Page 8 of Lovers' Dance

Matt hovered between sleep, knowing he was nothing like what a true hero should be, but feeling like one anyway. He’d beaten those bastards off and brought her somewhere safe. That unsettling protective urge he’d felt since meeting her reared up. She turned in her sleep, snuggling closer to him and he pulled her into his arms. God, she was a tiny little thing in comparison to his build.

Tomorrow he would leave work as early as possible. She would probably sleep most of the day anyway. He would come home early and properly introduce himself to her. Then he would bring her back in here and finished what they started. Matt fell asleep with the biggest smile.

TWO

I WOKE UP with the worst headache and my body crying out in pain, disoriented and not sure what had happened last. Then, I remembered.

“Oh, shit.” I jumped up, regretted it the instant I did and sank back onto the numerous pillows. I was alone in the bed, extremely thankful to be alone in the bed, and mortified over my behaviour last night. Where was he? The room was quiet.Oh shit, shit, shit.The last memory I had was of Matt going down on me and giving me the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced. Had I freaking passed out?Oh, the shame.A knock sounded lightly on the door and I pulled the covers up to my neck. He knocked on his own bedroom door? Weirdo.

“Come in,” I called.

The door opened and a white-haired man popped around it with a covered tray. I screamed—he frowned—I screamed louder.

“I have brought your breakfast, Ms DuMont,” he managed to shout over my screams.

I screamed again. Who was this old white dude with the tray who knew my name? What the fuck was going on in this place?

“Ms DuMont! Ms DuMont, please stop screaming.”

“Who are you? Where’s Matt?” I yelled, clutching the sheet to me and looking around for a weapon. The guy was old and he’d mentioned something about breakfast, I think, but he could be a ninja master or a British spy fully capable of killing me. And no one would question it. I could see the headlines now: Black female intruder killed during home invasion in upscale Kensington property. I’d be killed and the papers would paint me as the bad guy, and this man would get a pat on the back and say shit like, “I thought she had a gun” or “I was in fear for my life.” Shit like that happened all the time back home in the States.

“Mr Bradley is at his office. He instructed me to ensure you ate. It is ten thirty in the morning, and you should be out of bed.”

“Excuse me?” I did not like the undertone of censure in the old man’s voice. No, I didn’t like it one bit. “Who are you?”

“My name is George and I work for Mr Bradley. He has instructed me—”

“To make sure I eat. I heard you the first time.” I cut him off bad-temperedly. I was naked under satin sheets with this George in a stiff suit judging me silently. Bite me.

“Well, I was not certain. You were screaming so loudly I’m surprised you could hear yourself.”

There it was again: that censorious tone. I ignored it and asked, “Did you say ten thirty?”

“I did, Ms DuMont,” he replied dryly. “I’ve sent your clothes to the drycleaners and they should be back within two hours. Would you like me to procure garments for you to wear in the meantime?”

I gulped, grateful no one could tell when us black folks blushed. “Um, you sent my clothes to the drycleaners?”

He nodded, eyes crinkling around the corners. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to glower at me or smile. “Yes, Ms DuMont. They were in the kitchen upon my arrival, and I assumed they were in need of cleaning. It is my job to anticipate the needs of my employer.”

I tried to hold my head up high. No wonder he was judging me. The thong I had worn under my dress wasn’t one that implied a woman of propriety.

“I’m a virgin,” I spluttered, and pulled the sheet up to cover my mouth. What the fuck was wrong with me? I might as well get a megaphone and stand atop Big Ben screaming out my inability to get laid.

George eyed the bed and me in it before nodding in an extremely slow and patronizing manner. “Of course, Ms DuMont, but that is none of my business, and your eggs are going cold. I shall leave your tray here.” He marched over to the table. Was that a high coffee table? In a bedroom? Why hadn’t I noticed that last night?

“I will return in thirty minutes with garments for you. I assume that is enough time for you to eat and shower?” Reproach, reproach, reproach. George was dripping with reproach.

“Yes, George,” I mumbled, then remembered my manners. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Ms DuMont.” He disappeared behind the closing door.

I slumped back on the bed and tried not to wail. I should be in the studio dancing, not lying about in a well-to-do white man’s fancy bed in his fancy house. George would think I was a slut; he’d tell the neighbours Matt had brought a prostitute home, because I was sure that was what he was thinking. And Matt had a butler? Or a P.A? Or whatever the hell George was. Fact was, I’d shamed myself. I needed to get out of here. I crawled off the bed; I had to after my first attempt to launch off it resulted in serious pain across my abdomen. I would never be able to go through my routine today. Dante would be pissed. I shrugged into Matt’s shirt, found the discarded tie and looped it around my waist. The running bottoms went back on, too. I would get my shit and get out of here. This would be my dirty little secret, never to be thought of again.

On my way to the door, I got a nice whiff of eggs. I minced over to the table and lifted the cover. Mmm, scrambled eggs and they weren’t wet. I hated wet scrambled eggs. How did George know the way I liked my eggs? My suspicions that he was a ninja master reared. I could see him with a long white beard to match his hair becoming one with nature and all its forces. I tried a bit of the eggs. Then had another forkful, then wolfed it all down like a ravenous beast. There was bacon, too, but I was trying to cut down on meats. Hell, I ate the bacon after staring at it for half a minute. And the small glass of orange juice washed everything down nicely. With the tray in my hand, I made my way downstairs, forgetting which way to the kitchen.

“George?” I called out softly. Feeling like a trespasser, I balanced the tray on one hand and started knocking on doors. How big was this place?

“George?” I pushed a heavy door open and faced an empty room. There was nothing more than a grand piano and accompanying seat. Fancy schmancy.

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