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“I don’t want to get drunk. I’m here to dance.”
The barman placed the drinks in front of her, and she took a moment to glance through the crowds to see Jason. Unmoved in posture, but his face told a different story. Furrowed eyebrows, folded arms across his chest, and his feet planted firmly on the ground. No light tapping along to the music. He wasn’t happy with her anymore. Gemma bit her lower lip, digging in her teeth, as if she needed a little pain to help her along. Perhaps she should give him her attention again. Mend the broken bridges before she lost all chance of being treated like a princess.
The nameless girl—why hadn’t she asked for her name?—stirred Gemma’s drink with a straw and handed it over. Gemma put it to her lips to take a tiny sip, to check the ice was freezing the liquid to her preferred chilly temperature. A masculine hand appeared next to her cheek. Not Jason’s. The fingers curled around her glass, wrenching it from her clasp.
“Don’t drink it, madam.” Remy’s voice.
Gemma spun round on the stool to find her bodyguard with a fierce expression. He put the drink back on the bar and turned to her dancing companion. The sallow face looked even paler. She went to stand up, but Remy pushed her back down onto her stool.
“Stay there,” he barked at her.
Gemma glanced back to Jason, now upright in his seat. Lubinsky leant over, talking urgently into his ear. The American gestured at Gemma, and Jason’s expression rapidly changed. Across the room, even with the obstacles of dancing bodies, she watched Jason rise up. His shoulders straightened, maximising his height, which easily went over six foot. His hands bunched into fists. She turned away, not wanting to see him unfurl his displeasure further.
Remy had waved over the barman and demanded to see the manager. He pinned the unknown girl down on her seat, using a large hand on her shoulder. The turn of events scared her. Her hands shook as she clutched her handbag. Suddenly, she started to jabber away in German, trying to make a fuss, to attract attention. Gemma was sure the girl hoped to force Remy into releasing his grip on her. However, he maintained it, standing guard over her with his hand clamped firmly in place.
For Gemma, confusion reigned. Nothing made sense.
A pincer grabbed her upper arm. She gasped, pained. Jason had come over. He propelled her through the crowd, nearly dragging her along behind him. With a brisk shove, he plonked her down in a chair at their table. Standing over Gemma, with hands on his hips, Jason stared down. She ducked her head, cursing under her breath. Sometimes the man was impossible to look at.
“Stay here. Don’t fucking go anywhere. You stupid girl.”
With no explanation, he headed back to the bar to where the manager had appeared. For what seemed an eternity, all hell seemed to break out by the bar and the cause remained the strange girl. Gemma could do nothing but watch from a distance.
The club’s own security man arrived. Everyone seemed to be pointing at Gemma’s glass of orange juice. The bouncers snarled at Lubinsky, jabbing their fingers in his shoulder. Jason took the manager to one side, and whatever he said had an immediate effect. Suddenly, the staff behaved co-operatively towards Jason and his two bodyguards.
The security man sniffed the drink and shrugged at the barman. The girl fidgeted. Remy hadn’t released his grip. The bouncer took her handbag, tearing it out of her hands, and emptied the contents on the bar. He rifled through the items and picked out a small foil wrapping. Drugs? Perhaps she had wanted to sell stuff.
Some of the clubbers closest to the bar area had stopped dancing and watched the situation unfolding by the bar, forming a small audience. The gyrating lights and strobes seemed to make the situation unreal, as if she was watching a flickering film in an old cinema. The girl argued with her accusers, remonstrated, and pointed at her handbag. She rattled away until Jason bent down and spoke to her. Her face shifted, mouth opening, eyes widening. She hadn’t expected to be understood. Her approach must be to plead ignorance, deny knowledge of the contents of her handbag. Whatever Jason said to her, she instantly shut up. Jason spoke immaculate German. Fluent for many years, he rarely slipped up with his pronunciation.
The club’s security team whisked the girl away, and Lubinsky followed them out with the offensive glass of orange held carefully in his hand. Gemma’s bewilderment remained.
Jason returned, and she still couldn’t look at him. He picked up her purse and thrust it in her hands. “We’re leaving.”
He dragged her to her feet and marched her out of the club. She kept her mouth shut. There was going to be no princess tonight. She was convinced she had blown away any chance of pleasure in the next few hours. Pain now occupied her thoughts. Whatever she had done might warrant punishment, if she knew what transgression she had committed. Gemma had done something wrong, and she couldn’t understand what else she had done, other than taking off a silly bra without permission.
Jason pushed her into the back of the limo, and the door slammed behind him. Remy sat at the front, and the car sped off before the queue of clubbers outside could become curious. As soon as the car began moving, Jason brought up the privacy screen, and she shrank back into her seat, waiting for the disciplining hand to descend on her. He took her by her long locks of hair as she expected and dragged her down into the foot well at his feet. Her eyes stung with smarting tears. His act humiliated her. He had put her where his feet went.
Gemma closed her eyes. Jason’s burnt into her like ballistic missiles on course for their intended target. She wanted the day to end, to wake up to find another beautiful day dawning, washing away the nightmarish night.
“Open your fucking eyes. Remind me, Gemma, when you had your chat with security about how to take care of yourself at nightclubs and bars. What were you told?”
Protocols? Why did he want to know about security procedures? She recalled the conversation she had had nearly two years ago, shortly before she had married Jason. A lengthy, detailed lecture by his personal bodyguard in the ground floor office. A blow-by-blow list of what she could and couldn’t do when out in public. She tried in vain to recall some of what had been said, but she was imbued with alcohol and her recollections fuzzy.
“Tell someone if I go to the bathroom. Uh. Stay in sight....” She stumbled over her words.
Jason took her chin between his fingers. “Drinks, Gemma? What about buying drinks?” His voiced hissed with rage.
Now, Gemma knew what she had done wrong. “Only you or people we trust can buy me drinks.” She had let a stranger buy a drink—a definite no-no.
“Did you not think?”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I let someone be nice to me. I should have told her to get stuffed.” The alcohol had loosened her tongue. A dangerous game to play with Jason, to speak her mind or show him disrespect.
“Politely, yes. That’s precisely what you should have done,” he said quietly.
“What’s the big deal? It was one fucking orange juice. Nothing alcoholic!” She swayed. Her knees hurt badly, as did her scalp. He’d let go her chin but not her hair.
“Did you really think I would have made a fuss with the club staff about someone buying you a drink? She spiked it. Remy spotted her slipping something into your drink, stirring it in with the straw.”
