At No Man's Command Page 5

  Aiesha hid behind her mask of brash bad girl. ‘Too rough for your upmarket taste?’

  His frown carved deeply into his brow as he moved away to the door to leave. ‘I think it’s best if we keep things on a platonic basis. It’s...safer that way.’

  She cocked one of her eyebrows at him in a cheeky manner. ‘So we’re friends now instead of enemies?’

  He turned and looked back at her for a long moment. ‘I suspect your only enemy, Aiesha, is yourself.’ He punctuated his comment with a brisk dismissive nod and closed the door before she could think of a comeback.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JAMES CLOSED HIS bedroom door with a self-recriminating curse. Are you crazy? Kissing her? Touching her? Wanting her? He pushed a hand through his hair in distraction. He should never have kissed her. He’d crossed the line. The line he’d put down a decade ago.

  Aiesha was cunning and clever. For a moment there he’d sensed a softening in her. Her guard had slipped, or so he’d thought. But she knew exactly what she was doing. Which buttons of his to press. She wasn’t the emotionally vulnerable type. She was too hard-boiled, too street smart. Hadn’t her punch proved that?

  He grimaced as he checked his reflection in the mirror of his en-suite bathroom. His nose wasn’t broken but he was going to have a black eye for sure, all because he had come too close to her without her knowing.

  He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. She’d been soundly asleep; there was no way he had got that wrong. Her breathing had been deep and even, her whole body relaxed. Her reaction had been so extreme, so unexpected. Why?

  He thought about her background...trying to recall what his mother had told him about her in the past. Aiesha had been vague about her family of origin; the only thing she’d told his mother was that she was a teenage runaway and it had been her choice to leave. She hadn’t been with his family long enough to prise out any other details. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been into drugs or heavily into alcohol, or at least not that he had noticed. She only had one tattoo, and a small one at that, on the underside of her right wrist—the name Archie with hearts and roses—but she had never said who Archie was or why he was so important to her that she’d felt compelled to have his name permanently inked into her skin.

  James cursed again. Kissing her had been a mistake. A big mistake. A ginormous mistake. He’d known it but done it anyway. He hadn’t been able to stop himself. As soon as she had put her hand so gently on his face he’d known he was going to kiss her. It had been inevitable. A force outside his control. He’d only planned to press his mouth to hers as an experiment, as a test for himself. To prove he could do it without losing his head.

  For years he had dreamed of kissing that mouth. He had fantasised about it. Hungered for it like a former addict did a forbidden drug. Her mouth was as addictive as he’d imagined it—soft and sweet and yet hot and hungry. The blood had surged through him at rocket-force speed. Her deliciously feminine body had felt so...so right as he’d held her in his arms. The way her mouth had tasted, the way her tongue had danced with his in that sexy tango, the way her hips had been in the perfect position against his. He’d wanted her so badly he’d had to fight to keep his hands in one place so he didn’t use them to tear the clothes from her body and ram himself into her wickedly tempting wetness.

  He was not a man who acted on impulse. He did not indulge in casual affairs or shallow hook-ups. He had needs and he saw to them in a responsible and respectful manner. His life was carefully planned and detailed, organised and compartmentalised because that was the way to avoid nasty surprises. He had seen too many friends and colleagues—not to mention his father—come unstuck by succumbing to a reckless ill-timed roll in the sack. Careers, reputations, familial relationships were permanently ruined in the carnage of an illicit affair and he would not make the same mistake.

  His father’s double life had come to light during James’s late teens. Throughout his childhood, whenever he was home from boarding school, his mother would do her happy-families thing and James had never questioned it. Hadn’t thought to question it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to face it. On some level he’d known his parents weren’t blissfully honeymoon-like happy, but neither had he thought they were utterly miserable. They were his parents and he liked that they were together and seemingly stable. But then, when he’d been in his final year, someone at school had made a comment about seeing James’s father coming out of a hotel with a woman in the city and James’s concept of a stable home life had been shattered. His mother had stoically tried to keep the marriage together for the next few years after his father promised to remain faithful, but of course Clifford had strayed time and time again, albeit a little more discreetly.

  Ever since, James swore he would not live like his father, lying and cheating his way through life. He would not be swayed by temptation or sabotage his success and reputation by a lack of self-control.

  But there were two things he couldn’t control in his life right now—Aiesha Adams and the weather. He pulled back the curtains and looked at the flakes of snow falling past his window.

  Fabulous.

  Freaking fabulous.

  * * *

  Aiesha waited until James had left the house before she came downstairs the next morning. She saw him talking on his mobile as he headed to the river walk with Bonnie. He had his head down and his shoulders hunched forwards against the wind. He stopped a couple of times to glance back frowningly at the house but Aiesha kept out of sight behind the edge of the curtain. Even from this distance she could see the colourful bruise beneath his eye. Was he still wondering why she had gone at him like that?

  She gave a long sigh when he disappeared into the fringe of trees along the river. Why should she care what he thought of her? What was the point of trying to whitewash her reputation now? He would never see her as anything other than a good-time bad girl.

  She had to shake off this restless mood...and there was only one way to do it.

  The ballroom was her favourite room at Lochbannon. It was next to the sitting room and overlooked the formal gardens at the front of the house. Watermarked silk curtains hung in large swathes at the windows, the bottoms lying in billowing pools on the highly polished parquet floor like the trains of elegant ball gowns. A central chandelier dripping with sparkling crystals hung from the ceiling and various velvet-shaded wall lights added to the sense of grandeur. The piano was a concert grand and had been recently tuned. Louise had always insisted the piano was regularly serviced but Aiesha had a sneaking suspicion Louise had quickly organised it once she had known Aiesha was coming to stay.

  Louise was an accomplished violinist but had given up her musical aspirations to marry Clifford Challender. He had insisted on being the only star on the Challender family stage. Louise was required to be the supporting act, to grace his table with her congenial presence, to turn a blind eye to any extracurricular activities he indulged in from time to time, and to bring up his son according to the rules of the upper class.

  It reminded Aiesha of her mother’s fitting-in-with-men mentality. It had started with Aiesha’s father, who had dominated her mother as soon as he got her pregnant. Her mother had done everything she was told to and yet was still punished for whatever he took offence to. It could be the way the housework was done or the way the meal was cooked, or the way she looked or didn’t look. An opinion expressed that didn’t tie in with the rules and regulations he set down. It had been impossible for her mother to gauge what was right or wrong. Her self-esteem had taken even more of a battering than her body.

  And yet, after Aiesha’s father had been locked away for armed robbery, instead of the new life Aiesha had envisaged, her mother had drifted into another relationship with the same old pattern developing within a matter of weeks. It happened repeatedly. Her mother would finally get the courage to leave and within weeks she would find someone el
se who was a carbon copy of the man she’d just escaped from. It was the drugs that did it. They were the lure each and every time. The mild addiction Aiesha’s father had started with a joint had grown into an uncontrollable habit. Heroin, cocaine, alcohol—anything that offered a temporary respite from reality. Her mother had been charmed time and time again by manipulative men who promised her the world and gave her nothing but heartache, and finally death.

  Aiesha looked at the walnut cabinet where row after row of musical scores were stored. All the classics were there as well as a selection of more modern pieces. She thought of Louise’s talent, all those hours and hours of practice and personal sacrifice to make it to the top tier of musical performance, wasted on a man who hadn’t appreciated her.

  From the first moment Aiesha had stepped over the threshold of the Challender mansion in Mayfair she burned with envy over James’s childhood. What she would have given for such luxury, for such comfort. For a full night’s sleep without some sleazy beer-sodden creep sneaking up on her. For a roof over her head each night, for regular meals, a top-notch education, and holidays to somewhere warm and exotic and exciting.

  But now she wondered if he, too, had suffered from neglect. Nothing like the neglect she had suffered, but the type that left other sorts of scars.

  Growing up with a selfish, limelight-stealing father would be enormously difficult, if not at times downright embarrassing. Trying to please someone who could never be pleased. Trying to live down the shame of having his father’s playboy behaviour splashed over every paper while his mother suffered in silence at home.

  The weeks after Aiesha’s story broke were intense for him and his mother. She had seen the footage of James being chased along the street outside his Notting Hill residence and again in front of the office block where he had his architectural business. His father’s peccadilloes had brought enormous shame to him then and now.

  Was that why James was so much of a workaholic and perfectionist? Driven and focused to the exclusion of all else, in particular fun? Was that why he had those lines of strain around his mouth and two horizontal ones on his forehead? He frowned more than he smiled. He worked rather than played. Was that why he had chosen such a boring and predictable woman to marry? Phoebe Trentonfield was probably a nice enough person, but she wasn’t right for him. He needed someone who would stand up to him. To push him out of the nice little safe comfort zone he had created for himself.

  Someone who would release the locked down passion in him.

  Someone like me...

  Aiesha pulled out the shiny black piano stool and sat down heavily on the thought. She wasn’t the type of girl a man like James would settle down with. She didn’t tick any of his neat little boxes.

  She was from the wrong side of town.

  She was from the wrong side of everything.

  Men like James Challender did not get involved with Vegas lounge singers who had a father in prison and a stepfather who should be.

  Men like James chose girls who were polished and cultured, women who had a blue-blood pedigree centuries long. Aristocrats who knew which cutlery to use during which course and who never put a high-heeled, designer-clad foot wrong.

  Aiesha put her hands over the keys, opening and closing them to warm them up. Her bruised knuckles protested at the movement but she ignored them. She was used to pain. She knew all its forms. Physical pain was the easiest to deal with.

  Emotional pain was the one she had to avoid.

  * * *

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Clifford Challender roared at James via his mobile while he was out walking Bonnie. ‘That little slut will ruin your reputation and laugh in your face while she’s doing it.’

  James refrained from disclosing to his father the truth about his relationship with Aiesha. It wasn’t just because of the punch and kiss and make-up incident last night, which he was still trying to wrap his head around. Clifford was not the discreet type. The news of his sham engagement would be all over social media come his father’s first vodka of the day. Although, judging from the tone of his father’s voice, he suspected he had already sunk a couple of shots and it wasn’t even 10:00 a.m.

  ‘I keep out of your affairs. Please keep out of mine.’

  ‘I blame your mother for this,’ Clifford said. ‘She’s always been a sucker for a lame duck. That girl will take her for another ride. Just shows what a stupid fool she is to fall for it a second time.’

  James was glad his father was close to a thousand kilometres away, otherwise he might have been tempted to give him a black eye to match his own spectacular one. He hated the way his father used every opportunity to trash his mother since the divorce. It was his father’s way of shifting the blame off himself. In Clifford’s mind, James’s mother had ruined everything by ‘making a fuss’ about his occasional affairs.

  Although James was furious with Aiesha about her methods, he was privately relieved the scandal had brought on the divorce that should have happened years before. ‘I’ve already warned you about speaking about Mum like that.’

  ‘You don’t think she set this up?’ Clifford said.

  ‘No.’ Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. He hadn’t told his mother he was coming to Lochbannon. He hadn’t even told her he was thinking of asking Phoebe to marry him. It was coincidence. Happenstance. Wasn’t it? ‘Mum had to leave the country at short notice. I haven’t talked to her since she texted me.’

  Clifford made a scornful sound. ‘I don’t give your engagement to that little bit of trailer trash a month. You haven’t got the balls to handle a chit like that. Stick to your nice girls, son. Leave the bad ones to me.’

  James put his phone away, and then stopped and looked back at the house in the distance. He was assailed by two very different thoughts. First, sticking to a nice girl suddenly seemed very unappealing and second, the thought of Aiesha being anywhere near his father suddenly sent a shudder running down his spine.

  * * *

  James was coming back from his bracing walk to the woods when he heard the music coming from the ballroom. It was like nothing he had heard from there before. And it wasn’t anything he would hear in a Las Vegas lounge bar, either. It was lilting and melodic and yet...strangely haunting. The cadences were deeply poignant, touching on a chord deep inside him, like someone plucking on the strings of a hidden harp.

  He stood at the door of the room, watching as Aiesha’s hands danced over the keys of the piano. She was dressed in a hot-pink velour tracksuit that had teddy-bear ears on the hooded top, which she’d pulled over her head, presumably to keep her own ears warm. The look was quaint, cute and endearing. It showed a side of her that was young and playful, as if she didn’t care what people thought of her attire as long as she was comfortable. She had a fierce frown of concentration on her forehead, although there was no musical score in front of her. She seemed totally unaware of anything but the music she was playing.

  He was transfixed by the sound. Rising and falling notes that tugged and twitched on his heartstrings, minor key chords that were like emotional hits to his chest. Feelings he hadn’t encountered for decades came out of hiding. They crowded his chest cavity until he could barely breathe, like too many guests at a cocktail party.

  She came to the end of the piece and closed her eyes and bowed her head as if the effort had totally exhausted her.

  James stepped into the room and she jolted upright like a puppet being jerked back up by its strings. ‘You might’ve knocked,’ she said with a frown of reproach.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was a private performance.’

  She got up smartly from the piano and crossed her arms over her body in that keep-away-from-me gesture he was coming to know so well. A faint blush was on her cheeks, which she tried to hide by turning her back to look out of the window, where the sun was trying to get its act together but making
a lacklustre job of it.

  Her teddy-bear ears looked even cuter from behind.

  So did her toosh.

  ‘Nice walk?’ she asked.

  ‘Did you watch me leave?’ Was that why she had chosen to play such beautifully evocative music while he was out of the house?

  She didn’t turn around. ‘Pretty hard to ignore that dog’s crazy yapping.’

  ‘That dog has a name.’

  This time she did turn around. Her expression showed nothing. Zip. ‘Your eye looks terrible.’

  James shrugged. ‘Just as well there are no photographers lurking around.’

  ‘The roads are still blocked?’

  ‘Well and truly.’

  She didn’t show disappointment or relief. She showed nothing. Her face was a blank canvas. But two of her fingers fiddled with the zip on her tracksuit jacket, the sound of metal clicking against metal as rhythmic as a metronome.

  He moved across the floor to the piano, tinkling a few keys to break the silence. ‘What was that piece you were playing?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  He turned and caught the tail end of her guarded expression. ‘I liked it. It was...’ he searched for the right word ‘...stirring.’

  She walked over to the walnut shelving where all of his mother’s music was stored, her fingers playing along the spines like a child trailing a stick along a picket fence. James wondered if she was going to answer him. It seemed like for ever before she let her fingers fall away from the spines with a sigh he saw rather than heard. ‘It’s called An Ode to Archie.’

  ‘You composed that yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, what of it?’ Her eyes flashed at him. ‘You think just because I’m a club singer I can’t write music or something?’

  ‘Did you write it for the Archie on your wrist?’

  Her left hand encircled her right wrist protectively, chin up, eyes still glittering. ‘Yes.’