to die for. Christ, I’d fuck her.”
Oh. My. God!
Tom’s voice hardens. His response is curt. “Keep your hands off. Anyway, you’re spoken for. Heard from Eva recently?”
“Nope. And we’re talking about your love life here, not mine.”
“Ain’t got a love life, mate. At least not one that’s any concern of yours.”
“Well, in that case, maybe I’ll…”
“Nathan, enough.”
At last, it seems Nathan Darke’s got the message. “Okay, okay. Has she found any other mug to sell her stuff to down in Haworth since I put a stop to Moffats?”
“Not sure, she hasn’t mentioned it. You know what I think about that, though. You should have listened to me. I saw some of her stuff, that first day. She’s a bloody good photographer, and just trying to make an honest living. And you’d have made money out of stocking her work in your shop.”
“I’ll survive. Look, I get it, you like her. And the rest. And I can see why, she’s gorgeous. But no way do I want your little Ashley anywhere near any business of mine. Or near my family.”
His business. Shit. So that’s why the owner—or should that be manager—dumped m
e.
Tom is sounding distinctly irritated now. “I know you want to protect Rosie, I understand that. But you’re overreacting. Ashley’s okay, in spite of her dubious past. And in any case, that’s between her and me. It’s not your score to settle, so leave it. She’s a good photographer. And she’s a grafter. You could have given her a chance to prove it.”
A snort of derision greets that, but Tom’s not put off. Well at least that’s something.
“Ashley’s timid, fragile. Under the hard exterior she’s just plain scared. And it’s not just that she’s scared of me, though I know she is. It’s more though. She’s vulnerable. And yeah, it’s not easy keeping my hands off her. I do want to fuck her, you got that right, but I somehow doubt I’m going to get the chance. I blew it, that first day.”
“Yeah well, you know what I think about that—”
Tom cuts him off, sounds really angry now. “Yeah, you’ve bloody said so often enough. Christ, it’s done. Get over it.”
“Me, I’ll get over it. So will you, I dare say. But what about your pretty little upstairs maid? She’ll not be getting over it in a hurry. Still, I suppose there’s always that famous Shore mastery? Surely you could…”
Tom cuts Nathan off again, but there’s less heat in his voice now. “I could push it, yeah, might even manage to romance her into bed in spite of everything. But I don’t want to hurt her. Not again. And I don’t want you to either. We clear?”
Silence. No pithy rejoinder from the hateful Nathan Darke. Tom is next to speak.
“What? What’s that look for? Don’t fucking look at me like that.”
Nathan’s tone is low, serious, the teasing gone. Now he’s just stern. “So that’s how it is? In that case, you need to talk to her, bro. Get something sorted. And if she’s not sub material—and you’ve got to admit, it’s unlikely. Especially after, well… You could just stick to vanilla. But for Christ’s sake start fucking her before your dick shoots out the top of your jeans. That’s not a good look. It’s undignified.” I hear the scrape of a chair, a scuffle, then, “Okay, I’m done. Not another word on the subject of your lovely Miss McAllister. You can let go of the shirt. It cost me a fortune.” Another scrape of a chair, then, “Now, what about this Oil Club idea of yours? How many properties within a fifty-mile radius of here are off grid for gas?”
And as quickly as they started they drop the subject of me and my vanilla tendencies and alleged fragility in favor of a discussion about collective oil purchasing. I stand, rooted for several moments, my head whirling with what I’ve overheard. My mother always said people who eavesdrop never hear good of themselves. In fairness, I’m not sure what I’ve heard, and whether it was good or not. I need to think. And I need to get away.
Collecting my wits a little, I clatter the vacuum cleaner against the polished floorboards in the hallway, make sure they know I’m there. A few seconds later I drag it into the kitchen, headed for its home in the utility room. I stop, pretending not to have realized they were in here.
They both turn their heads as I enter, Tom in his usual work clothes of soft black jeans, Doc Martens and dark green sweatshirt, his blond hair flopping over his forehead and brushing his collar. Although casual and practical, Tom’s clothes are always good quality, fit perfectly.
Nathan Darke’s appearance is in sharp contrast—smart, dark gray business suit, jacket slung over the back of his chair and a crisp white shirt. Are those handprints I can see on the front? Obviously on his way to a business meeting, or maybe just back. Highly polished black leather shoes, very expensive-looking, are casually propped on a chair as he lounges back. He’s tie-less, his top button open, but his long black hair is pulled severely back into a sleek ponytail. I feel distinctly scruffy in my usual working outfit of sloppy navy blue hoodie and beige chinos, and cheap trainers, my own hip-length hair tucked down the back of my top in my usual tight plait.
I try for a bright, breezy greeting. Even I’m not entirely convinced. “Oh, hello. Didn’t realize you were in here. Sorry to disturb you. Can I just put this away and I’ll be off?” I can’t meet either man’s eyes as I scuttle past. And if Tom Shore’s dick is anywhere near bursting out of the top of his jeans I most definitely don’t want to know. I’m almost out of the door, keys in hand and coat over my arm, before Tom’s voice halts me.
“You okay, Ashley?”
If he notices my answer is somewhat breathless and I’m making fast for the door, head down, he doesn’t comment. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. See you next week.” And I make a run for it.
Chapter Ten
I arrive home and let myself in. My first task is to feed Sadie, then I empty my hoodie pocket. I dump the ‘borrowed’ vibrator and lubricant on my table and sit there looking at them for a few minutes. I make myself a mug of tea then sit back down, still contemplating my new toy. I pick up the vibrator, turn it over in my hands. There’s a small switch. I flick it to the ‘on’ position and the thing starts to whir softly, the vibrations very minor. Nothing too ambitious there. Nothing especially challenging. I look closely, flick the switch again and the whirring becomes louder, the vibrations more pronounced. I flick again, and again. Each time the thing becomes more vigorous until—
wow!
Now that
would
get my attention. I flick it to the ‘off’ position and put it down. And stare at it some more.