The House Party: Three
https://interracialerotica.net/erotica/articles/303/1/The-House-Party-Three-/Page1.html
By Tracy Ames
Published on February 14, 2011
Times were changing, and many in their social circle were frightened someone would throw open the doors of their world and let the magic out. Vivian’s mother predicted their way of life would end with her generation as subsequent generations were incapable of preserving their traditions and customs; the era of plutocratic families, great houses, and rites of passage would wither and fade in the shadow of what she saw as quasi socialism. But even to her cynical eye, the day a Vanderbilt couldn’t halt an objectionable press release and save thousands of jobs was inconceivable. However, clothed in a shroud of political correctness, that day past as quickly as it came; thankfully, Vivian’s mother didn’t live to see it.
Vivian’s consortium didn’t bow gracefully to modernity; they shaped it to their benefit. Giving an outward appearance of conformity, while maintaining the aesthetics and instilling in their values in their children. What her generation proved was an oligarchy and meritocracy could exist on the same solarplate without imploding. Judge them critically if you will, but this was their greatest gift to posterity.
The maitre d’ saw Vivian and Maureen to their sunlit breakfast table and soon the other guests trickled in behind them. The waiter came immediately, took their for a le petit déjeuner with a pot of tea, and departed. It was strange not having the family together for breakfast however Sadie was with her girlfriends and the twins were nowhere to be found. Vivian settled herself, glancing around the dining hall as she did. She hadn’t noticed before, but the hall had been refurbished. While more formal than most are accustom, the surroundings were pleasant, comfortable, tasteful, and even warm. It was certainly light years away from the ‘old guard’ functions at Belcourt with its hardback chairs and gold plated cutlery.
“Viv…” Maureen unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “What do you make of the Lockwoods?”
“They’re new money but nice enough. Why?”
“Well, since you asked.” Maureen retrieved her pocket organizer from her purse, which hung from her like an appendage. “My records show you haven’t eaten one meal with them…however you have had three breakfast, one lunch, and two dinners with the Mitchams. Now, under different circumstances, this isn’t an issue however since Dean has shown ‘special attention’ to Rebecca Lockwood, everyone is saying you’re snubbing them because, like you said, they’re new money.”
Vivian’s facial expression read ‘it’s too early in the morning for bullshit’. “I entertain the Mitchams because I enjoy their company—Rhonda is a breath of fresh air…” She paused and kissed Bart’s cheek before he took his seat. “I’ve been introduced to the Lockwoods.”
“Yes, but you haven’t broken bread with them.” Bart added. “And since Winston and Andrea are known to hate one another, you swanning around with the Mitchams reeks of a matrimonial plot. And while the Mitchams are new money, they’re academics which counts for something nowadays.”
“What one wasn’t given by birth, one might acquire through diligence and effort.” Maureen spat quietly. “I hate it. I hate it all.”
“Hate it or not, that’s the way of the world. If Prince William, the future King of England, can marry the daughter of a tradesman, then American society doesn’t have a leg to stand on.” Bart said to her, and then turned to Vivian.
“I like Rhonda.” Vivian said. “It wasn’t meant as a snub.”
“Aunt, I’m sure it was an oversight. You’ve been working very hard and you’ve held this party together brilliantly. But for the sake of appearance, there must be a small gesture, anything. You know how rumors begin and so soon after Uncle Stanley’s death would set tongues wagging.”
“Fine,” Vivian rubbed her temples. “What do we know about Rebecca?”
“She’s a Canadian national,” Bart replied. “Until she was taken in by her aunt and uncle, she hadn’t traveled beyond Canada and America. They sent her to Leeds where she earned a Bachelors of Arts, so she has lived abroad.”
“On her own or chaperoned?”
“Carole Matthews was her chaperone.” Maureen answered. “There were no other girls in the house.”
“Correct. Rebecca was her only charge at the time.” Bart continued. “She speaks French fluently, she rides well, and she has a spotless reputation ….”
“Dean will soon see to that.” Maureen laughed.
Bart sighed. “She’s a good person.”
“How is she adjusting to her newfound financial security?”
“Quite well, actually! She purchased her parents a home last year, but she hasn’t spent extravagantly since then.”
“I don’t trust young women who don’t spend money.” Maureen nodded at the waiter delivering their breakfast. “There’s nothing so unfashionable as lowbrow living. I’d consider it a flaw but that would be putting it mildly.”
“Her monthly allowance and expenses?” Vivian searched the room for the waiter. “How much is her entail worth?”
“Her allowance is twenty-five K, her expenses a less than a thousand, and the entail is worth thirty-seven billion and with the estates she and Dean are equals.”
“She is not his equal!” said Maureen.
The waiter sat the three tier server on the table and began plating. The top tier consisted of thin slices of various cold meats, and cheeses. The second tier was arranged with slivers of assorted French breads, while the lowest tier bloomed with jelly and jams, croissants and yogurts. Once everyone was served, he left and their conversation resumed.
“She will have advisors, correct?” Vivian asked.
“Naturally,” Bart reached for the jam. “I pegged her for a romantic but she’s held her ground with Dean. I’ll admit I was wrong. She may have more sense than we’ve given her credit for.” He bit off his croissant. “All and all, she’s a good match…if it comes to that.”
“Knowing Dean, it won’t.” Vivian laughed. The dining hall was almost full when the Lockwoods arrived. She asked the maitre d’ to have the Lockwoods seated with them.
Concealing her shock, Trudy strolled proudly through the sea of hushed whispers of the other diners. For Vivian, social timing was practically occult.
*****
Dean squinted against the morning sun, his gaze strayed across the rumpled bed and scattered pillows to where Rebecca lay sound asleep. Her legs tucks to her chest as they did when not entangled with his. He brushed back the layers of corn silk hair shrouding her face. He smiled remembering the times he and Rhonda had woken up together and how their relationship had evolved from the occasional rump to something that gave him pause.
They met at the Bruce Museum’s Dimensions in Dining in Greenwich; one of the few functions Dean enjoyed attending when visiting Hyde Park. That night was the first of a series of eleven intimate dinners in private homes throughout Greenwich over three nights organized by the museums’ by co-chairs. The halls of the Stockman’s home swam with local zillionaires—some of whom honestly appreciating the art while others appreciated being in the company of those appreciating it. Dean was standing in one of their smaller galleries admiring a lithograph by Kiki Smith when Rhonda joined him and commented on the piece. He was sucker for the mature brainy type, and Rhonda was just that. Her extensive knowledge and casual elegance impressed him, but over the following days, it was her ease of rhetoric and poise that held him captive.
The final dinner was held on the Bouley’s estate. For the sake of propriety, Dean and Rhonda quartered themselves to nonverbal flirtation—and for a man accustomed to bedding females within hours, this was brute torture. After dinner, the twenty-five guests in attendance roamed the house, admiring the Bouley’s latest acquisitions. Dean pulled Rhonda into a small, darkened parlor and pressed her against the far wall, flinging off his tux jacket in the process.
“Dean, what if someone comes in?” Rhonda asked breathlessly as he hoisted her dress up to her waist and threw the shreds of her panties to the ground.
“They won’t.” His mouth came down on hers; she answered his kiss violently.
She broke their bond. “Right here and now?” she gasped. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I want you to cum for me,” he reached in his pocket and retrieved a condom. “Open it.” He handed it to Rhonda and unzipped his pants. Skilled in the art of fucking on the fly, Dean had the condom on before his pants hit the floor! He moved his hands under her ass and lifted her up. Her legs splayed around him, the tip of his cock teased lips before he entered. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, intoxicated by her perfume.
A heavy groan escaped her, and she locked her ankles as his thrust grew urgent. She palmed the back of his head and smiled to herself, triumphantly. She’d done it; she had Dean Bellamy’s beautiful, young, thick cock thrust between her legs. If her first orgasm were possible, he’d be the one to give it to her—and hot damn he lived up to his reputation!
This was their first night together.
Their relationship progressed over the next few months. Normally the homey feeling of domestic bliss would’ve sent Dean running in the opposite direction, but it didn’t. He and Rhonda spent more and more time together when her work permitted. Dean even planned a holiday in the Jura, where they spent an entire week tucked off in their yurt. For the first time in his life, Dean was satisfied with one woman; she wasn’t a mere fixture—she was an equal partner; and the idea of her being so didn’t unnerve him.
Whether or not Rhoda realized she was taking Dean into uncharted emotional territory is debatable. What is certain, is the hurt he suffered when his valet presented him with the truth while en route to meet Rhonda in Madrid. While Dean was no saint and he didn’t hold the monopoly on heartbreak and betrayal, his unimpeachable honesty was unquestioned and he never thought the woman he cared for would hurt him with unnecessary lie when the truth, while painful, was on the tip of her tongue. Regrettably, Rhonda didn’t share his view.
At her condo overlooking the city, Dean confronted her. Her admission was more for her own benefit than his. The weight of her secret was finally off her chest. But if she thought for one moment Dean was sticking around, she had another thing coming. For an hour or so, Rhonda berated her husband, blamed her career, and a host of other excuses which went clear over Dean’s head. In the end, none of it mattered. He stood, kissed her cheeks, and left for his home in France, where he immediately gutted the place.
Some people seek therapist to help them work through their issues. Dean sought the sales guy at Ace Hardware and the largest sledge hammer permitted by law.
Though Rhonda pursued him afterward, he cut off all communication and he was fairly surprised she joined the house party. After many months, his feelings for her were right on the surface—she had her claws in him, but not as before. It wasn’t nearly the same. And quite frankly, watching Rebecca sleeping beside him while thoughts of Rhonda twirled in his head sickened him.
Unlike most cads, Dean remained friends with most of his lovers. It was common knowledge: he simply wasn’t the settling-down type. Women seemed to forgive his roving eye because he was forthcoming and treated them with some measure of respect—he never hurt anyone; and Rebecca wasn’t going to be his first. He hadn’t lied or strung her on—still something felt wrong. Yes, there were times her unsullied innocence sat his teeth on edge (her stamina in bed more than compensated for this ‘flaw’) but he would never hurt her.
Rebecca stirred, smiling slowly as she woke under Dean’s gaze. “Good morning.” She rolled onto her back, stretching. “What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Oh goodness,” She lifted her head, looking around the tattered room. “We got kind of crazy last night, didn’t we?” She collapsed again. “I’m sore. Rub it for me.” She placed Dean’s left hand between her legs.
Dean rolled on side and massaged her gently as she settled into his warmth. “They say sex isn’t good for a virgin the first time. Was it disappointing?”
“By the time you penetrated me, I’d cum so many times I was begging for you to take me.” She met his eyes. “It was painful but you were patient. You kept asking if I wanted you to stop…I almost cried when you did.” Her pussy grew wet.
“I didn’t want to hurt you.” His index finger teased her slick lips.
“I know. It was so…aw!” She cried when his finger pushed inside of her. “…it was so damn good.”
“Why didn’t you wait until you were married?” He slowly fingered her, rubbing her clit with his thumb. “You’re swollen, baby. Does that feel better?”
“Oh, God. Yes,” She arched into his hand. “I don’t want to get married. Deeper.”
“Why me?” Her hips reared upward. “Why did you give me your virginity?”
Rebecca closed her eyes as a thundering orgasm consumed her. Trembling and shaking, she removed his hand and pressed it against her mound. She lay panting, and said after some time, “When I came to your room that night, I hadn’t expected to give you my virginity. It…it just felt right. It still does.” She looked up at Dean. “I don’t regret it.”
Dean smiled faintly but said nothing.
******
“If he doesn’t look at me, I’ll die.” Lexy, Sadie’s spindly girlfriend said as Isaac past them, leaving the dining hall.
“I’ve never heard of anyone dying from want of attention.”
“I will! I’m a complicated woman.”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “You’re fifteen. You’re not that complicated.” They went to a small bay window and watched Isaac cross the rear grounds towards the hunting lodge. The heavy bags he carried weighed him down like a pack mule, crashing expertly cut livery. They sat talking and watching Isaac crisscross the ground four more times, assuming their hideout had been commandeered by one of the guests. At least the gothic hellfire club down by the river was at their disposal, and though it lacks electricity and the comforts of the lodge, with a few candles it would make the perfect escape from their chaperones.
“I’m asking him out.” Lexy giggled.
“Does your mother know you’re psychotic?” Sadie padded across the marble floor. “He’s too old. Nope! I don’t want anything to do with that. And don’t bring him to the club. If my brothers find out, I’m finished. I’m not even supposed to know where the club is much less invite servants down there.”
Lexy ran behind her. “He’s a footmen…what’s that?...nineteen?”
“He’s the first footmen, which makes him about twenty-five. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’ll be fired for looking at any of us. But he’ll do time for messing around with you.” Sadie stopped short of the music room. “I’m not kidding. If your folks catch you flirting with him, I’ll get trouble. You know how Winston is. Just don’t.”
“What about the other boys?”
“No,” Sadie cut her eyes sideways. “Maybe…we’ll see.”
*****
Andrea sat up in bed, stiff as a reed. The smell of breakfast and the memories from the previous night drifted in slowly. A quick inventory of her clothing and the lack of tell-tale aching in her most intimate of places solved the rest of the mystery.
“I invited her over for the weekend. I thought it would be a nice change of pace. She’s staying with mother but she’s leaving this afternoon—something to do with the purchase.” Andrea heard Winston’s voice coming from the next room. She crawled from the bed and tip-toed to the crack in the door, her eyes skated around the room where Winston, shirtless, paced back and forth on the phone. Good heavens, he was ripped! It simply wasn’t fair how sexy he looked, those long, strong legs, his lean and tapered hips, and God Almighty his chest! Andrea took a deep breath and reminded herself to hate him.
“It’s done.” Winston continued, taking his shirt from Isaac and slipping it over his head. “When we return, she’s on her own. My hands are clean.” He paused. “No, Bart is will be your point of contact from our side but Ms. Guillory will be your primary.” He took the phone away from his ear and asked Isaac. “Is breakfast ready?”
“All ready.” Isaac handed him a glass of apple juice. “Should I wake Dr. Mitcham?”
“No, let her sleep. That’ll be all. Thank you.” Winston returned to his call, but disconnected when he realized Isaac was standing shakily after being dismissed. “What is it?”
“There’s been talk…” Isaac fidgeted with his hands, searching for his words. “…about what happened with you and Dr. Mitcham in the dining hall…the riff between you.”
“What about it? Speak frankly.”
Isaac steadied himself. “You came off like a chump. She got the better of you in front of everyone.”
Winston masked his concern with a laugh. “Its lower servants chatter, nothing more.”
“With all respect, sir, they’re repeating what’s being said upstairs.”
“Right.” Winston sighed, his voice quiet, very deep.
“I’ll come for Dr. Mitcham once the other guests have gone to the dining hall.”
“Thank you.” He hated being the subject of gossip and whispers, especial when it involved a female. Under those circumstances, you’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. Maybe he was a chump. He’d bent over backwards for a woman who held him in contempt. He’d allowed her to goad him into a public argument. He’d ran after her in the middle of the night like a lovesick puppy and, worst of all, spent the night with her, which given the rumor filled atmosphere of the house would be spun into a scandal and viciously circulated. How the hell had he landed on page six for a woman who hated him?
Isaac finished setting the table, and slipped from Andrea’s view. Winston resumed his call and Andrea trotted to the bathroom. The image staring back from the mirror was ghastly: puffy eyes, an aggressive case of bed head, and a headache to boot. Her elegant façade was a thing of the past, which given her rustically modern dwellings was right on point. She flipped on the shower and stepped under the stream of warm water, quickly washing her body and shampooing her hair. She almost felt bad about embarrassing Winston in front of everyone—almost. He had, after all, deserved it. He’s a horrible, self-centered ass, she repeated, attempting to rid herself of any trace of guilty for her misconduct.
“He’s dreadful. He deserved to be humiliated.” Andrea said aloud as if the words verbalized held more weight….maybe then she’d believe them.
“Good morning,” Andrea said briskly, plopping down on the large sectional sofa beside Winston. She was surprised to see they were both dressed in casual jeans and tee-shirts; an every day occurrence for her, but she assumed Winston was either humoring her or Isaac was playing a very cruel joke.
“Feeling better?” Winston asked without pulling himself away from his book. Truth be told, he wasn’t putting himself out for her; this fact wasn’t lost on Andrea. He kicked his feet up on the sofa.
“A little.”
Winston grunted. “Isaac’s downstairs. He’ll take you back to the house.”
“My head is hurting.” she threw out, hoping he’d glance at her.
“Breakfast is over there.” he pointed over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your reading, but we need to come to an understanding.” Andrea took the book from Winston’s hand. “You haven’t spoken to me in for the past two days, barring the necessities of convention.”
“That’s what you wanted, right?” His voice was deep and warm and sexy, and Andrea felt her skin break out in goose-bumps. “As publicly as possible, you wanted to prove you weren’t afraid to put me in my place—that you were better than me—that you could get under my skin to the point where I wouldn’t address you at all. And I, by keeping my distance, gave you exactly what you wanted. Everyone knows you played me. I hope you’re happy.”
He was right, of course. But victory wasn’t supposed to taste like hard boiled shit, but it did. She waited for the moment he would acknowledge her triumph; but his calmness, his matter-of-factness made her victory difficult to savor. This angered and shamed her to the point an apology seemed disingenuous especially given her actions were intentional.
Andrea’s eyes flickered between stubborn resolve and prostration. Winston had seen the same look in Sadie’s eyes. Thankfully Sadie had out grown of such behavior whereas Andrea hadn’t; she struggled with outward capitulation. It nearly frightened her. Underneath all the accolades and attitude, Andrea was a girl who was accustomed to having her way.
“Why do you hate me?” He asked, tossing Andrea a throw blanket and pillow. It was time to clear the air.
“I don’t hate you. I hate what you represent.”
Part three in a five part series
The House Party follows the exploits of three modern day patron families attending a week long house party hosted by the Graydon family on their estate in France. Almost immediately social lines a drawn, judgments are made, and tempers heat up long before the first stitch on clothing come off.
The House Party follows the exploits of three modern day patron families attending a week long house party hosted by the Graydon family on their estate in France. Almost immediately social lines a drawn, judgments are made, and tempers heat up long before the first stitch on clothing come off.
The House Party: Three
Times were changing, and many in their social circle were frightened someone would throw open the doors of their world and let the magic out. Vivian’s mother predicted their way of life would end with her generation as subsequent generations were incapable of preserving their traditions and customs; the era of plutocratic families, great houses, and rites of passage would wither and fade in the shadow of what she saw as quasi socialism. But even to her cynical eye, the day a Vanderbilt couldn’t halt an objectionable press release and save thousands of jobs was inconceivable. However, clothed in a shroud of political correctness, that day past as quickly as it came; thankfully, Vivian’s mother didn’t live to see it.
Vivian’s consortium didn’t bow gracefully to modernity; they shaped it to their benefit. Giving an outward appearance of conformity, while maintaining the aesthetics and instilling in their values in their children. What her generation proved was an oligarchy and meritocracy could exist on the same solarplate without imploding. Judge them critically if you will, but this was their greatest gift to posterity.
The maitre d’ saw Vivian and Maureen to their sunlit breakfast table and soon the other guests trickled in behind them. The waiter came immediately, took their for a le petit déjeuner with a pot of tea, and departed. It was strange not having the family together for breakfast however Sadie was with her girlfriends and the twins were nowhere to be found. Vivian settled herself, glancing around the dining hall as she did. She hadn’t noticed before, but the hall had been refurbished. While more formal than most are accustom, the surroundings were pleasant, comfortable, tasteful, and even warm. It was certainly light years away from the ‘old guard’ functions at Belcourt with its hardback chairs and gold plated cutlery.
“Viv…” Maureen unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “What do you make of the Lockwoods?”
“They’re new money but nice enough. Why?”
“Well, since you asked.” Maureen retrieved her pocket organizer from her purse, which hung from her like an appendage. “My records show you haven’t eaten one meal with them…however you have had three breakfast, one lunch, and two dinners with the Mitchams. Now, under different circumstances, this isn’t an issue however since Dean has shown ‘special attention’ to Rebecca Lockwood, everyone is saying you’re snubbing them because, like you said, they’re new money.”
Vivian’s facial expression read ‘it’s too early in the morning for bullshit’. “I entertain the Mitchams because I enjoy their company—Rhonda is a breath of fresh air…” She paused and kissed Bart’s cheek before he took his seat. “I’ve been introduced to the Lockwoods.”
“Yes, but you haven’t broken bread with them.” Bart added. “And since Winston and Andrea are known to hate one another, you swanning around with the Mitchams reeks of a matrimonial plot. And while the Mitchams are new money, they’re academics which counts for something nowadays.”
“What one wasn’t given by birth, one might acquire through diligence and effort.” Maureen spat quietly. “I hate it. I hate it all.”
“Hate it or not, that’s the way of the world. If Prince William, the future King of England, can marry the daughter of a tradesman, then American society doesn’t have a leg to stand on.” Bart said to her, and then turned to Vivian.
“I like Rhonda.” Vivian said. “It wasn’t meant as a snub.”
“Aunt, I’m sure it was an oversight. You’ve been working very hard and you’ve held this party together brilliantly. But for the sake of appearance, there must be a small gesture, anything. You know how rumors begin and so soon after Uncle Stanley’s death would set tongues wagging.”
“Fine,” Vivian rubbed her temples. “What do we know about Rebecca?”
“She’s a Canadian national,” Bart replied. “Until she was taken in by her aunt and uncle, she hadn’t traveled beyond Canada and America. They sent her to Leeds where she earned a Bachelors of Arts, so she has lived abroad.”
“On her own or chaperoned?”
“Carole Matthews was her chaperone.” Maureen answered. “There were no other girls in the house.”
“Correct. Rebecca was her only charge at the time.” Bart continued. “She speaks French fluently, she rides well, and she has a spotless reputation ….”
“Dean will soon see to that.” Maureen laughed.
Bart sighed. “She’s a good person.”
“How is she adjusting to her newfound financial security?”
“Quite well, actually! She purchased her parents a home last year, but she hasn’t spent extravagantly since then.”
“I don’t trust young women who don’t spend money.” Maureen nodded at the waiter delivering their breakfast. “There’s nothing so unfashionable as lowbrow living. I’d consider it a flaw but that would be putting it mildly.”
“Her monthly allowance and expenses?” Vivian searched the room for the waiter. “How much is her entail worth?”
“Her allowance is twenty-five K, her expenses a less than a thousand, and the entail is worth thirty-seven billion and with the estates she and Dean are equals.”
“She is not his equal!” said Maureen.
The waiter sat the three tier server on the table and began plating. The top tier consisted of thin slices of various cold meats, and cheeses. The second tier was arranged with slivers of assorted French breads, while the lowest tier bloomed with jelly and jams, croissants and yogurts. Once everyone was served, he left and their conversation resumed.
“She will have advisors, correct?” Vivian asked.
“Naturally,” Bart reached for the jam. “I pegged her for a romantic but she’s held her ground with Dean. I’ll admit I was wrong. She may have more sense than we’ve given her credit for.” He bit off his croissant. “All and all, she’s a good match…if it comes to that.”
“Knowing Dean, it won’t.” Vivian laughed. The dining hall was almost full when the Lockwoods arrived. She asked the maitre d’ to have the Lockwoods seated with them.
Concealing her shock, Trudy strolled proudly through the sea of hushed whispers of the other diners. For Vivian, social timing was practically occult.
*****
Dean squinted against the morning sun, his gaze strayed across the rumpled bed and scattered pillows to where Rebecca lay sound asleep. Her legs tucks to her chest as they did when not entangled with his. He brushed back the layers of corn silk hair shrouding her face. He smiled remembering the times he and Rhonda had woken up together and how their relationship had evolved from the occasional rump to something that gave him pause.
They met at the Bruce Museum’s Dimensions in Dining in Greenwich; one of the few functions Dean enjoyed attending when visiting Hyde Park. That night was the first of a series of eleven intimate dinners in private homes throughout Greenwich over three nights organized by the museums’ by co-chairs. The halls of the Stockman’s home swam with local zillionaires—some of whom honestly appreciating the art while others appreciated being in the company of those appreciating it. Dean was standing in one of their smaller galleries admiring a lithograph by Kiki Smith when Rhonda joined him and commented on the piece. He was sucker for the mature brainy type, and Rhonda was just that. Her extensive knowledge and casual elegance impressed him, but over the following days, it was her ease of rhetoric and poise that held him captive.
The final dinner was held on the Bouley’s estate. For the sake of propriety, Dean and Rhonda quartered themselves to nonverbal flirtation—and for a man accustomed to bedding females within hours, this was brute torture. After dinner, the twenty-five guests in attendance roamed the house, admiring the Bouley’s latest acquisitions. Dean pulled Rhonda into a small, darkened parlor and pressed her against the far wall, flinging off his tux jacket in the process.
“Dean, what if someone comes in?” Rhonda asked breathlessly as he hoisted her dress up to her waist and threw the shreds of her panties to the ground.
“They won’t.” His mouth came down on hers; she answered his kiss violently.
She broke their bond. “Right here and now?” she gasped. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I want you to cum for me,” he reached in his pocket and retrieved a condom. “Open it.” He handed it to Rhonda and unzipped his pants. Skilled in the art of fucking on the fly, Dean had the condom on before his pants hit the floor! He moved his hands under her ass and lifted her up. Her legs splayed around him, the tip of his cock teased lips before he entered. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, intoxicated by her perfume.
A heavy groan escaped her, and she locked her ankles as his thrust grew urgent. She palmed the back of his head and smiled to herself, triumphantly. She’d done it; she had Dean Bellamy’s beautiful, young, thick cock thrust between her legs. If her first orgasm were possible, he’d be the one to give it to her—and hot damn he lived up to his reputation!
This was their first night together.
Their relationship progressed over the next few months. Normally the homey feeling of domestic bliss would’ve sent Dean running in the opposite direction, but it didn’t. He and Rhonda spent more and more time together when her work permitted. Dean even planned a holiday in the Jura, where they spent an entire week tucked off in their yurt. For the first time in his life, Dean was satisfied with one woman; she wasn’t a mere fixture—she was an equal partner; and the idea of her being so didn’t unnerve him.
Whether or not Rhoda realized she was taking Dean into uncharted emotional territory is debatable. What is certain, is the hurt he suffered when his valet presented him with the truth while en route to meet Rhonda in Madrid. While Dean was no saint and he didn’t hold the monopoly on heartbreak and betrayal, his unimpeachable honesty was unquestioned and he never thought the woman he cared for would hurt him with unnecessary lie when the truth, while painful, was on the tip of her tongue. Regrettably, Rhonda didn’t share his view.
At her condo overlooking the city, Dean confronted her. Her admission was more for her own benefit than his. The weight of her secret was finally off her chest. But if she thought for one moment Dean was sticking around, she had another thing coming. For an hour or so, Rhonda berated her husband, blamed her career, and a host of other excuses which went clear over Dean’s head. In the end, none of it mattered. He stood, kissed her cheeks, and left for his home in France, where he immediately gutted the place.
Some people seek therapist to help them work through their issues. Dean sought the sales guy at Ace Hardware and the largest sledge hammer permitted by law.
Though Rhonda pursued him afterward, he cut off all communication and he was fairly surprised she joined the house party. After many months, his feelings for her were right on the surface—she had her claws in him, but not as before. It wasn’t nearly the same. And quite frankly, watching Rebecca sleeping beside him while thoughts of Rhonda twirled in his head sickened him.
Unlike most cads, Dean remained friends with most of his lovers. It was common knowledge: he simply wasn’t the settling-down type. Women seemed to forgive his roving eye because he was forthcoming and treated them with some measure of respect—he never hurt anyone; and Rebecca wasn’t going to be his first. He hadn’t lied or strung her on—still something felt wrong. Yes, there were times her unsullied innocence sat his teeth on edge (her stamina in bed more than compensated for this ‘flaw’) but he would never hurt her.
Rebecca stirred, smiling slowly as she woke under Dean’s gaze. “Good morning.” She rolled onto her back, stretching. “What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Oh goodness,” She lifted her head, looking around the tattered room. “We got kind of crazy last night, didn’t we?” She collapsed again. “I’m sore. Rub it for me.” She placed Dean’s left hand between her legs.
Dean rolled on side and massaged her gently as she settled into his warmth. “They say sex isn’t good for a virgin the first time. Was it disappointing?”
“By the time you penetrated me, I’d cum so many times I was begging for you to take me.” She met his eyes. “It was painful but you were patient. You kept asking if I wanted you to stop…I almost cried when you did.” Her pussy grew wet.
“I didn’t want to hurt you.” His index finger teased her slick lips.
“I know. It was so…aw!” She cried when his finger pushed inside of her. “…it was so damn good.”
“Why didn’t you wait until you were married?” He slowly fingered her, rubbing her clit with his thumb. “You’re swollen, baby. Does that feel better?”
“Oh, God. Yes,” She arched into his hand. “I don’t want to get married. Deeper.”
“Why me?” Her hips reared upward. “Why did you give me your virginity?”
Rebecca closed her eyes as a thundering orgasm consumed her. Trembling and shaking, she removed his hand and pressed it against her mound. She lay panting, and said after some time, “When I came to your room that night, I hadn’t expected to give you my virginity. It…it just felt right. It still does.” She looked up at Dean. “I don’t regret it.”
Dean smiled faintly but said nothing.
******
“If he doesn’t look at me, I’ll die.” Lexy, Sadie’s spindly girlfriend said as Isaac past them, leaving the dining hall.
“I’ve never heard of anyone dying from want of attention.”
“I will! I’m a complicated woman.”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “You’re fifteen. You’re not that complicated.” They went to a small bay window and watched Isaac cross the rear grounds towards the hunting lodge. The heavy bags he carried weighed him down like a pack mule, crashing expertly cut livery. They sat talking and watching Isaac crisscross the ground four more times, assuming their hideout had been commandeered by one of the guests. At least the gothic hellfire club down by the river was at their disposal, and though it lacks electricity and the comforts of the lodge, with a few candles it would make the perfect escape from their chaperones.
“I’m asking him out.” Lexy giggled.
“Does your mother know you’re psychotic?” Sadie padded across the marble floor. “He’s too old. Nope! I don’t want anything to do with that. And don’t bring him to the club. If my brothers find out, I’m finished. I’m not even supposed to know where the club is much less invite servants down there.”
Lexy ran behind her. “He’s a footmen…what’s that?...nineteen?”
“He’s the first footmen, which makes him about twenty-five. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’ll be fired for looking at any of us. But he’ll do time for messing around with you.” Sadie stopped short of the music room. “I’m not kidding. If your folks catch you flirting with him, I’ll get trouble. You know how Winston is. Just don’t.”
“What about the other boys?”
“No,” Sadie cut her eyes sideways. “Maybe…we’ll see.”
*****
Andrea sat up in bed, stiff as a reed. The smell of breakfast and the memories from the previous night drifted in slowly. A quick inventory of her clothing and the lack of tell-tale aching in her most intimate of places solved the rest of the mystery.
“I invited her over for the weekend. I thought it would be a nice change of pace. She’s staying with mother but she’s leaving this afternoon—something to do with the purchase.” Andrea heard Winston’s voice coming from the next room. She crawled from the bed and tip-toed to the crack in the door, her eyes skated around the room where Winston, shirtless, paced back and forth on the phone. Good heavens, he was ripped! It simply wasn’t fair how sexy he looked, those long, strong legs, his lean and tapered hips, and God Almighty his chest! Andrea took a deep breath and reminded herself to hate him.
“It’s done.” Winston continued, taking his shirt from Isaac and slipping it over his head. “When we return, she’s on her own. My hands are clean.” He paused. “No, Bart is will be your point of contact from our side but Ms. Guillory will be your primary.” He took the phone away from his ear and asked Isaac. “Is breakfast ready?”
“All ready.” Isaac handed him a glass of apple juice. “Should I wake Dr. Mitcham?”
“No, let her sleep. That’ll be all. Thank you.” Winston returned to his call, but disconnected when he realized Isaac was standing shakily after being dismissed. “What is it?”
“There’s been talk…” Isaac fidgeted with his hands, searching for his words. “…about what happened with you and Dr. Mitcham in the dining hall…the riff between you.”
“What about it? Speak frankly.”
Isaac steadied himself. “You came off like a chump. She got the better of you in front of everyone.”
Winston masked his concern with a laugh. “Its lower servants chatter, nothing more.”
“With all respect, sir, they’re repeating what’s being said upstairs.”
“Right.” Winston sighed, his voice quiet, very deep.
“I’ll come for Dr. Mitcham once the other guests have gone to the dining hall.”
“Thank you.” He hated being the subject of gossip and whispers, especial when it involved a female. Under those circumstances, you’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. Maybe he was a chump. He’d bent over backwards for a woman who held him in contempt. He’d allowed her to goad him into a public argument. He’d ran after her in the middle of the night like a lovesick puppy and, worst of all, spent the night with her, which given the rumor filled atmosphere of the house would be spun into a scandal and viciously circulated. How the hell had he landed on page six for a woman who hated him?
Isaac finished setting the table, and slipped from Andrea’s view. Winston resumed his call and Andrea trotted to the bathroom. The image staring back from the mirror was ghastly: puffy eyes, an aggressive case of bed head, and a headache to boot. Her elegant façade was a thing of the past, which given her rustically modern dwellings was right on point. She flipped on the shower and stepped under the stream of warm water, quickly washing her body and shampooing her hair. She almost felt bad about embarrassing Winston in front of everyone—almost. He had, after all, deserved it. He’s a horrible, self-centered ass, she repeated, attempting to rid herself of any trace of guilty for her misconduct.
“He’s dreadful. He deserved to be humiliated.” Andrea said aloud as if the words verbalized held more weight….maybe then she’d believe them.
“Good morning,” Andrea said briskly, plopping down on the large sectional sofa beside Winston. She was surprised to see they were both dressed in casual jeans and tee-shirts; an every day occurrence for her, but she assumed Winston was either humoring her or Isaac was playing a very cruel joke.
“Feeling better?” Winston asked without pulling himself away from his book. Truth be told, he wasn’t putting himself out for her; this fact wasn’t lost on Andrea. He kicked his feet up on the sofa.
“A little.”
Winston grunted. “Isaac’s downstairs. He’ll take you back to the house.”
“My head is hurting.” she threw out, hoping he’d glance at her.
“Breakfast is over there.” he pointed over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your reading, but we need to come to an understanding.” Andrea took the book from Winston’s hand. “You haven’t spoken to me in for the past two days, barring the necessities of convention.”
“That’s what you wanted, right?” His voice was deep and warm and sexy, and Andrea felt her skin break out in goose-bumps. “As publicly as possible, you wanted to prove you weren’t afraid to put me in my place—that you were better than me—that you could get under my skin to the point where I wouldn’t address you at all. And I, by keeping my distance, gave you exactly what you wanted. Everyone knows you played me. I hope you’re happy.”
He was right, of course. But victory wasn’t supposed to taste like hard boiled shit, but it did. She waited for the moment he would acknowledge her triumph; but his calmness, his matter-of-factness made her victory difficult to savor. This angered and shamed her to the point an apology seemed disingenuous especially given her actions were intentional.
Andrea’s eyes flickered between stubborn resolve and prostration. Winston had seen the same look in Sadie’s eyes. Thankfully Sadie had out grown of such behavior whereas Andrea hadn’t; she struggled with outward capitulation. It nearly frightened her. Underneath all the accolades and attitude, Andrea was a girl who was accustomed to having her way.
“Why do you hate me?” He asked, tossing Andrea a throw blanket and pillow. It was time to clear the air.
“I don’t hate you. I hate what you represent.”
The House Party: Three
“What do I represent?” Winston asked. “You think I’m a repulsive jet-setting playboy, a fickle, self-indulgent spoilt man with more unearned money than is good for him; a young man with few qualities to recommend himself or endear others. A lewd, globetrotting bounder—a huge, throbbing juggernaut of uselessness…”
Save the ‘repulsive’ bit, his assessment was correct. Andrea felt no need to interrupt him.
“You look at my family as a comedy of manners; stock characters: Bart as the fop, Dean as the rake, my aunt as the old person pretending to be young, Sadie as the amoeba, myself as the protagonist, and, holding our merry band of idiots together, my mother as the overbearing, ill-fit matriarch whose brains were replaced with champagne bubbles.”
There is was again, that guilty feeling. Winston held up a mirror up to Andrea’s thoughts and reduced her to judgmental, feather-headed twit.
“Because I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, because I seem not to feel—you think I’m heartless, that I don’t feel. Because my name isn’t splashed in the society papers listing my charitable donations—you think I don’t give. You think I’m a miserly prig.”
“Yes, I do.” Andrea fell back on the elderly couple as the source of her distain. “And you’ve done little to change my opinion. Look what you’ve done to that poor couple. ‘You did it because you could’? What kind of answer is that?”
“It’s the truth.” Winston sat up and turned to her. “I purchased their property because no one else would. Their business was a drug front—a local gang was forcing them to stay open. They’ve wanted to close the place for years but they couldn’t—no buyers, and once the gang had their way, no money either. And like you said, they live in the neighborhood. Where were they supposed to go with no money and a gang of thugs at their backdoor?” He didn’t know what to make of Andrea’s blank stare. Maybe she thought he was lying. “Look, if you don’t believe me, PJ, the young lady you met last night, is the president of my community action group. She arranged the purchase, she’ll vouch for me.”
“No,” Andrea’s chest caved under the weight of her own stupidity. She’d been wrong…worst still; she’d exposed Winston to unwarranted gossip. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know yet you thought the worst of me and wanted to make a show of it.” Winston rose from the sofa. “Now, I have to clean up your mess.” He stood for a moment as if he expected her to apologize. He laughed humorlessly, shook his head, and left for the other room when she didn’t. “I have work to do. Isaac will see you back to the house.” He stopped at her insistence. The slight tremor in her voice when she asked him to stay almost sounded authentic. He sighed and pressed his lips together, fearing that if he turned around she’d rope him in; and to quite honest, he’d had enough of her shit. He went into the office, slamming the door behind him.
For a while Andrea sat listening to the sound of rustling branches and cackling teenagers scurrying past the lodge. Save her pounding head, every fiber of her being urged her make a mends with Winston. Instead, she curled under her blanket and fell asleep hoping he would be there when she woke.
Isaac gave Andrea the bird on his way to make her bed. In a matter of days he’d gone from first footmen with all the responsibilities that entailed to Andrea’s glorified pillow-boy.
*****
The hours droned by at a glacial pace. Dean found himself at the mercy of a familiar enemy, boredom. More troubling was company with whom the attack was taking place. Lying around in a quiet library with Rebecca and Bart (both of whom knew when to shut their gobs) was a pleasant way to spend a few hours. However, Rosamund Pinkley, Bart’s self-centered former schoolmate, was teetering on Dean’s last nerve. You would’ve thought the plate of sliced lemon cake he ‘accidentally’ flung across the room at her would’ve been sufficient warning, but it wasn’t. Even ever-patient Bart looked as if he were seconds away from pouring hot coffee down his pants—hell, anything just to shut her up.
“I heard that if men go without sex, their genitals swell and take on the texture and color of ripe pumpkins.”
“Bart, do you need a timeout?” Dean said flatly from his rest position in Rebecca’s lap.
“He’s bored. We’re all bored.” Rosamund chugged down her third margarita. She grabbed the pitcher from the bar and flopped down beside Bart, defeated.
Bart looked over at her. She was pretty, perfectly sculpted…typical Barbie. He would’ve taken a run at her if she hadn’t been swigging alcohol by the gallon and complaining incessantly. Still, he managed a weak smile for her.
Rosamund poured another glass. “This is ridiculous. The grounds are soaked. We can’t leave the estate. I’m sick of gambling…”
“You’re sick of losing.” Rebecca laughed. Rosamund saw no humor at all.
“I hate these rules. I’ll go mad if I don’t get out. I can’t even go to the lodge. Some asshole footmen said the place is off limits and….”
“Rosamund,” Dean said exasperated. “If you don’t stop whining, I’ll have Rebecca tie you to a milk crate and spray you with liquid chicken shit, and if you disrespect our staff again, I’ll make it human shit.”
“Whatever, Dean.” She rolled her eyes and asked Bart politely, “Can we at least go to our rooms?”
“Were you born in a barn? Of course not.”
“Why not? You’re a Bellamy. You can do whatever the hell you want to do!”
Dean and Rebecca waited for Bart’s reply.
“You’re right,” he started slowly, shyly; then flashed. “I am a Bellamy. And you would do well to remember that.”
Rebecca, following the uncomfortable silence of Rosamund’s face cracking and hitting the floor, added to Bart’s ‘barn’ statement. “We’re expected to mingle in the common areas of the house—to get to know everyone without so many restrictions. But more importantly, it gives the maid staff time to clean our rooms without stepping over us. They’re anxious as it is—having us there would make their job unbearable…” she laughed nervously, looking from Dean to Bart, then to Rosamund. “…I imagine.” The knot in her stomach tightened and the social gap between her, a simple Canadian wannabe, and them, the old money, never felt so apparent as when their silence stretched on at length. Who was she to dictate to them the customs which they were born to? Why should they care about their maids’ nervous conditions? She shown herself to be little more than Dean’s socially inferior whore who didn’t know how to hold her tongue in the presence of her betters. “Excuse me.” She raised Dean’s head from her lap and left the room.
Rhonda, surrounded by her work in the library’s upstairs loft, overheard their conversation and wasn’t surprised when Dean didn’t go after Rebecca. Unfortunate for Rebecca, chasing women on the verge of the vapors wasn’t his style. Rhonda felt a twinge of sympathy for Rebecca; the disappointment of their relationship had hardened Dean. It was in Rebecca’s best interest that she saw his true colors now instead of months down the road after she’d fallen for him. Dear, sweet, romantic Rebecca was no match for Dean.
Rhonda nearly fell out of her chair when Emerson Lockwood came through the door. There was going to be a smack down! No such luck. He was returning a stack of books he’d borrowed the previous evening. Dean and Emerson spoke quietly before leaving Bart and Rosamund. Rhonda cleared her work area and escaped unnoticed down the back stairs.
*****
Sadie and the girls located the long abandoned Hellfire Club down by the river, not too far from where Andrea had gotten lost the night before. Cut into the side of the mountain itself, the entrance was obscured by overgrowth, but the lush gothic interior seemed to be frozen in time—as if the last members left only moments before they arrived. The girls spent the rest of the day running back and forth to the house for supplies. Before long the club was stocked full of candles, food, and a battery operated radio they snatched from the servants’ quarters. A little bit of elbow grease, and they had a fully functioning lair complete with all its trappings, tracks of tunnels and a sunken cellar. They collapsed on the plush cushioned sofa in the banqueting hall, knackered!
For all her refinement, there was still a strong element of tomboy in Sadie, and by locating the club she’d outdone her brothers. They’d searched high and low and never came close to finding it. She looked around her new digs imagining what her father and his comrades got up during their nights spent where she lay.
Unfortunately for Sadie, the wheel was spinning out of her control. While she slaved away, Lexy and the other girls invited the guys and located the cellar which she’d tried to conceal. Booze, boys, and indiscreet teens; someone was getting their ass kicked!
*****
Instead of the muffled sounds of guests and staff jostling in the loggia outside her door, Andrea woke to absolute silence and darkness. The sun had set. It took her a few minutes before she realized where she was. It was the best sleep she’d had in weeks and were it not for shame and hunger pangs, she would’ve thrown the blanket back over her head. Alas, she couldn’t—she had to find Winston and apologize. She went to the kitchen and put on the kettle for tea. Isaac hadn’t even started dinner. In fact, he was nowhere in sight. As soon as she takes a nap, Isaac starts slacking! She literally couldn’t take her eyes off of him!
“I’m sorry.” Andrea practiced the words in the hallway mirror. She twitched her face and tried again, this time extending a cup of tea she’d prepared. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d like a cup…” She rolled her eyes at her own insincerity. “I’m sorry.” She dropped an octave. “Fuck it.” She gave up and opened the office door. Winston sat reading with his feet kicked up on the corner of the desk, his back to her. Thinking he hadn’t heard her enter, she coughed. Winston didn’t move. “I saw the light on.”
Winston grunted.
“I thought you’d like a cup of tea.” Andrea sat the cup in front of him and stood like a naughty schoolgirl, waiting to be acknowledged. “I made it myself.”
“Isaac is downstairs. You could have asked him.”
“I didn’t know he was here. Besides, it wasn’t any trouble.” Her words hung. Winston took a sip of tea, sat the cup down and refused to look at her. Andrea sat in the chair in front of him. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Because you seem determined to speak to me even those you’ve made no secret of your hatred.” He looked at her steadily. “So, if this is your way of apologizing…” he pointed. “….there’s the door.”
Andrea stirred uncomfortable with those intense yet strangely erotic eyes on her. Damn, he can melt panties, flashed in her head; she coughed hoping he hadn’t noticed her moment of weakness. “I’m sorry.” She’d said it! And she’d meant it!
Winston stood to leave—Andrea captured his wrist and rose to her feet. The two of them stood there looking at each other. A dangerous sense of weakening came over her. Winston was a lot taller and more intimidating than she remembered. But he didn’t look quite so cross, and that in itself was worrying.
“I’m sorry.” Andrea whispered. “I was wrong about you. I have no talent for making friends.”
“Join the club! You know how this works: it all about appears and you’ve made a fool out of me. Great way to make friends, right?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough!” he took her by her shoulders. “Are you fucking nuts? Do you understand the position you’ve put both of us in? Even if I wanted to like you, I couldn’t.” Winston looked down at her, kicking himself for feeling a drizzle of benevolence.
His words thundered in Andrea’s chest and rendered her speechless. Instantly, Winston knew he’d touched something long buried; and Andrea didn’t expect him to apologize for doing so. She’d done far worse to both of them.
“Would you like a drink?” offered Winston.
“No, well—I brought you tea.”
“That’s not tea. That’s shit.” He headed for the door, talking over his shoulder. “Isaac knows how I take my tea. Ask him next time.”
Slightly insulted, but happy to the point of giddiness that they were at least talking, Andrea caught up with Winston in the hall.
“What’s it like being you?” Andrea asked Winston after hearing him make Isaacs’ excuses to Hunter. Isaac sat a fresh pot of water on the table and left before Winston replied.
“You mean what is it like being a Bellamy?”
“No, what’s it like being you? You see….” Andrea curled her feet under her, getting comfortable beside Winston on the sofa. “…this was part of my problem; I know what the stud book says about you: I know you’re the eldest Bellamy twin. You hold an advanced degree. You don’t drink alcohol. And I know how much you’re worth. But I don’t know you.”
“I don’t know nothing about you.” Winston smiled. “Why should I tell you my secrets?”
“True. You know the myth: everything said by firelight disappears at the light of day, it’s all forgotten—like it never happened?” Andrea raised an eyebrow and crossed the room to the light dimmer. The room darkened until the hazy light from the gas range cast shadows on the walls. “How about we trade secret for secret—what’s said here, stays here.”
Winston narrowed his eyes as Andrea retook her seat. “Why should I?”
“Because neither one of us has a talent for making friends. And maybe that’s what we need.”
“You first.” Winston said against his better judgment.
Andrea thought for a second. “I slept with a nightlight until I was thirteen.” She waited for Winston to speak. He sort of frowned as if unsure how to proceed. “Now you go…just keep going.”
“Oh! Okay…well…as a child, I ate butter and blamed it on Dean.”
“I used to pull the heads off my Barbies and chew on the stump of their necks, then pop the heads back on so no one found out. I was a nervous kid.”
The visual of Andrea gnawing on dismembered dolls was almost too much for Winston to bear. “I stuck piece of crayon in my ear. It took me two days to dig it out—it was burnt sienna so no one missed it.”
“In second grade, I got an ‘F’ in conduct and I changed it to an ‘A’. My folks never found out.”
“I’ve always wondered what it’d be like if I were a dog. Like Lassie.”
Andrea so wanted him to expound on that morsel of weirdness, but she kept the ball rolling. “I had no friends in elementary school. When we had group activities, I’d hide in the bathroom until teams were chosen so the teacher would place me on the team with the least child.”
Winston saw a flash of that little girl in her eyes. She was still hurting though she masked it with a chuckle. “We went to middle school on Germany. I ran away for an entire semester. No one missed me and I made the honor roll.”
“I may have killed my cat.”
“I killed my cat. Not purposely but it died—just like the ferret and the goldfish. Although I may have interrupted a murder-suicide attempt between my goldfish and one angry algae eater—my goldfish wasn’t the homicidal.” Winston laughed at his absurdity. “As you can see, I’ve put a lot of thought into this fable.”
Andrea loved Winston’s self-deprecating humor and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Everyone made a big deal about the ‘Bellamy dimples’ but it was the tiny lines Andrea found irresistible. Or maybe it was the first time she’d seen Winston as ‘Winston’. She shook her head in amazement.
“You’re laughing at me.” Winston said.
“No! I…I’m…um” It took all her strength to keep from blurting out ‘horny’. “…I’m surprised we’re so much alike.”
“Go. Your turn.” Winston moved a little closer. He was actually enjoying himself.
“Our pool boy was my first kiss. I found out later he’d made a pass at my mom.”
“You and your mother are…”
“Like sisters, I know. Everyone says it.” She continued. “There are times I resent my mom. She’s so smart—and she’s so unhappy. Years of living in my father’s shadow will do that to a person. Have you read her work? She’s brilliant, cutting edge stuff. But she’s a wife first, a mom second, and herself a distant third.” Her voice was far off. “My father doesn’t know how unhappy she is. I wish my parents would divorce before I start hating her.”
Her frankness made Winston’s next admission easier. “I’m a little angry with my father for dying—I’m sure being dead is no piece of cake, but I’m a little pissed. I would’ve liked some damn warning. My father and I were close but there are questions I never got around to asking, you know.”
“Such as?”
Winston shrugged. “Why the hell did he plant limes in every garden of every house when he knew we used them as ammo? And did he really throw up in my grandfather’s ficus when he found out he was having twins? What?” he laughed. Andrea was on the verge of bursting. “These are serious questions.”
“Your mother could answer those questions.”
“Yeah, well,” Winston placed a throw pillow under his head and lie flat looking up at Andrea. “I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
She came up on one elbow. “Tell me about your last girlfriend.”
“I met Victoria, at a gallery opening in New York. She was the muse for one of the artists—she was very attractive and, like many men, I thought that was what I wanted. Victoria, on the other hand, had her life mapped out like a military operation, and I was just one small part of it. She wanted parties, travel and money. I seemed to be a good idea—a means to an end. Our relationship was one long fight and I hated every minute of it. Thankfully I wasn’t around much and she kept up the parties on her own.”
“So why did you stay in the relationship if you were unhappy?” Andrea asked dryly.
“Stupidity and the lack of time. I didn’t have time to break it off face to face. I guess I could’ve done it via email or text but I figured the most humane way to put a bullet in someone’s head was while looking them straight in the eyes.” He shrugged. “Then, between the fights and the parties, she became pregnant.” Winston cast a sarcastic look up at Andrea. “Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of biology, geography, and the meticulous workings of a condom would attest the kid couldn’t have been mine.”
Andrea’s mouth fell open. “You stood by her?”
“Hell no!” Winston was shocked her summation of him was still off the mark. “I threw her and her shit out of my house, filed a restraining order, and called my spin doctor.”
“A restraining order?!”
“Yeah, after I threw her out, she stalked me. She turned up wherever I happened to be with the sole purpose of embarrassing me. It pissed me off so I black listed her ass—even the corner grocer closed his doors on her. I suppose I did it out of spite but I’m sick of manipulative women latching on to men, and then crying pregnant. And men are expected to ‘do the right thing’ or have the fury of all womankind hound us to an early grave. Who stands up for the guys like me, the ones refuse to be trapped by these women? Who apologizes to us when we’re proven right? No one does. Her and her bastard can go to hell.”
“So what happened?”
“Surprise, surprise, the kid belonged to some dude named Hector from The Bronx.” He and Andrea burst out laughing. “I should’ve walked the other way when Dean didn’t give her a second glance.”
Andrea recovered and asked, “Did you pay her off? I didn’t hear any rumors.”
“No. Let’s just say my mother has a way with words. End of story.” There was a comfortable silence. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. “Your turn.
Andrea blew a long, exhaustive breath. “Oliver…”
“Oliver? Ew, that was your first mistake. Oliver?”
“Yes, Oliver. It is horrible, isn’t it?” Andrea snorted. “Oliver and I met in med school. We were both freshmen and we dated for two years. Like Victoria, his life was mapped out, and I was just one small part of it.” She wanted to leave it there but continued. “He lied to me. He made me believe he loved me when all along he wanted the ‘status’ of being with me.”
“But you already knew that; you knew the reason he was there.” Winston suggested unsmiling. “What did he really lie about?”
“He was married.” Her voice shallow. “The whole time we were together, he was married with two children tucked away Dumfries. I was devastated. You’re right, I knew why he was dating me—I just—I held out hope that he would come around and love me once he saw through the bullshit.” She allowed herself a laugh. “Funny, things never turn out the way you plan.”
Winston digested her words, and then did a quick calculation. “Wait. Freshman year…two years. You’ve done your residency and a fellowship. That means…”
“I’ve been single for six years.” She wiped a tear from her cheek, hoping Winston hadn’t seen. “You know, sometimes I still feel like that little girl hiding in the bathroom, waiting for someone to choose her.” She laughed, fearing she’d disclosed too much. “Pathetic, right?”
“No, not at all.” Against his intentions, he liked Andrea. The silence hung between them, and then Andrea spoke abruptly.
“Nice place.” She said brightly.
“Yeah, this used to be Henry and my father’s retreat.” Winston looked around the forty foot ceiling heavy with spun trusses. “A few years ago they went green and added plasma TVs and satellite access, and the outdoor BBQ grill and bar. Then Susan insisted they refit the kitchen and dining rooms.”
“Dining rooms?”
Winston grinned. “This is the second floor. Downstairs there’s a laundry room, and den with game tables. And upstairs on the third floor there’s a loft with a library and an ofuro. “It’s not your everyday lodge, but it works.”
“I love it.”
Winston’s nose wrinkled. “You do? I figured you as the gated-community type.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Andrea held his stare, then looked away. “How many square feet?”
“About 3,500 or so.”
“It’s fabulous. They’ve kept the aesthetic of the old lodge, and added practical modern comforts.” Her gaze skirted the room. “This would be my home away from home; my sanctuary, my private world.” She rambled forgetting Winston was present. “I wouldn’t invite anyone. It would be my refuge away from everyone.”
“Everyone…”
“I wouldn’t mind terribly if you were here.” She cut her words short when she heard Isaac approaching. She whispered “I don’t want to go back—not yet. Stay with me.”
Is this woman crazy? Winston thought. They’d been gone almost twenty-four hours and he was certain rumors were flying. Nevertheless he was compelled to save them both from the bureaucratic machinations of the house. “Play alone.” Winston stood, feeling his lie carried more weight if he were on his feet.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Isaac turned up the lights. “It’s late. We should return to the house.”
“Dr. Mitcham isn’t feeling well.”
Andrea hugged her pillow and gave an Oscar winning whimper.
“Should I send for a physician?” offered Isaac. He knew something was wrong. That ‘go-to-hell’ remoteness of her features was gone.
“No—no—no. I’ll stay with her while she rests.” Winston leveled his eyes at Isaac hoping he got the drift. It was literally like watching paint dry.
“Oh!” Finally, the plot unfolded before him. Yet again, he was stuck in the middle of drama. Yet again, he’d be blamed if something went wrong. Yet again, he complied. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
“I would like you to stay overnight with us. I want you close. If I need anything, I’ll give you a call.”
“Yes, sir. You won’t be disturbed.” He gathered the plates and cups from the table, dimmed the lights, and hurried to the kitchen.
“Bless footmen,” Winston fell back into his position on the sofa. “…they see much and say little.” He looked up at Andrea—she had the faintest of smiles. “Why did you ask me to stay?” his voice quiet, very deep.
“Because I kinda like having a friend,” Andrea stared down at Winston. They were past pot-shots and snide remarks. “I didn’t want it end.” She bit her lower lip.
“Don’t do that.” His finger moved to her lips, forcing them to part. Again she bit her lip—and again he moved them apart, this time leaving his finger in place. “It makes you look guilty, as if we’re doing something wrong.” His gaze locked with hers and his hand tunneled through the side of her mass of thick curls, his eyes drop to her parted, full lips, and gently brought her lips to his.
“Oh God damn.” Andrea whispered as his lips sensually covered hers. Skilled and unhurried—coaxing and warm—just the slow drowsy movement of his mouth against hers. Unable to entertain a coherent thought, she gave way Winston and the images his tongue created in her head: his lips nibbling mercilessly at her tender clit, sucking the little bud in and out between his lips—making her thrash and writher wildly beneath him—grabbing the back of his head with both hands—pushing his face hard against her juicy pussy—rotating her hips drunkenly in a desperate attempt to bring every inch of herself into contact with his slurping mouth.
Winston smiled to himself; Andrea was cumming. He deepened his kiss and felt a slow, rumbling cry trickle down the back of his throat. He kissed her softly until he felt her grin against his lips. “Well, that’s a first.” Looking up at her, a bit dazed himself.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked in a husky whisper.
There was heavy, pounding on the door before Winston could utter a single word. He ran to the door, flipping the porch light on. Screw propriety, whomever was on the other side of the door was either bleeding or on fire. To his horror it was Sadie, shell shocked and covered from head to toe in mud.
“Oh shit!” Isaac pushed Winston aside, pulled Sadie inside, and slammed the door. “Where are the others?”
“There’s still down there.”
“Come here.” Andrea took Sadie, checking her for any outwards signs of trauma. There were none, only a look of fear Winston’s wrath struck in her. “What others?”
“My friends…I tried to find them…” Sadie started before Isaac interrupted and gave the full account of how Lexy bragged to him earlier in the day about having found the hellfire club. Between lying to Hunter and catering to Winston and her, he found time to warn Sadie and the girls to stay away from the club and river area after the heavy rains. Sadie, panic-stricken, asked him not to tell her brothers and she’d keep the others from going to out. Of course he had no intention of keeping his mouth shut, but with everything going on he forgot to tell Winston and, obviously, Sadie hadn’t been able to stop her friends. Now, night had fallen—the girls were lost with boys and booze…God only knows how Sadie ended up looking like a walking turd—and Winston was plotting his demise.
Winston leveled his eyes on Isaac; he grew tight with fury. Andrea’s heart leapt in her throat. Winston was notoriously overprotection of Sadie. And because of some forgetful footmen, his pride and joy stood in front of him looking like a cold, shivering cow patty.
Sadie looked at Isaac. “I tried to stop them. I didn’t go…I told you I wouldn’t go even if they went.”
“I believe you. I knew you wouldn’t go back.” Isaac threw off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. If Winston was going to kill him, he’d have to do it after the other kids were safe. “Stay here with Dr. Mitcham. Have you eaten anything?”
Sadie shook her head.
Isaac looked to Andrea. “Sorry to inconvenience you, Dr. Mitcham, but there’s food downstairs and clothes in the dryer. Can you see to her until I return?”
Andrea and Winston were taken aback by Isaac’s sudden assertiveness. “Ummm, sure.” Andrea said.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He scurried off to the utility cupboard for flashlights and batteries, while Winston gave Sadie the bollocking of the century. “Right,” he said upon return. “Shall we go?” He opened the door and handed Winston a flashlight.
Winston snatched it from his hand. “You’re so fucking dead.” He pushed past him.
“I figured as much, sir.” Isaac closed the door behind them.
Save the ‘repulsive’ bit, his assessment was correct. Andrea felt no need to interrupt him.
“You look at my family as a comedy of manners; stock characters: Bart as the fop, Dean as the rake, my aunt as the old person pretending to be young, Sadie as the amoeba, myself as the protagonist, and, holding our merry band of idiots together, my mother as the overbearing, ill-fit matriarch whose brains were replaced with champagne bubbles.”
There is was again, that guilty feeling. Winston held up a mirror up to Andrea’s thoughts and reduced her to judgmental, feather-headed twit.
“Because I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, because I seem not to feel—you think I’m heartless, that I don’t feel. Because my name isn’t splashed in the society papers listing my charitable donations—you think I don’t give. You think I’m a miserly prig.”
“Yes, I do.” Andrea fell back on the elderly couple as the source of her distain. “And you’ve done little to change my opinion. Look what you’ve done to that poor couple. ‘You did it because you could’? What kind of answer is that?”
“It’s the truth.” Winston sat up and turned to her. “I purchased their property because no one else would. Their business was a drug front—a local gang was forcing them to stay open. They’ve wanted to close the place for years but they couldn’t—no buyers, and once the gang had their way, no money either. And like you said, they live in the neighborhood. Where were they supposed to go with no money and a gang of thugs at their backdoor?” He didn’t know what to make of Andrea’s blank stare. Maybe she thought he was lying. “Look, if you don’t believe me, PJ, the young lady you met last night, is the president of my community action group. She arranged the purchase, she’ll vouch for me.”
“No,” Andrea’s chest caved under the weight of her own stupidity. She’d been wrong…worst still; she’d exposed Winston to unwarranted gossip. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know yet you thought the worst of me and wanted to make a show of it.” Winston rose from the sofa. “Now, I have to clean up your mess.” He stood for a moment as if he expected her to apologize. He laughed humorlessly, shook his head, and left for the other room when she didn’t. “I have work to do. Isaac will see you back to the house.” He stopped at her insistence. The slight tremor in her voice when she asked him to stay almost sounded authentic. He sighed and pressed his lips together, fearing that if he turned around she’d rope him in; and to quite honest, he’d had enough of her shit. He went into the office, slamming the door behind him.
For a while Andrea sat listening to the sound of rustling branches and cackling teenagers scurrying past the lodge. Save her pounding head, every fiber of her being urged her make a mends with Winston. Instead, she curled under her blanket and fell asleep hoping he would be there when she woke.
Isaac gave Andrea the bird on his way to make her bed. In a matter of days he’d gone from first footmen with all the responsibilities that entailed to Andrea’s glorified pillow-boy.
*****
The hours droned by at a glacial pace. Dean found himself at the mercy of a familiar enemy, boredom. More troubling was company with whom the attack was taking place. Lying around in a quiet library with Rebecca and Bart (both of whom knew when to shut their gobs) was a pleasant way to spend a few hours. However, Rosamund Pinkley, Bart’s self-centered former schoolmate, was teetering on Dean’s last nerve. You would’ve thought the plate of sliced lemon cake he ‘accidentally’ flung across the room at her would’ve been sufficient warning, but it wasn’t. Even ever-patient Bart looked as if he were seconds away from pouring hot coffee down his pants—hell, anything just to shut her up.
“I heard that if men go without sex, their genitals swell and take on the texture and color of ripe pumpkins.”
“Bart, do you need a timeout?” Dean said flatly from his rest position in Rebecca’s lap.
“He’s bored. We’re all bored.” Rosamund chugged down her third margarita. She grabbed the pitcher from the bar and flopped down beside Bart, defeated.
Bart looked over at her. She was pretty, perfectly sculpted…typical Barbie. He would’ve taken a run at her if she hadn’t been swigging alcohol by the gallon and complaining incessantly. Still, he managed a weak smile for her.
Rosamund poured another glass. “This is ridiculous. The grounds are soaked. We can’t leave the estate. I’m sick of gambling…”
“You’re sick of losing.” Rebecca laughed. Rosamund saw no humor at all.
“I hate these rules. I’ll go mad if I don’t get out. I can’t even go to the lodge. Some asshole footmen said the place is off limits and….”
“Rosamund,” Dean said exasperated. “If you don’t stop whining, I’ll have Rebecca tie you to a milk crate and spray you with liquid chicken shit, and if you disrespect our staff again, I’ll make it human shit.”
“Whatever, Dean.” She rolled her eyes and asked Bart politely, “Can we at least go to our rooms?”
“Were you born in a barn? Of course not.”
“Why not? You’re a Bellamy. You can do whatever the hell you want to do!”
Dean and Rebecca waited for Bart’s reply.
“You’re right,” he started slowly, shyly; then flashed. “I am a Bellamy. And you would do well to remember that.”
Rebecca, following the uncomfortable silence of Rosamund’s face cracking and hitting the floor, added to Bart’s ‘barn’ statement. “We’re expected to mingle in the common areas of the house—to get to know everyone without so many restrictions. But more importantly, it gives the maid staff time to clean our rooms without stepping over us. They’re anxious as it is—having us there would make their job unbearable…” she laughed nervously, looking from Dean to Bart, then to Rosamund. “…I imagine.” The knot in her stomach tightened and the social gap between her, a simple Canadian wannabe, and them, the old money, never felt so apparent as when their silence stretched on at length. Who was she to dictate to them the customs which they were born to? Why should they care about their maids’ nervous conditions? She shown herself to be little more than Dean’s socially inferior whore who didn’t know how to hold her tongue in the presence of her betters. “Excuse me.” She raised Dean’s head from her lap and left the room.
Rhonda, surrounded by her work in the library’s upstairs loft, overheard their conversation and wasn’t surprised when Dean didn’t go after Rebecca. Unfortunate for Rebecca, chasing women on the verge of the vapors wasn’t his style. Rhonda felt a twinge of sympathy for Rebecca; the disappointment of their relationship had hardened Dean. It was in Rebecca’s best interest that she saw his true colors now instead of months down the road after she’d fallen for him. Dear, sweet, romantic Rebecca was no match for Dean.
Rhonda nearly fell out of her chair when Emerson Lockwood came through the door. There was going to be a smack down! No such luck. He was returning a stack of books he’d borrowed the previous evening. Dean and Emerson spoke quietly before leaving Bart and Rosamund. Rhonda cleared her work area and escaped unnoticed down the back stairs.
*****
Sadie and the girls located the long abandoned Hellfire Club down by the river, not too far from where Andrea had gotten lost the night before. Cut into the side of the mountain itself, the entrance was obscured by overgrowth, but the lush gothic interior seemed to be frozen in time—as if the last members left only moments before they arrived. The girls spent the rest of the day running back and forth to the house for supplies. Before long the club was stocked full of candles, food, and a battery operated radio they snatched from the servants’ quarters. A little bit of elbow grease, and they had a fully functioning lair complete with all its trappings, tracks of tunnels and a sunken cellar. They collapsed on the plush cushioned sofa in the banqueting hall, knackered!
For all her refinement, there was still a strong element of tomboy in Sadie, and by locating the club she’d outdone her brothers. They’d searched high and low and never came close to finding it. She looked around her new digs imagining what her father and his comrades got up during their nights spent where she lay.
Unfortunately for Sadie, the wheel was spinning out of her control. While she slaved away, Lexy and the other girls invited the guys and located the cellar which she’d tried to conceal. Booze, boys, and indiscreet teens; someone was getting their ass kicked!
*****
Instead of the muffled sounds of guests and staff jostling in the loggia outside her door, Andrea woke to absolute silence and darkness. The sun had set. It took her a few minutes before she realized where she was. It was the best sleep she’d had in weeks and were it not for shame and hunger pangs, she would’ve thrown the blanket back over her head. Alas, she couldn’t—she had to find Winston and apologize. She went to the kitchen and put on the kettle for tea. Isaac hadn’t even started dinner. In fact, he was nowhere in sight. As soon as she takes a nap, Isaac starts slacking! She literally couldn’t take her eyes off of him!
“I’m sorry.” Andrea practiced the words in the hallway mirror. She twitched her face and tried again, this time extending a cup of tea she’d prepared. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d like a cup…” She rolled her eyes at her own insincerity. “I’m sorry.” She dropped an octave. “Fuck it.” She gave up and opened the office door. Winston sat reading with his feet kicked up on the corner of the desk, his back to her. Thinking he hadn’t heard her enter, she coughed. Winston didn’t move. “I saw the light on.”
Winston grunted.
“I thought you’d like a cup of tea.” Andrea sat the cup in front of him and stood like a naughty schoolgirl, waiting to be acknowledged. “I made it myself.”
“Isaac is downstairs. You could have asked him.”
“I didn’t know he was here. Besides, it wasn’t any trouble.” Her words hung. Winston took a sip of tea, sat the cup down and refused to look at her. Andrea sat in the chair in front of him. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Because you seem determined to speak to me even those you’ve made no secret of your hatred.” He looked at her steadily. “So, if this is your way of apologizing…” he pointed. “….there’s the door.”
Andrea stirred uncomfortable with those intense yet strangely erotic eyes on her. Damn, he can melt panties, flashed in her head; she coughed hoping he hadn’t noticed her moment of weakness. “I’m sorry.” She’d said it! And she’d meant it!
Winston stood to leave—Andrea captured his wrist and rose to her feet. The two of them stood there looking at each other. A dangerous sense of weakening came over her. Winston was a lot taller and more intimidating than she remembered. But he didn’t look quite so cross, and that in itself was worrying.
“I’m sorry.” Andrea whispered. “I was wrong about you. I have no talent for making friends.”
“Join the club! You know how this works: it all about appears and you’ve made a fool out of me. Great way to make friends, right?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough!” he took her by her shoulders. “Are you fucking nuts? Do you understand the position you’ve put both of us in? Even if I wanted to like you, I couldn’t.” Winston looked down at her, kicking himself for feeling a drizzle of benevolence.
His words thundered in Andrea’s chest and rendered her speechless. Instantly, Winston knew he’d touched something long buried; and Andrea didn’t expect him to apologize for doing so. She’d done far worse to both of them.
“Would you like a drink?” offered Winston.
“No, well—I brought you tea.”
“That’s not tea. That’s shit.” He headed for the door, talking over his shoulder. “Isaac knows how I take my tea. Ask him next time.”
Slightly insulted, but happy to the point of giddiness that they were at least talking, Andrea caught up with Winston in the hall.
“What’s it like being you?” Andrea asked Winston after hearing him make Isaacs’ excuses to Hunter. Isaac sat a fresh pot of water on the table and left before Winston replied.
“You mean what is it like being a Bellamy?”
“No, what’s it like being you? You see….” Andrea curled her feet under her, getting comfortable beside Winston on the sofa. “…this was part of my problem; I know what the stud book says about you: I know you’re the eldest Bellamy twin. You hold an advanced degree. You don’t drink alcohol. And I know how much you’re worth. But I don’t know you.”
“I don’t know nothing about you.” Winston smiled. “Why should I tell you my secrets?”
“True. You know the myth: everything said by firelight disappears at the light of day, it’s all forgotten—like it never happened?” Andrea raised an eyebrow and crossed the room to the light dimmer. The room darkened until the hazy light from the gas range cast shadows on the walls. “How about we trade secret for secret—what’s said here, stays here.”
Winston narrowed his eyes as Andrea retook her seat. “Why should I?”
“Because neither one of us has a talent for making friends. And maybe that’s what we need.”
“You first.” Winston said against his better judgment.
Andrea thought for a second. “I slept with a nightlight until I was thirteen.” She waited for Winston to speak. He sort of frowned as if unsure how to proceed. “Now you go…just keep going.”
“Oh! Okay…well…as a child, I ate butter and blamed it on Dean.”
“I used to pull the heads off my Barbies and chew on the stump of their necks, then pop the heads back on so no one found out. I was a nervous kid.”
The visual of Andrea gnawing on dismembered dolls was almost too much for Winston to bear. “I stuck piece of crayon in my ear. It took me two days to dig it out—it was burnt sienna so no one missed it.”
“In second grade, I got an ‘F’ in conduct and I changed it to an ‘A’. My folks never found out.”
“I’ve always wondered what it’d be like if I were a dog. Like Lassie.”
Andrea so wanted him to expound on that morsel of weirdness, but she kept the ball rolling. “I had no friends in elementary school. When we had group activities, I’d hide in the bathroom until teams were chosen so the teacher would place me on the team with the least child.”
Winston saw a flash of that little girl in her eyes. She was still hurting though she masked it with a chuckle. “We went to middle school on Germany. I ran away for an entire semester. No one missed me and I made the honor roll.”
“I may have killed my cat.”
“I killed my cat. Not purposely but it died—just like the ferret and the goldfish. Although I may have interrupted a murder-suicide attempt between my goldfish and one angry algae eater—my goldfish wasn’t the homicidal.” Winston laughed at his absurdity. “As you can see, I’ve put a lot of thought into this fable.”
Andrea loved Winston’s self-deprecating humor and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Everyone made a big deal about the ‘Bellamy dimples’ but it was the tiny lines Andrea found irresistible. Or maybe it was the first time she’d seen Winston as ‘Winston’. She shook her head in amazement.
“You’re laughing at me.” Winston said.
“No! I…I’m…um” It took all her strength to keep from blurting out ‘horny’. “…I’m surprised we’re so much alike.”
“Go. Your turn.” Winston moved a little closer. He was actually enjoying himself.
“Our pool boy was my first kiss. I found out later he’d made a pass at my mom.”
“You and your mother are…”
“Like sisters, I know. Everyone says it.” She continued. “There are times I resent my mom. She’s so smart—and she’s so unhappy. Years of living in my father’s shadow will do that to a person. Have you read her work? She’s brilliant, cutting edge stuff. But she’s a wife first, a mom second, and herself a distant third.” Her voice was far off. “My father doesn’t know how unhappy she is. I wish my parents would divorce before I start hating her.”
Her frankness made Winston’s next admission easier. “I’m a little angry with my father for dying—I’m sure being dead is no piece of cake, but I’m a little pissed. I would’ve liked some damn warning. My father and I were close but there are questions I never got around to asking, you know.”
“Such as?”
Winston shrugged. “Why the hell did he plant limes in every garden of every house when he knew we used them as ammo? And did he really throw up in my grandfather’s ficus when he found out he was having twins? What?” he laughed. Andrea was on the verge of bursting. “These are serious questions.”
“Your mother could answer those questions.”
“Yeah, well,” Winston placed a throw pillow under his head and lie flat looking up at Andrea. “I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
She came up on one elbow. “Tell me about your last girlfriend.”
“I met Victoria, at a gallery opening in New York. She was the muse for one of the artists—she was very attractive and, like many men, I thought that was what I wanted. Victoria, on the other hand, had her life mapped out like a military operation, and I was just one small part of it. She wanted parties, travel and money. I seemed to be a good idea—a means to an end. Our relationship was one long fight and I hated every minute of it. Thankfully I wasn’t around much and she kept up the parties on her own.”
“So why did you stay in the relationship if you were unhappy?” Andrea asked dryly.
“Stupidity and the lack of time. I didn’t have time to break it off face to face. I guess I could’ve done it via email or text but I figured the most humane way to put a bullet in someone’s head was while looking them straight in the eyes.” He shrugged. “Then, between the fights and the parties, she became pregnant.” Winston cast a sarcastic look up at Andrea. “Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of biology, geography, and the meticulous workings of a condom would attest the kid couldn’t have been mine.”
Andrea’s mouth fell open. “You stood by her?”
“Hell no!” Winston was shocked her summation of him was still off the mark. “I threw her and her shit out of my house, filed a restraining order, and called my spin doctor.”
“A restraining order?!”
“Yeah, after I threw her out, she stalked me. She turned up wherever I happened to be with the sole purpose of embarrassing me. It pissed me off so I black listed her ass—even the corner grocer closed his doors on her. I suppose I did it out of spite but I’m sick of manipulative women latching on to men, and then crying pregnant. And men are expected to ‘do the right thing’ or have the fury of all womankind hound us to an early grave. Who stands up for the guys like me, the ones refuse to be trapped by these women? Who apologizes to us when we’re proven right? No one does. Her and her bastard can go to hell.”
“So what happened?”
“Surprise, surprise, the kid belonged to some dude named Hector from The Bronx.” He and Andrea burst out laughing. “I should’ve walked the other way when Dean didn’t give her a second glance.”
Andrea recovered and asked, “Did you pay her off? I didn’t hear any rumors.”
“No. Let’s just say my mother has a way with words. End of story.” There was a comfortable silence. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. “Your turn.
Andrea blew a long, exhaustive breath. “Oliver…”
“Oliver? Ew, that was your first mistake. Oliver?”
“Yes, Oliver. It is horrible, isn’t it?” Andrea snorted. “Oliver and I met in med school. We were both freshmen and we dated for two years. Like Victoria, his life was mapped out, and I was just one small part of it.” She wanted to leave it there but continued. “He lied to me. He made me believe he loved me when all along he wanted the ‘status’ of being with me.”
“But you already knew that; you knew the reason he was there.” Winston suggested unsmiling. “What did he really lie about?”
“He was married.” Her voice shallow. “The whole time we were together, he was married with two children tucked away Dumfries. I was devastated. You’re right, I knew why he was dating me—I just—I held out hope that he would come around and love me once he saw through the bullshit.” She allowed herself a laugh. “Funny, things never turn out the way you plan.”
Winston digested her words, and then did a quick calculation. “Wait. Freshman year…two years. You’ve done your residency and a fellowship. That means…”
“I’ve been single for six years.” She wiped a tear from her cheek, hoping Winston hadn’t seen. “You know, sometimes I still feel like that little girl hiding in the bathroom, waiting for someone to choose her.” She laughed, fearing she’d disclosed too much. “Pathetic, right?”
“No, not at all.” Against his intentions, he liked Andrea. The silence hung between them, and then Andrea spoke abruptly.
“Nice place.” She said brightly.
“Yeah, this used to be Henry and my father’s retreat.” Winston looked around the forty foot ceiling heavy with spun trusses. “A few years ago they went green and added plasma TVs and satellite access, and the outdoor BBQ grill and bar. Then Susan insisted they refit the kitchen and dining rooms.”
“Dining rooms?”
Winston grinned. “This is the second floor. Downstairs there’s a laundry room, and den with game tables. And upstairs on the third floor there’s a loft with a library and an ofuro. “It’s not your everyday lodge, but it works.”
“I love it.”
Winston’s nose wrinkled. “You do? I figured you as the gated-community type.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Andrea held his stare, then looked away. “How many square feet?”
“About 3,500 or so.”
“It’s fabulous. They’ve kept the aesthetic of the old lodge, and added practical modern comforts.” Her gaze skirted the room. “This would be my home away from home; my sanctuary, my private world.” She rambled forgetting Winston was present. “I wouldn’t invite anyone. It would be my refuge away from everyone.”
“Everyone…”
“I wouldn’t mind terribly if you were here.” She cut her words short when she heard Isaac approaching. She whispered “I don’t want to go back—not yet. Stay with me.”
Is this woman crazy? Winston thought. They’d been gone almost twenty-four hours and he was certain rumors were flying. Nevertheless he was compelled to save them both from the bureaucratic machinations of the house. “Play alone.” Winston stood, feeling his lie carried more weight if he were on his feet.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Isaac turned up the lights. “It’s late. We should return to the house.”
“Dr. Mitcham isn’t feeling well.”
Andrea hugged her pillow and gave an Oscar winning whimper.
“Should I send for a physician?” offered Isaac. He knew something was wrong. That ‘go-to-hell’ remoteness of her features was gone.
“No—no—no. I’ll stay with her while she rests.” Winston leveled his eyes at Isaac hoping he got the drift. It was literally like watching paint dry.
“Oh!” Finally, the plot unfolded before him. Yet again, he was stuck in the middle of drama. Yet again, he’d be blamed if something went wrong. Yet again, he complied. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
“I would like you to stay overnight with us. I want you close. If I need anything, I’ll give you a call.”
“Yes, sir. You won’t be disturbed.” He gathered the plates and cups from the table, dimmed the lights, and hurried to the kitchen.
“Bless footmen,” Winston fell back into his position on the sofa. “…they see much and say little.” He looked up at Andrea—she had the faintest of smiles. “Why did you ask me to stay?” his voice quiet, very deep.
“Because I kinda like having a friend,” Andrea stared down at Winston. They were past pot-shots and snide remarks. “I didn’t want it end.” She bit her lower lip.
“Don’t do that.” His finger moved to her lips, forcing them to part. Again she bit her lip—and again he moved them apart, this time leaving his finger in place. “It makes you look guilty, as if we’re doing something wrong.” His gaze locked with hers and his hand tunneled through the side of her mass of thick curls, his eyes drop to her parted, full lips, and gently brought her lips to his.
“Oh God damn.” Andrea whispered as his lips sensually covered hers. Skilled and unhurried—coaxing and warm—just the slow drowsy movement of his mouth against hers. Unable to entertain a coherent thought, she gave way Winston and the images his tongue created in her head: his lips nibbling mercilessly at her tender clit, sucking the little bud in and out between his lips—making her thrash and writher wildly beneath him—grabbing the back of his head with both hands—pushing his face hard against her juicy pussy—rotating her hips drunkenly in a desperate attempt to bring every inch of herself into contact with his slurping mouth.
Winston smiled to himself; Andrea was cumming. He deepened his kiss and felt a slow, rumbling cry trickle down the back of his throat. He kissed her softly until he felt her grin against his lips. “Well, that’s a first.” Looking up at her, a bit dazed himself.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked in a husky whisper.
There was heavy, pounding on the door before Winston could utter a single word. He ran to the door, flipping the porch light on. Screw propriety, whomever was on the other side of the door was either bleeding or on fire. To his horror it was Sadie, shell shocked and covered from head to toe in mud.
“Oh shit!” Isaac pushed Winston aside, pulled Sadie inside, and slammed the door. “Where are the others?”
“There’s still down there.”
“Come here.” Andrea took Sadie, checking her for any outwards signs of trauma. There were none, only a look of fear Winston’s wrath struck in her. “What others?”
“My friends…I tried to find them…” Sadie started before Isaac interrupted and gave the full account of how Lexy bragged to him earlier in the day about having found the hellfire club. Between lying to Hunter and catering to Winston and her, he found time to warn Sadie and the girls to stay away from the club and river area after the heavy rains. Sadie, panic-stricken, asked him not to tell her brothers and she’d keep the others from going to out. Of course he had no intention of keeping his mouth shut, but with everything going on he forgot to tell Winston and, obviously, Sadie hadn’t been able to stop her friends. Now, night had fallen—the girls were lost with boys and booze…God only knows how Sadie ended up looking like a walking turd—and Winston was plotting his demise.
Winston leveled his eyes on Isaac; he grew tight with fury. Andrea’s heart leapt in her throat. Winston was notoriously overprotection of Sadie. And because of some forgetful footmen, his pride and joy stood in front of him looking like a cold, shivering cow patty.
Sadie looked at Isaac. “I tried to stop them. I didn’t go…I told you I wouldn’t go even if they went.”
“I believe you. I knew you wouldn’t go back.” Isaac threw off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. If Winston was going to kill him, he’d have to do it after the other kids were safe. “Stay here with Dr. Mitcham. Have you eaten anything?”
Sadie shook her head.
Isaac looked to Andrea. “Sorry to inconvenience you, Dr. Mitcham, but there’s food downstairs and clothes in the dryer. Can you see to her until I return?”
Andrea and Winston were taken aback by Isaac’s sudden assertiveness. “Ummm, sure.” Andrea said.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He scurried off to the utility cupboard for flashlights and batteries, while Winston gave Sadie the bollocking of the century. “Right,” he said upon return. “Shall we go?” He opened the door and handed Winston a flashlight.
Winston snatched it from his hand. “You’re so fucking dead.” He pushed past him.
“I figured as much, sir.” Isaac closed the door behind them.