‘I’m not sure even Roberto can satisfy yourneeds.’
‘What would you know about my needs?’ I answer coolly.
‘A little more than I knew about them last week. Do try not to flirt with every handsome face that passes your way. You’ll recall you’re Mrs Beckett now.’
And how could I forget?
Well, I imagine I won’t be able to. Ever, I suspect. Even after these six months are up. At least until the six months is up, and maybe not even then. Needless to say, we barely speak for the rest of the journey.
My needs.
I tried not to guess the meaning behind his words, but it was hard not to. Did he mean financial needs—the money I’d needed for E-Volve to succeed? Or was he referring to the purely physical? What happens between us when we touch? And if it was that, then I’m also learning about my needs along with him because my body has never responded to anyone like it does to his touch. And that knowledge doesn’t warm me one little bit. Not as we arrive at his Georgian period mansion house where he leaves me in the entry hall.
Yep, as our cases are carried in by the driver, Beckett turns to face me as he pauses at the still open door.
‘I have some business to attend to.’
‘What? But it’s gone midnight?’ I want to bite back the words the minute they’re in the air. Better that I look like I don’t care. But I do care because he’s leaving me here. In his house. Without even showing me where stuff is. Where am I supposed to sleep? If he thinks I’m sleeping in his bed, he is wrong on so many levels.
‘Not everywhere in the world is currently heading for bed.’ He sounds tired. It would be so much easier to argue with him if he didn’t. Actually, it would be easier if he wasn’t already closing the door behind him. ‘Make yourself at home.’
I’m left looking at the oak door as it closes.
I’m not sure how long I stand just staring. But how do you make yourself at home when you’re clearly not. Go exploring, I suppose. Or if you don’t have the heart to explore, at least find where the kettle and teabags are.
My shoes squeak against the marble floor as I make my way deeper into the house. A grand staircase leads to the upper floors, the ceiling above a vaulted cupola and a delicately gilded ceiling rose. There’s a tinyno thanksor, as others call it, a small elevator set in an alcove next to the stairs. Italian marble leads to oak floors and large windows, the doors to each room twice the width of those in my tiny apartment.
A drawing room to the left, a parlour to the right, a library opening to a large office with a Bauhaus desk in oak. A billiards room with table covered in sandy baize, not green, and a bar in the corner with matching high stools covered in an Oriental embroidered silk. Each room has original features; fireplaces and plasterwork, pale painted linenfold panelling. Tasteful artwork hangs on walls, stylish furniture and oriental rugs tie together the chic colour schemes. There isn’t a thing out of place. Not a magazine or a stray mug. No shoes discarded or clothes draped over chairs. It’s hard to believe anyone lives here at all. The place is like a showroom and far too big for one man, though he probably has staff somewhere. And despite the obvious history of the place, each room smells new. It’s hard to describe. Maybe the smell of new furnishings?
I eventually find the kitchen which is dark, sleek, and vaguely masculine, though I give up on the kettle after five minutes of opening each and every handle-less cabinet. Three silver pendant lights hang over a central island, floor-to-ceiling units cover two of the walls, the other two made entirely of glass, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. There is nothing sitting on any of the countertops; not a toaster or an appliance or even a fruit bowl. The only things discernible as kitchen-ish are the sink, the double oven, and a stove top with a teppanyaki style grill, none of which look like they’ve ever been used. It’s such a shame; this is a kitchen for entertaining. I find the fridge eventually, for what it’s worth, a large industrial-sized thing camouflaged by cabinetry. Sadly, it only contains a couple of wrinkled lemons and some fancy-looking cheese wearing a furry coat.
Does the devil’s offspring not eat?
I’m going to have to bring my kettle. My toaster. And I foresee a visit to the grocery store in my not too distant future.
Flipping off the lights, I make my way back along the hallway. Ignoring the tiny elevator, I begin dragging my suitcase up the staircase, each bump echoing through the cavernous space. There are five bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, a massive media room with a TV the people three boroughs away could probably watch through the windows, and a tiny half kitchen void of snacks.What hell is this? No popcorn or soda pop to keep a girl company while watching trashy TV?
It feels weirder to open the doors to the rooms upstairs. Like I’m intruding. But I suppose he did tell me to make myself at home. Though I think it might take me at least five and a half of our married months to get used to the layout of the place.
Two bedrooms decorated in blues, and two in green. I don’t pay much attention to anything in the next one, but it’s easy to tell it belongs to Beckett because it’s the only one that doesn’t smell like the rest of the house.New and unused.Instead, it smells like him. Of his cologne. Of... I don’t know. Beckett pheromones?
I stand at the doorway, but don’t go in. Then decide I’m being a wuss.
His bedroom appears to have been originally three rooms; there’s a central area housing a huge bed in pale linens. To the right, there’s a living area with a sofa and a TV, at the other end, a dressing room that Mariah Carey would envy, and a huge master bath beyond; black marble with white veins, a basin more like a trough, a bath you would almost swim in, and a shower you could definitely party in. You get the picture. Everything is on a grand and expensive scale. And makes me think of two things.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was compensating for something, given the size of the master suite.
A million is pocket change to him.
I wheel my suitcase into a bedroom at the other end of the floor. One of the blue ones, just as lovely as the others but a little less grand with low ceilings, understated touches, a chair and a small writing desk, plus a bathroom off to the side.
I unpack my case, piling my laundry onto the chair before pulling out my wash bag and helping myself to a hot shower. I climb into fresh pyjamas and slide myself into bed. Then get out again, unplugging my phone from the socket before searching for a suitable podcast.
Ten minutes later, I’m out of bed and wandering around the place.
I didn’t lock the front door. Was I supposed to?
I don’t want to be murdered in my bed.
