Promised (One Night 1)

‘Ring the number.’

Landing him with a reproachful glare, she drags her phone from her bag and dials. A mobile starts screeching, and he pulls an iPhone from his inside pocket before handing it to me.

‘She has my phone. Ring it and she’ll answer.’

‘I could ring hers,’ Sylvie points out, ending the call. ‘What the hell does that prove? You could take it off her the second you drive away.’

‘Then I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.’ He shuts the door and strides around the car, leaving Sylvie on the pavement, her mouth agape.

I should jump out, but I don’t. I should protest and curse at him, but I don’t. Instead, I look to my friend on the pavement and hold up the iPhone that Miller’s just handed me. She’s right; this proves nothing, but it doesn’t deter me from doing something incredibly stupid – I’m not frightened of him, though. He’s no danger to me, except, maybe, to my heart.

More car horns start screeching around us as he slides into the car before pulling hastily away from the kerb without a word. I don’t feel nervous. I’ve practically been abducted on a busy London street and my stomach isn’t even turning in panic. It is, however, fluttering with something else. I discreetly look across to him, noting his dark suit and stunning profile. I’ve never seen anything like him. It’s silent in the enclosed space surrounding us, but something is speaking and it’s neither Miller nor I. It’s desire. And it’s telling me that I’m about to experience something life-altering. I want to know where he’s taking me, I want to know what he wants to talk about, but my desire for this knowledge doesn’t prompt me to ask, and he doesn’t seem like he’s going to offer the information up right now, so I relax back into the soft leather of my seat and remain quiet. Then the stereo kicks in and I’m suddenly listening in wonder to Green Day’s ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’, a track I would never have paired with this mysterious man.

We’re in the car for a long half-hour, stopping and starting with the rush-hour traffic, until he pulls into an underground car park. He seems to be thinking hard as he shuts off the engine and taps his hand on the wheel a few times before letting himself out and making his way around to me. Opening the door, he finds my eyes, and I can see reassurance in them as he holds his hand out to me. ‘Give me your hand.’

My response is automatic, my hand lifting to take his as I remove myself from the car while savouring that familiar feeling of internal lightning bolts attacking me. It’s more incredible each time I experience it.

‘There it is again,’ he murmurs, repositioning his hand to get a better grip on me. He feels it, too. ‘Give me your bag.’

I hand him my bag immediately, involuntarily, not even thinking about it. I’m on autopilot.

‘Do you have my phone?’ he asks, lightly kicking the door of his car shut and pulling me towards a stairwell.

‘Yes.’ I hold it up.

‘Ring your friend and tell her you’re at my place.’ He pushes through the door. ‘And call anyone else who might be worried about you.’

I can do nothing more than follow him as he takes the stairs slowly, still clasping my hand, leaving me to make the calls he’s demanded. ‘I should use my phone,’ I say, fiddling with his iPhone. My clued-up nan will soon clock the strange number on the caller display and start asking questions – questions I don’t want to answer or even know how to.

‘Your decision.’ His lean shoulders shrug as he continues pulling me along behind him. When we pass floor three, my calves begin to burn and my lips part to try and get some air into my tiring lungs.

‘What floor are you?’ I ask on a little wheeze, ashamed of my fitness level. I walk a lot, but I don’t climb this many stairs on a regular basis.

‘Ten,’ he flips over his shoulder casually. The knowledge of six more floors deflates my lungs altogether and makes my legs seize up.

‘Are there no lifts?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why . . . I only have air capacity for a gasp and I let one out when he quickly scoops me up and pushes onward. I have no option but to cling onto his shoulders, my hold feeling right, my nose and eyes enjoying the closeness.

When we reach floor ten he pushes his way through the doorway into an empty corridor, then drops me to my feet and puts the key into the lock of a shiny black door. ‘After you.’ He steps to the side and gestures for me to step in, which I do – without thought, protest or asking why he’s brought me here.

I feel his palm on the base of my neck, warm and comforting, as I slowly make my way down the hallway, circling a huge round table, until the hallway opens up into a massive, marble-infested space with vaulted ceilings and colossal pieces of art at every turn, all paintings of London architecture. It’s not the grandness of the apartment or the sea of cream marble that holds me rapt. It’s those paintings – six of them, all carefully hung in selected spaces where they can be appreciated the most. They’re not typical or traditional; they’re abstract, making it so you need to squint to see exactly what each is. But I know these buildings and landmarks too well, and as I gaze around me I identify them all – no squinting required.

I’m gently guided towards the biggest cream-coloured leather couch I’ve ever seen. ‘Sit.’ He pushes me down and places my bag next to me. ‘Call your friend,’ he says, leaving me to find my phone while he strides over to a large walnut cabinet and retrieves a tumbler, topping it up with a dark liquid.