Page 42 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“I have several houses. This is one of the places I stay when I need to.” Since I was still nonfunctional, he pressed the button for me. “See you soon.”

A few seconds later, I was blundering into his apartment. Or rather “one of the places he stayed in.” While it had clearly been decorated in a no-expense-spared way Caspian favored, it was nowhere near as opulent as One Hyde Park. In fact, in billionaire terms, it was positively monkish.

No personal touches, but I hadn’t really expected it. The austerity, if nothing else, was Caspian: the emphasis on smooth wood and polished stone, the slightly overwhelming sense of space created by the high ceilings and the triple aspect windows. The Sahara noir marble floors—beautiful though they were—were slippery and chill beneath my feet. Which meant my most overriding impression of Caspian’s penthouse was that it needed a goddamn rug or two.

I penguin-shuffled into the bathroom, which was yet more marble, relieved, if you could call it that, by granite and gold, and reluctantly divested myself of Caspian’s shirt. Then tried to figure what he’d written. Which wasn’t actually that straightforward since it was either upside-down (if I used my eyes) or back-to-front (if I used a mirror).

In the end I took a photo with my phone. I was trying to get a good angle on the words, but it turned out to be a pretty good angle on me. I’d twisted round to expose the writing, so my body was all sleek curves and sharp edges. And for once my bony bits and squeezy bits were working in harmony instead of contriving to make me look like a knobbly gazelle. My leg was conveniently in the way of my junk so it wasn’t porny—more suggestive with the laddered thigh highs, the smudgy bruise shadows on my flanks and the vulnerable ridges of my clavicles. This was so getting a grainy filter and going on Instagram.

I zoomed in so I could see what Caspian had written. It was two lines, curling neatly over my hip a bit like my tattoo: what will the creature made all of seadrift do on the dry sand of daylight; what will the mind do, each morning, waking?

Well. So much for an Oxford education. I had no idea what it was from. I could have googled it, of course, but that would’ve felt like cheating. I touched the loops where the ink was already blurring. Kind of a shame to wash it off straightaway. Except Caspian would be along at some point and I didn’t want to greet him smelling like the bargain basement option at a bordello.

He had one of those walk-in shower room type things, with about eighty multidirectional settings for water to blast you unpleasantly in the face. When I found one that wasn’t overwhelmingly painful and hitting the right parts of my body, I had a hasty wash and enjoyed unparalleled views of the London skyline. It felt weird to be soaping my bits and staring at the dome of St Paul’s but…that was my life now.

Curtains, I was starting to realize, were a poor people invention. If you were rich enough, you just got to move the world out of your way.

As I dried off, I fretted slightly about Caspian being witness to the carnage that was my hair post-shower. But then I remembered I’d vomited on his feet, shown him my arsehole, and begged him, on several occasions, to spank me. So probably he could cope with my duckish floof.

There was, however, still no sign of him, which left me at a loss. He’d said I should make myself comfortable, but I wasn’t sure where to start because everything was showroom perfect. And showroom anonymous. I only managed to figure out which bedroom was his because there were suits in the wardrobe. And it felt all kinds of creepy having to look.

I did have a little wander, in case I’d missed where Caspian really lived. But no: all I found was a series of empty, pristine rooms, and a door I couldn’t open.

Which was weird, right? Edging into super weird.

Because why was it there? What was behind it? And who the fuck did that? It wasn’t even like he’d known I was coming, and thought to himself, Better secure my priceless collection of Fabergé eggs before Arden accidentally breaks them.

It was just there. A locked room permanently in his apartment.

I mean, was Caspian a vampire, and this was where he chained up his blood-doll? Or was he your regular, common or garden kidnapper? Maybe he was a masked vigilante and this was where he kept his cape? Or he was one of those conspiracy theorist types and the walls would be covered in maps and newspaper clippings, connected by bits of string.

Or probably it was a room he happened to have that happened to be inaccessible. And I was massively overreacting. After all, he didn’t owe me unfettered access to his past, his heart, or the place where he lived. I wasn’t Judith, running about Duke Bluebeard’s castle, believing love was the answer to every question, and the key to every lock.

Well, apart from the bit where I was ransacking Caspian’s apartment.

Literally looking for a key to a lock.

So I could open a door that was at least eighty percent metaphor at this point.

In any case, I was foiled. And trying to bash my way in cop-show style didn’t work either. It just hurt my shoulder. Hurt my shoulder quite a lot, actually.

So I retreated to what I’d concluded was the master bedroom, and slipped under the cool, crisp covers of the huge and ridiculously comfortable bed. Gazed out of the unavoidable windows.

How did Caspian feel as he lay here? Masterful? Like a corporate emperor?

Me, I felt small. Squashed by the vastness of things. And haunted by a room I couldn’t get into.

I was so sick of crashing against all the stuff I didn’t know about Caspian Hart. Of feeling that however close I got to him there was always another barrier. Secrets he’d never tell me. Parts of him I couldn’t reach.

And that…honestly, it sucked. Because all I wanted was to throw wide the chambers of his heart and fill them full of light.

Oh fuck.

I was totally Judith.

Except my Duke would barely let me through the front door. Let alone into his torture chamber or near his lake of tears.

Rolling over, I intended to put my head under the pillow but then I spotted a book on the floor, partly hidden by the spill of the bedclothes. It was a battered paperback, with a pulpy cartoonish cover and big bright lettering that proclaimed it: Downbelow Station.

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