I’m staring at him nervously. It seems complicated, this strategy of feeding the press scenarios. But James seems to take it in his stride.
“You’re good at this,” I say slowly. “Playing the press.”
“I’m a director, Issy,” he says. “My job is setting up scenes to tell a story. This is just another scene. Another story. The only difference is my audience are photographers.”
“But won’t they guess?” I ask. “Won’t the newspapers work out that it’s all fake?”
“Tabloids don’t care enough to delve too deeply into the facts of a great story,” says James. “All they want is to sell copies. If I’ve played it right, then they’ll do the math. They’ll figure it’s a better deal to go after a certain story on their doorstep than pay last minute airfare and risk getting nothing.”
“That sounds… clever,” I concede. “Will it work?”
James thinks for a moment. “I’ve a lot of experience with the press,” he says. “I’d like to think I can strategize one step ahead. But you never can say for sure.”
I consider this. It’s like cat and mouse.
“You think, most likely, they’ll leave us alone?” I ask.
“Yes.” James steps forward and cups my face in his hands. “I do. For one particular reason.”
He kisses my nose.
“What’s that?”
“You,” he says. “I can’t bear to think what I would have to do to a reporter who wrote anything bad about you.”
I think he’s joking. But only just. I give him a weak smile.
“Is it really necessary?” I ask, thinking of the filming schedule and budget. “Shouldn’t we just stick to the schedule and stay apart for a few weeks?”
Even as I say the words, I feel myself flinch at the idea. Being without him would be horrific.
James gently kisses my mouth. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” I murmur, feeling myself melt into the kiss.
“Good,” says James, kissing me again. Me moves his mouth to the base of my neck and begins planting light kisses along my throat. I feel my head tip back against the sensation of his lips. It’s as though he’s wired the sensitive skin of my neck straight to my groin.
How does he do this to me?
Then his lips are brushing gently against my ear.
“The truth is,” he whispers, “it’s not necessary for me to take the filming out to Spain tomorrow.”
His proximity makes it impossible to think rationally about what he’s saying.
“But I simply couldn’t bear,” he whispers, “to watch you through the camera each day and not fuck you at the end of it all.”
I feel my knees weaken, and I sink towards him.
“But just for now,” he says, moving away from me a little, “we do need to stay apart. Just for one night.”
He takes a step back, so he’s holding me by my shoulders again. I feel as though I’ve been severed.
“But tomorrow night, when we’re far away from prying eyes,” he says, his voice dipping low, “I’m going to make up for lost time.”
There’s a flash in his eyes which sparks instant desire in me.
“Until then,” he says, “I’ll be away from you. But I’ll be sending you instructions on how to behave.”
Oh. A wave of thrilled anticipation sweeps through me.
James Berkeley. You know how to bring out my dark side.
He leans forward, pulling me close.
“Keep your phone on you at all times,” he whispers. “The more obedient you are tonight, the more merciful I’ll be inclined to be with you tomorrow.”
The more merciful? What does he have in mind?
“Although,” he says, the low tone coming back into his voice, “you should expect to be disciplined, Isabella. I think it’s about time I took charge of you fully.”
Warm feelings flood my body. And once again I feel myself mired in confusion. Is this really what I want?
“I haven’t agreed to be disciplined by you,” I reply, raising my eyebrow at his assumption.
James reaches a hand up under my skirt and gives my behind a slap. I gasp at the sudden contact.
“We’ll see,” he says. “Just keep your phone nearby. And do what you’re told.”
Chapter 3
I’m alone in my chalet for less than an hour when there’s a knock at the door. I open it in disappointment to see it’s not James on the other side.
Don’t be stupid, Issy, I admonish myself. He said already you couldn’t be seen together.
Instead of James, it’s a delivery boy in a FedEx T-shirt.
“Isabella Green?”
“Yes?” I say, making the word a question. I didn’t even know we could get deliveries inside the studio. Not with security so tight.
“I have a parcel for you.” He hands the form for me to sign, and I scrawl my signature.
I’m scanning for my purse, so I can hand over a tip, but the delivery boy holds up his hand.
“That’s ok, ma’am, it’s all been taken care of. Seriously,” he adds, seeing my confused expression.
If I was in any doubt, I now know for sure who the parcel is from. Only James Berkeley would arrange a delivery with a pre-paid tip.
I take the small package with a little thrill of anticipation, shutting the door. And then, on cue, my phone rings.
James Berkeley flashes up on the display as I pick it up from the coffee table.
“You haven’t given me time to open the package,” I laugh as I answer the phone.
“That’s the idea.” The sound of his low voice over the phone gives me another little thrill of anticipation. I can tell by the tone that he’s not called to make small talk.
“Look at your phone,” he says. “I’ve sent you an app. You need to let it download.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and see that a message has arrived. It contains no words. Only a link.
I click it,
