Laura Trewin wouldn’t run after a man. That was one thing she would never do. So she went back down to the pier steps and sat there until the tide ruined her shoes and her mascara tears added to the salt damage. He would be sorry.
Chapter Three
Ugh. Michelle didn’t know what that was that she had just stepped on, but she thought it might be ancient chewing gum, matting the carpet and causing her to trip over the toe of her mule.
Never mind. The carpets were going to go anyway. She was going to have them ripped out and replaced with…wood laminate flooring perhaps. Or terra-cotta tiles, give the place a Spanish feel. She had been planning a little refurb ever since Charles told her she could take this place over. She was going to get Sky TV for the lounge bar, maybe rip out the skittle alley and have one of those soft-play areas for kids—this was a family resort, after all, and it’d bring them in in droves on rainy days.
It was going to be a big job, though. Michelle thought she could do with one of those makeover shows to come and lend a hand…but then again, knowing Charles, that wouldn’t be a good idea. She knew he had some interesting design plans of his own for the basement…
It was May already—only eight weeks till the school summer holidays and peak season. Could they do it in eight weeks? If anyone could, Charles could.
Stationing herself behind the reception desk, she opened the massive ledger that was all the Fairview had in the way of a bookings record. No computers here, just a dusty answerphone and a doorbell Sellotaped to the Formica top of the desk. They would soon change that. Charles would bring spreadsheets and Web sites to her fingertips.
Ah, speak of the devil. Here he was now, with his pet biker boy.
“So what do you think, Michelle? Will it do?”
He leaned his charcoal-suited elbow on the reception desk and questioned her with his eyebrows.
“It’s nice…Charles.” Michelle always got a kick out of saying his name. Charles in public. Sir in private. “Or at least, it will be, once we’ve made a few changes.”
“Yes, it’s seen better days, I agree.” He straightened up and subjected the lobby to an intense examination. “I’ll contract some decorators. Just tell me what you want doing and we’ll do it. I suppose we’d better move quickly, given the time of year. Do you think you can have your list with me by the end of the week?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can, Charles.” She fingered the little silver dog tag at her throat. His initials were on the back. The thought of it, as ever, dried her mouth and dampened her knickers. He had not failed to observe the gesture, for he turned to his sidekick.
“Rocky, I’m still waiting for my back rent from the Fishy Plaice and the Goldsands Tandoori. Can you give them a nudge, please?”
Without saying a word, the man put on his helmet and headed out through the door. Charles and Michelle were still looking at each other, smiling faintly, when they heard the roar of the motorbike engine outside.
“Have I told you my plans for the basement?” he asked, his voice now much lower and less formal than it was in Rocky’s presence.
“I knew you…had plans…but I don’t know what they are,” she admitted, twisting the dog tag so it almost cut off her air supply.
Charles Cordwainer, so angular and severe-looking, folded his arms and glowered darkly at her. He has plans. He knows I will like them, but he also likes me to pretend that I won’t.
“Why don’t we go down there and I’ll outline them for you.”
“O-kay,” she said, excitement coming out as quite acceptable nervousness. She smoothed down her skirt and followed him to the gated-off section of staircase that led to the unused half of the cellar.
Now she really was nervous. The stairs creaked and at least a couple were rotten. As they descended, the cobwebs thickened and the darkness loomed. The musty, fusty smell of dust annexed her nostrils so that she had to take shallow breaths.
Charles unlocked a scratched door and flicked on a switch. The light fixture was just a bare bulb that cast little more than a pale wash of light into the room, leaving its corners and niches in obscurity. The beer cellar was bricked off on the other side of the building, through a locked steel door. This room contained pile after pile of junk. Broken chairs and bedsteads, bundles of faded magazines, two dead refrigerators, some lampshades, all of it thickly coated with dust.
Charles put a protective arm around her shoulder, which, for some absurd reason, was shaking.
“It’s probably hard to imagine, but this place will look completely different when the work is finished. I’m going to dedicate it to you, Michelle.”
His voice was soft, almost caressing. “Oh, Charles,” she murmured back in kind. He was not a romantic man, but there was a side to him that nobody saw, that nobody understood.
“Well, you and I,” he amended. “And our friends, and our guests.”
Oh yes. Our friends and guests. Mustn’t forget about them.
“How much better this will suit us than that dreary room above the amusement arcade,” he continued, his fingers pressing down lightly against the side of her neck. “I will have all the junk removed, the space cleaned and then it will be a blank slate on which to build a perfect palace of decadence and desire.”
She wriggled against him. “What will you put in here?”
“On the ceiling, a chandelier. And some eyebolts. Maybe a hook. Maybe more than one.” He was massaging her neck between finger and thumb now, hooking his fingertips underneath the leather thong that encircled it. “A long central table, dark wood, with matching chairs. Against the wall, a variety of custom-made benches and frames. And hanging from the wall, every single thing I could ever imagine using on your bottom, Michelle. Every single thing. How would you like that?”