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‘I need to tell you something,’ he continued.
‘I’m not interested in anything you have to say, Kevin,’ she spat. ‘I don’t care how you managed to wheedle your way in here tonight, but I’m going to make sure you never darken our doors again.’
‘Darken your doors?’ His tone sharpened. ‘I’m not a vampire.’
‘No, you’re the antichrist.’
Furious with herself for falling prey to his charms, and livid that tears were threatening to spill, Estelle turned on her heels and ran.
2
Blinking sweat out of his eyes, his heart pounding at the edge of VO2 max, James pushed himself to the limit on the rowing machine. His movements were robotically precise, his gaze glued to the small screen monitoring his progress. Despite the pain wracking his body, he would not allow even half a second to drop off his pace.
James Hunter-Savage was a self-made man. From the age of seven, he was made to understand that his name, his voice, his appearance, his likes and dislikes could all be broken down or discarded, and remodelled into something better. The same went for friends. The people with whom one associated were a reflection of your social status and power. If they elevated you, they stayed. If they threatened your standing in any way, they were cut without a second thought.
No-one worked harder to create and maintain James Hunter-Savage than the man himself. Building and sculpting his powerful physique, still Olympic standard even at the age of thirty-three, required a single-minded focus.
At the start of the year, his life had been ninety-five per cent on track. He was the most successful, and highly paid, broker Conqueror had ever produced, was in the best shape of his life, and could bed any woman who took his fancy.
Now, twelve months later, everything had gone to shit. He’d lost his job in the worst possible circumstances, was currently barred from working in the City, and hadn’t had sex in nearly a year.
James Hunter-Savage was used to holding life by the balls, but it had turned around and kicked him in the nuts.
His body screamed at him to stop rowing, but his mind had a point to prove. Maintaining his physical strength was the only thing left he had control over, so he kept punishing himself until his guts led the final rebellion. Dropping the rower handle mid-stroke, he grabbed a bin from the floor beside him and threw up into it, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction and relief, even as his chest and stomach heaved.
There was a knock at the door, and a woman in her late fifties entered, carrying a plastic cleaning caddy. Her white-blonde hair was arranged in a donut bun on the top of her head, and her eye and lip liner had been heavily applied. Dressed in a pale pink cleaning tabard over a leopard print top and matching leggings, her feet were in python print Gucci sliders, and her toenails were painted red. James knew her fingernails matched, however her hands were currently inside yellow rubber gloves.
‘Babe,’ she began, her nose wrinkling, ‘you’ve done it again, haven’t you?’
Crossing the room, her free arm extended as if to take the bin from him.
He stood. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘You don’t want to be dealing with that. Give it to me.’
James held it aloft. ‘No, Mum.’
His mother glanced at the bin, a frown on her face as if calculating the possibility of jumping to reach it, then took a bottle from her caddy and sprayed it liberally over the rowing machine.
‘Well, I’ll do this then.’ She vigorously rubbed the wet surfaces with a microfibre cloth.
‘Mum—’
‘Honestly, babe. For the life of me, I don’t know why you do it to yourself. It ain’t right.’ She tugged at the machine to move it.
‘Let me.’ James pulled the rower back to its original position—no longer facing the wall, but a window that looked out onto a rose garden.
‘And why stare at the wall? If you don’t want to look outside, there’s the telly.’
James glanced around the home gym, filled with state-of-the-art equipment he was sure only ever got used by him.
‘I don’t need the distraction.’
She slapped his chest with her cloth. ‘You need to make it fun. I’ve been bingeing The Real Housewives of Chelsea. You should watch it.’
‘I’d rather have a full-frontal lobotomy.’
His mother laughed. ‘I dunno what that is. Sounds naughty to me.’ She went to the treadmill and began spraying.
