but the thought of discussing what I'd been through with anyone, however well-qualified and sympathetic, had sickened me. I'd turned them down, turned in on myself for a time, and followed my own direction instead.
I suppose what made it worse, in some ways, was that I'd believed myself to be in love at the time. Sean Meyer had seemed so perfect, so right, and I'd been crazy about him. He'd gone overseas just weeks before the night when Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay had buoyed themselves up with a malignant mix of alcohol and bravado, and my nightmare had begun.
I'd discovered afterwards, to my utter disillusionment, that Sean was nothing like the hero I'd always imagined he would turn out to be. It had taken me a long time to forget him. I wasn't in any hurry to expose myself again by replacing him with anyone else in my affections.
I'd developed my own code of conduct instead. One that said if it feels good, and doesn't hurt anyone, then do it, and to hell with the hearts and flowers.
Besides, I was willing to bet that anyone with Marc's magnetism was either going to be a striking success, or a spectacular disaster in bed.
And I was intrigued to find out which was right.
Marc proved himself an experienced and sophisticated lover. Somewhere along the line some farsighted woman had taken the time to develop his natural ability. He must have been a Grade A student.
Some men appear to take it for granted that the knowledge of how to make love is instinctive, something they're born with. It isn't. It's a skill that has to be worked at and acquired like any other, although some do seem to have more aptitude than others.
I was neither surprised nor insulted when Marc pulled open one of the bedside drawers and produced the sort of protection you can't afford to be without these days.
I wasn't under any illusions that this was a sudden out-of-character burst of passion on his part, just as it wasn't going to turn into a great romance on mine. Sex was obviously just something he enjoyed, and was good at. I couldn't really see him being unprepared for it.
Men, I've always thought, find it difficult to hide aspects of their true character when they're in bed. Marc was no exception. He was unselfish, yet at the same time utterly ruthless, and his control was absolute.
If the way he reduced me to bonelessness, then rolled me gasping over the final precipice was masterly, it was perhaps because he wouldn't have tolerated the failure of anything less.
Thirteen
The next morning Marc took me back to the flat. It wasn't something I was looking forward to and, if I'm honest, I was relieved to have him with me.
He drove back into Lancaster as he did everything, with a kind of restlessness bordering on restrained anger. His mobile phone rang almost from the moment he switched it on and he spent most of the journey with the lump of plastic stuck to the side of his head, steering with one hand. I was glad the BMW was an automatic.
I took advantage of my enforced silence to turn over thoughts about last night. We hadn't talked much afterwards, not of anything that mattered, at any rate. Taken purely as a physical experience, though, it had been quite something. I couldn't honestly say I regretted it.
He'd ordered a late supper – very late, actually – from room service. The elderly waiter had taken in my discoloured face as I sat huddled in a bathrobe on the sofa in front of the fire, and favoured Marc with a scandalised look.
When Marc offered a folded banknote as a tip on the way out, the man had glared accusingly at him and point-blank refused. I managed to hold on until the door had firmly closed behind the waiter’s back before I collapsed in a fit of giggles.
Marc, who’d missed the man’s glances, looked bewildered at his behavior, and mine. “What the hell is the matter with everybody?” he demanded.
“He thinks you’ve been indulging in a bit of S&M and been beating me up,” I said when I’d calmed down.
Marc’s head reared up, shocked.
I took one look at him and burst out laughing again.
***
When we’d eaten we’d gone back to bed, together. I was used to sleeping alone, but tonight it was nice to have the warmth of a male body curled round me. My eyes closed straight away and didn’t open again until the grey streaks of morning came slinking through the arrow-slit between the drawn curtains.
In the cold light of day we’d edged round each other carefully, being too polite about who got first crack at the bathroom, dressing coyly behind closed doors. Two breakfasts arrived, kept warm under silver domes on a spotless trolley. I realised, as I poured from the silver pot, that I’d been to bed with the man and I wasn’t even entirely sure how he took his coffee.
We left about half an hour later making a very odd couple. Heads turned as this flawlessly dressed businessman, and a beat-up scruffy little biker ambled out side by side. Hell, I’d managed to sponge the worst of the blood off my leathers.
Such was Marc’s pull with the hotel, they’d even arranged for someone to clean the interior of the BM while we slept. The cream interior was immaculate again, as though last night’s events had never happened.
Although I was nervous about returning to the scene of the crime, I was glad of the breathing space it gave me. I was going to have to get my head around what had happened. Both with my masked attackers, and with Marc. I needed some time alone.
Eventually, we pulled up on the quay outside the flat. While Marc finished his last call I sat for a few moments, staring out of the window. My eye rested briefly on the wreckage of the small table the Scouser had thrown over the balcony at me, still lying in a splintered heap on the pavement. I wondered vaguely what had become of the knife I’d sent spinning out of reach into the night.
Marc switched his mobile off and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. I started fumbling with the release for my seatbelt when he reached across and undid it, along with his own. I glanced up at him in surprise.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” he quizzed with a touch of impatience. “You don’t think I’m going to let you go up there alone, do you?”
“I hardly think they’ll still be hanging around,” I pointed out. Mind you, after what I’d done to his kneecap, the smoker would have probably needed assistance to make it down the stairs. I was disconcerted to find the thought cheered me immensely.
“I’ve seen half of what they’ve done,” Marc said, his glance flickering down my body. “Now I want to see the rest.” He spoke in a quiet tone, but I knew that arguing would have been futile.
I shrugged and heaved myself out onto the pavement. I was feeling the after effects good and proper. There didn’t seem to be a part of me that didn’t ache, and I never realised bruises drew from such an inventive palette of colours.
A sudden thought struck me, and before we went in I tottered round to check on the bike. I admit I breathed a bit of a sigh of relief when I saw it, still chained and covered. Whatever else they’d done, at least the Suzuki had escaped unmolested.
By chance, I’d still got my keys in my leathers, but I wasn’t too surprised, when I finally managed to stagger to the top of the wooden staircase, to find my front door standing wide open.
In daylight, the mess looked a lot worse. I stood in the living room, staring round me, feeling detached. Marc prowled through the rooms, head down, jaw clenched, simmering.
Finally, he came back into the living room. “Bastards,” he said tightly. “Pointless bastards! What the fuck did they think they were doing?”
I glanced at him, a half-smile twisting my lips. “You need a reason to be a psycho?” I asked.
He came and put his arms round me, but I stepped out of his embrace and moved away from him, uneasy. I knew I didn’t want his comfort, nor his pity, but I wasn’t sure what I did expect from him.
We seemed to have bypassed the first few stages of normal courtship, moved too fast into intimacy. We’d
