in the 1950s. I don’t know much about cars. But I spot the mark is Bentley.
“I’m glad you like it, ” says James.
He opens the door for me, and I slide into the passenger seat.
“Did you have a nice lunch?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, looping over my seatbelt.
“Good.” James leans over and satisfies himself it’s properly fastened.
“It’s an old car,” he explains, catching my expression. “Sometimes the seatbelts don’t click in right.”
“Just drive the car, Mr Berkeley, and allow me a little more credit than a pre-schooler. I can fasten my own belt.”
He grins, pops the gear, and cruises slowly out onto the Barcelona backstreet. The car turns, and after a moment, we’re driving along the main road, which intersects with Las Ramblas – the main pedestrianized drag.
Along that route are buskers, pavement seating, and all kinds of colourful stalls. And I can’t wait to walk along it later. But right now, I’m enjoying the sun on my face and the sights and smells of Spain as the car makes along the seafront.
My phone beeps suddenly. I hold it up to James in illustration.
“Lorna says she got back to the hotel.”
“Good. ”
“So,” I say, “what exactly do you have planned for this afternoon?”
I’m wondering how low key we need to be. James thought we should be safe from the press, after all.
James waits a moment before replying. “I was planning on taking you to my hotel suite, but this incredible city has changed my mind,” he says.
Are we doing the tourist thing instead of the hotel?
I love the idea of being a regular couple with James. There’s plenty to see in Barcelona, and there’s no one I’d rather see it with.
But I’d also been looking forward to the hotel.
“I picked something up for you,” he says slowly, “whilst you were eating.”
Something about the way he says it changes the atmosphere in the car instantly.
My thoughts swing in a moment, from ice-cream to hotel sheets.
Oh?
“What’s that?” I feel a little thrill of anticipation from his tone.
“Check the back seat.”
I turn my head. There’s a long slim box, which I hadn’t noticed when I first got in. Then again, the amazing car had arrested my attention.
It’s a plain kind of box. Functional almost.
What could be inside?
“Should I open the box?”
“Yes.”
I twist to ease off the lid, letting it fall to the side. And the moment the contents are revealed, I turn back front again, my heart beating fast.
Laying inside the box is a black riding crop.
I feel a spasm hit my groin.
What exactly has he got planned?
“What is that for?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I think you know,” he says silkily. “I was serious, yesterday. When I said I had plans for you.”
I feel myself swallowing. Part of me is scared. Another part is wondering what i s going to happen.
“The choice is yours,” he adds, “as to how that particular item is put to use.”
It is?
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not taking you directly back to the hotel,” he says. “I’m taking you to an appointment.”
“What kind of appointment?”
“An appointment in which you’ll be expected to show obedience.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll be making a choice, Isabella.” His eyes flick towards the back seat. “Every act of disobedience will have consequences.”
Even though I’m sitting down, I feel my knees weaken. What exactly does he have in mind?
“Reach into the backseat,” he says smoothly, “and pick up the riding crop.”
I turn to him, but he keeps his eyes on the road.
“Do as you’re told,” he growls. “Or I might pull over and use it on you, right here and now.”
I swallow, and reach into the back seat.
My hands close around the smooth leather, and I pull the crop onto my lap. It’s bound all along with a single seam. And the end is a short loop of heavy fabric. I’d like to try it out against my arm, to see what it would
“I’m glad you like it, ” says James.
He opens the door for me, and I slide into the passenger seat.
“Did you have a nice lunch?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, looping over my seatbelt.
“Good.” James leans over and satisfies himself it’s properly fastened.
“It’s an old car,” he explains, catching my expression. “Sometimes the seatbelts don’t click in right.”
“Just drive the car, Mr Berkeley, and allow me a little more credit than a pre-schooler. I can fasten my own belt.”
He grins, pops the gear, and cruises slowly out onto the Barcelona backstreet. The car turns, and after a moment, we’re driving along the main road, which intersects with Las Ramblas – the main pedestrianized drag.
Along that route are buskers, pavement seating, and all kinds of colourful stalls. And I can’t wait to walk along it later. But right now, I’m enjoying the sun on my face and the sights and smells of Spain as the car makes along the seafront.
My phone beeps suddenly. I hold it up to James in illustration.
“Lorna says she got back to the hotel.”
“Good. ”
“So,” I say, “what exactly do you have planned for this afternoon?”
I’m wondering how low key we need to be. James thought we should be safe from the press, after all.
James waits a moment before replying. “I was planning on taking you to my hotel suite, but this incredible city has changed my mind,” he says.
Are we doing the tourist thing instead of the hotel?
I love the idea of being a regular couple with James. There’s plenty to see in Barcelona, and there’s no one I’d rather see it with.
But I’d also been looking forward to the hotel.
“I picked something up for you,” he says slowly, “whilst you were eating.”
Something about the way he says it changes the atmosphere in the car instantly.
My thoughts swing in a moment, from ice-cream to hotel sheets.
Oh?
“What’s that?” I feel a little thrill of anticipation from his tone.
“Check the back seat.”
I turn my head. There’s a long slim box, which I hadn’t noticed when I first got in. Then again, the amazing car had arrested my attention.
It’s a plain kind of box. Functional almost.
What could be inside?
“Should I open the box?”
“Yes.”
I twist to ease off the lid, letting it fall to the side. And the moment the contents are revealed, I turn back front again, my heart beating fast.
Laying inside the box is a black riding crop.
I feel a spasm hit my groin.
What exactly has he got planned?
“What is that for?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I think you know,” he says silkily. “I was serious, yesterday. When I said I had plans for you.”
I feel myself swallowing. Part of me is scared. Another part is wondering what i s going to happen.
“The choice is yours,” he adds, “as to how that particular item is put to use.”
It is?
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not taking you directly back to the hotel,” he says. “I’m taking you to an appointment.”
“What kind of appointment?”
“An appointment in which you’ll be expected to show obedience.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll be making a choice, Isabella.” His eyes flick towards the back seat. “Every act of disobedience will have consequences.”
Even though I’m sitting down, I feel my knees weaken. What exactly does he have in mind?
“Reach into the backseat,” he says smoothly, “and pick up the riding crop.”
I turn to him, but he keeps his eyes on the road.
“Do as you’re told,” he growls. “Or I might pull over and use it on you, right here and now.”
I swallow, and reach into the back seat.
My hands close around the smooth leather, and I pull the crop onto my lap. It’s bound all along with a single seam. And the end is a short loop of heavy fabric. I’d like to try it out against my arm, to see what it would
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