“I know. You’d better tell him that, though. He started this. Come on, you aren’t dressed.”
No more than twenty minutes later, a dishevelled and sticky Lydia stood on the doorstep of von Ritter’
s Bloomsbury address. The cover of darkness meant that she didn’t draw a lot of attention, but she still felt that she must reek of filthy sex and the whole street would be smelling it in their beds.
Von Ritter buzzed her up to his first-floor apartment and she pushed open the door and marched in with a combative look in her eye.
Karl-Heinz sat in his favourite armchair, drinking cocoa in his dressing gown. He raised an eyebrow at her as she planted herself in front of him, shoulders squared.
“Didn’t he want you?”
“Oh, he wanted me, yes. He wanted me like a lover would. Like you never have and maybe never will.”
Von Ritter put down his cocoa. The look in his eyes made her shoulders sag, aggression fading into nervousness.
“Go to the bedroom,” he said. “Take off your clothes.”
“I…” Lydia trailed off. She could have told the taxi driver to take her back to Shepherd’s Bush instead of here. She could have gone straight home. Why had she gone along with Milan’s scheme? She must want, on some level, to be here, showing von Ritter what Milan had given her.
“Fine,” she said, then she repeated it for emphasis before turning on her heel and heading for the bedroom.
Von Ritter made her wait, but she didn’t care. She placed a towel on his pristine sheets so as not to stain them with Milan’s emissions and lay in a pose that displayed his penmanship at its most prominent advantage, the curly black words marking her skin with possessive elegance.
When he came in, he stood in the doorway for a moment, his eyes roving over her new adornment.
“Is that a tattoo?” he asked, marvelling at it before stepping forward to inspect it at closer range.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you sure?” Von Ritter frowned up at her. “I’m tempted now. Very tempted to have my initials tattooed on your ass, Miss Foster.”
“That would certainly raise the stakes,” said Lydia. “Next thing you know, I’d have the Czech flag on my forehead.”
“Hmm, yes. You think you’re joking, don’t you?”
“No, actually, I’m serious. Where will this end?”
“You know where, Lydia. With a decision.”
She looked down at the ink dancing across her pelvis.
“None of this is helping me to make it,” she muttered. “Not now it’s turning into a testosterone contest. I feel like a trophy. Which is weird. Why would anyone want to win me? I can’t get my head round it, Karl-Heinz. Why are you both so fixed on me?”
“I can’t answer for him.” Karl-Heinz sat down on the side of the bed and deliberately looked away from the towel and its dark patch between Lydia’s thighs. Instead he looked into her face, earnest now instead of stern. “But I can tell you how I feel. I’m in love with you, Lydia. You are a rare and special thing—you are unspoilt. You aren’t Milan’s type, and I think that’s why he loves you too.”
“What’s his type, then?”
“Oh, you know. Glamorous, chic, worldly, high-maintenance. You are nothing of the kind. Sometimes we find love in the most unexpected places.”
Lydia considered this.
“Have you ever loved two people at the same time? I know Milan has.”
Karl-Heinz smiled sadly.
“I have, but I’m afraid I was not as honest as you. I kept my lovers secret from each other. To have confessed would have meant disaster.”
“Really? Oh, Karl-Heinz. You have to tell me.”