'I think I would,' she countered. It was happening. Eye contact. Momentous silence. His hand, twisting the stem of the glass this way and that. It was happening.
'Two lobster bisques.'
Two plates of soup the size of dustbin lids landed in front of them. The waiter bowed his head, picking up on the atmosphere straight away, and made himself scarce.
Suddenly Rachael did not think she could eat her soup, or at least not in front of Everett. The idea of plunging the spoon into that velvety broth, the rich seafood smell of which might well remind him of . . . something else . . . and sipping it up between her lips seemed much too suggestive for polite company.
Everett seemed to feel the same, for he spent far too long fussing with the napkin and the salt cellar, looking over his shoulder as if hoping for an escape route to materialise.
It didn't. He turned back to Rachael, took a deep spoonful of the bisque and asked, 'Do you have a boyfriend?'
Rachael shook her head. 'Not at the moment.'
'Not worth it, I suppose. With your travels in the offing.'
'I can't make a commitment.'
'No, of course. You don't want to be tied down.'
Tied down. He was trying to look casual, but his spoon hovered above the soup bowl, expectant of her reply.
'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' she said, trying a mischievous glint. She wasn't sure if it came off or not.
'You don't know what you're saying,' said Everett gruffly, turning away to wipe his lips with the napkin.
'No, I suppose I don't.' Rachael gave up, threw the spoon down in the dish and stood up. 'I'm not hungry. Think I'll get an early night. See you tomorrow.'
She heard his voice calling, 'Rachael!' rather indignantly, but decided to leave him to it. She was not going to put it on a plate for him. That was not the way her fantasy worked.
Up in her room, she undressed grumpily, pulled on a robe, poured herself a glass of minibar wine and began flicking through the cable channels. She settled on an undemanding detective drama, lay back, ripped open a packet of peanuts in lieu of supper and tried to banish the frustrations of the evening from her head.
They were not easy to banish though. That phrase 'tied down' kept floating in and out and she continually found that she had missed crucial plot points in the drama whilst imagining her wrists lashed to a headboard, her legs forcibly spread for the benefit of Paul Everett, who prowled at the foot of the bed, explaining exactly what he meant to do with her helpless body.
She sighed heavily,
popped the last handful of peanuts into her mouth and muted the TV. After licking the salt from her fingertips, she pulled down the top of her robe and frowned at the state of her nipples, which were definitely ready for something. Could she tie herself up? Just to see how it felt? She unlooped her dressing gown cord and wrapped it experimentally around her wrists. The soft towelling material rubbed kindly against her skin, but how would leather or metal or tape feel? Cautiously she tied one wrist to a bedpost, tugging hard to get the necessary tension. Her blood seemed to sing, the vessels fit to burst. She moved her other hand down between her legs, finding it wet and tender there. She bunched the fingers up against her clitoris and began to stroke, pulling at the cord all the while, whispering to herself the phrases a man might use to a naked bound woman.
'I'm going to use you every way I want . . . oh shit!' Rachael's bedside phone began to shrill. She grappled frantically with her bonds, managing to free herself just in time to snatch the receiver from its cradle.
'Yes?'
'Rachael? It's Paul here. I need you to take dictation.'
Rachael held the phone away from her ear, trying to decipher the message, not sure she was understanding its import. His voice sounded brusque and businesslike enough. But what did he mean, 'take dictation'? It was night time. She was in bed, for all he knew.
'I'm sorry?' she said.
'I mean you are to present yourself at my door in the next sixty seconds, or there will be trouble.'
Rachael held her breath. Unless she was wildly mistaken, this was it – Taking Time.
'But I'm not dressed . . .'
'Never mind that. Come as you are. Now.'
'Yes, Sir,' she whispered.
Hastily looping the cord back around her waist and pulling the gown tightly shut over her spilling breasts and dewy thighs, Rachael did not even think to squirt a bit of liquid soap over her fingers, such was her fluster. She bolted from her room and knocked on the one next door, thinking only of meeting her minute deadline and pleasing her boss.