X Read online

  X

  Mandy Lee

  Copyright

  Copyright © Mandy Lee 2019 – X

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

  Contents

  Preface

  Other books by Mandy Lee:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Author’s Note

  X

  As her life spirals into crisis, Ella Fairbrother takes a risk. Visiting an elite sex club, she accepts a proposal from a man known only as ‘X’. He wants her to wear a blindfold in the bedroom – to protect his anonymity – and in return, she’ll experience pleasure that’s off the charts.

  A simple enough arrangement.

  But it’s soon complicated by Max Delaney, the new owner of the publishing house where Ella works. Enigmatic, ruthless and devastatingly handsome, he’s a man who’s used to getting exactly what he wants. And right now, he wants Ella.

  Addicted to her mystery lover’s touch, but plagued by questions over his true identity, Ella finds herself increasingly attracted to Max. So, what to believe about Mr Delaney? Rumours and gossip, or the claims of the man himself?

  In a world where no one is quite what they seem, where should you place your trust?

  X is the first book in The X, Y, Z Trilogy.

  Acknowledgements

  Once again, huge thanks to my editor, Jackie Bates.

  Thank you also to Yvonne Eason for all your support, and for checking through X for me.

  This book is dedicated to all my wonderful readers!

  Preface

  X, Y, Z is a trilogy about three brothers: Max, Sebastian and Zach. Each book is a standalone in its own right, and the trilogy as a whole works backwards in time. By the end of X, you’ll know exactly who ends up with who, but there will still be mysteries, twists and surprises along the way.

  So, why am I working backwards in time?

  Firstly, I just wanted to do something a little different. It’s a challenge mapping out a trilogy like this, dropping in little hints of things to come in the next instalment.

  Secondly, most readers of romance books – including me – love their happy endings. We become so invested in the hero and heroine that we need them to get together. And let’s be honest, it’s never really a surprise when they do. So I’m working on the premise that it makes no difference that you know who couples up. It’s the journey that counts, not the destination!

  Finally, readers often ask for more about minor characters. In this trilogy, the ‘more’ is built in. As you read on in the trilogy, you’ll find out more about all three brothers, and other characters too.

  I really hope you enjoy X. Happy reading!

  Mandy Lee

  Other books by Mandy Lee:

  The You Don’t Know Me Trilogy

  You Don’t Know Me - B0103IR52O

  True Colours - B01CROPPUG

  Shut Your Eyes - B06X3XGPG6

  Chapter One

  ‘What the hell are we doing?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve chickened out.’ Marnie shoots me a look of disgust.

  ‘But this is bonkers…’

  ‘I knew it. Second thoughts.’

  As if it’s some sort of comforter, I clutch at the leather holdall on my knee. Then I lean back, gaze at the passing scenery and wish I were anywhere but here. It must be half an hour since the concrete and brick of North London’s suburbs finally gave way to a labyrinth of winding country roads, and I’d love to enjoy the view, but I can’t. Because this certainly is bonkers. I’m sitting next to my best friend on the back seat of a black chauffeur-driven Mercedes…and we’re on our way to a sex club.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ she grumbles. ‘You were totally up for it on Monday.’

  ‘That was Monday.’

  And she’s right. I was up for it. After all, when she called me late in the evening, hitting me with her mad proposition, I’d already downed at least half a bottle of red. She’d had an invite, she explained. The new man in her life had asked her to join him at a private members-only club, and she was desperate to go. So did I fancy tagging along? Was I up for a new experience? Something a bit naughty? If I’d been sober and sensible at the time, I would have given her a big, fat ‘no’. But the wine had already done its job, waving logic and sense out of the way…and leaving me wide open to temptation.

  ‘What’s changed?’ Marnie demands.

  I shrug.

  ‘I don’t understand, Ella. You read about it all the bloody time.’

  ‘Because it’s my job.’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that. You love the kink. You can’t stop talking about it.’

  A fair enough point, I suppose. Over the past few months – in the course of doing my job – I’ve read more erotica than anyone could shake the proverbial stick at. And somewhere deep inside, all that dubious reading material’s managed to stir up a growing intrigue in kinky stuff.

  She raises an accusing finger. ‘And now you’ve actually got a chance to try it.’

  ‘Which I’m not taking,’ I interrupt. Because as the week raced on, logic and sense crept back into my head, warning me that might be a step too far. ‘Which is why I’ve brought some work with me.’

  ‘What?’ She gawps at the bag. ‘That’s what you’ve got in there? I thought it was a change of clothes.’

  ‘No. A manuscript.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ she laughs. ‘You’re priceless.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Marnie smooths a hand over her tight, bottle-green satin dress, rearranges her tumbling locks of auburn hair, pulls a compact from her handbag and checks her make-up. To the outside world, she’s the epitome of a sassy, confident woman. But I know my friend well enough to understand that brash exterior’s nothing more than a shell. Beneath all the bravado, she’s just as insecure as me. And right now, just as nervous. She didn’t have the guts to come alone, and that’s the real reason she invited me along. Which brings me to the only reason I’m here – I didn’t want to let her down.

  ‘It’s a bloody shame.’ She thrusts the compact back into her handbag. ‘This is exactly what you need. A good dose of kinky, no-strings sex.’

  ‘I’ve tried the no-strings sex thing,’ I remind her. Just the once. A couple of months ago. An evening at a nightclub: a dance, a kiss, a reckless decision. ‘It didn’t do anything for me.’

  ‘Because you missed out the kinky bit.’

  I tug at my black evening dress, urging the hem to my knees. ‘To be honest, I’ve thought about it, and I don’t see what difference handcuffs an
d ball gags are going to make. At the end of the day, it’s still in and out. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.’

  ‘To be honest, you’re talking bollocks. You’re interested, and we both know it. You’re just pretending not to be interested because you’re scared.’

  Which is actually the truth, but I’m not about to admit it. Instead, I go back to staring out of the window. As the next few minutes slip past in silence, accompanied by nothing but the quiet hum of the engine, I try to take in the scenery again: hedgerows and fields bathed in an early evening glow, a world transformed by Autumn’s touch, the greens of Summer yielding to a patchwork of burnished reds and yellows, rich browns and golds.

  ‘You know, it really is time to let go of the wreckage,’ she says.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘And tonight could be the night.’

  ‘Yes,’ I snap, regretting the fact I’d ever told her about the whole ‘wreckage’ thing. But unfortunately, I did, during a painfully long, wine-soaked session down the pub, explaining in great detail how my ship had gone down, leaving me stranded in some huge, God-forsaken, metaphorical ocean with nothing but debris to keep me afloat. But it was all okay, I’d assured her, because someday soon – when I was good and ready – I’d take a risk, let go and swim off into the great blue yonder. I never realised she’d cling to those drunken ramblings like some sort of mantra, dragging them up again and again. Stewing over the fact I’d ever opened up, I watch the sun sink a little further behind the horizon.

  ‘Anyway, can we not talk about me any more? Why don’t we talk about you?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What’s the deal with Christophe?’

  ‘It’s getting serious.’

  ‘Is it?’ Stunned by her admission, I turn back to her. ‘But you’ve only known him three weeks. Shouldn’t you slow down a bit?’

  I don’t know why I bother. This woman wouldn’t know ‘slow’ if it hit her in the face. Just like her mum, when it comes to the opposite sex, she’s afflicted with the ‘act first, think later’ approach. Which is precisely why, the very day we relocated to new premises in Canary Wharf, she hooked up with the dashing but dubious Christophe Dupont. On behalf of its new owners – the Delaney Empire – he paid a visit to Phillips Publishing to meet with the handful of disgruntled lambs who were about to be sacrificed on the altar of profit. And shortly after he talked Marnie through her forthcoming redundancy, he’d lured her into his bed.

  ‘It’s long enough. It just feels right.’

  Just like it always felt right, on all the previous occasions when it had ended in disaster.

  ‘Be careful,’ I mutter, because I can’t help wondering if Monsieur Dupont can smell the weakness beneath the façade; if he’s simply taking his fill before he discards her and buggers off, leaving me, yet again, to comfort her with tissues and chocolate...and more bloody wine.

  ‘I am being careful. I just want to get to know him more. And this is...well...’ she waves at the window, ‘part of his life.’

  All the more reason to question his commitment. A man with a membership to a private sex club, and an obvious libertine: I doubt very much he’s into settling down.

  But there’s no point arguing the toss with Marnie. A chronic sufferer of Jane Eyre Syndrome, she’d only inform me – in no uncertain terms – that she’s the woman to mend his damaged soul.

  ‘What’s it like then?’ I ask, moving the conversation on. ‘This place?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Didn’t Christophe say anything?’

  ‘He just said I’d like it.’

  ‘Of course he did. I bet it’s some grotty shed round the back of an industrial estate. All sticky floors and stained sheets.’

  ‘I think it’s a bit more up-market than that. He’s loaded.’ She rubs her thumb against the fingers of her right hand, long scarlet fingernails flashing about in the half-light. ‘He wouldn’t go shagging in a shed.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ But he’s definitely into shagging without bounds.

  The car rounds a bend, takes a left and draws to a halt at a set of sturdy iron gates framed by a high brick wall. I crane my neck, peering past the chauffeur’s head at a security camera, an intercom and a quiet, understated sign – silver on black, an elegant, swirling script that simply reads: Nosce te ipsum – and decide this is clearly no entrance to a seedy industrial estate.

  The driver lowers his window. The intercom crackles into life, and we’re announced.

  ‘Mr Dupont’s guests.’

  The gates glide open in response, allowing the car to press on down a long, imposing driveway. Flanked to either side by vast oak trees, with branches knitting overhead, it’s as if we’re in a tunnel. Out of nowhere I’m thinking of Alice tumbling headlong down the rabbit hole into a Wonderland world of fantasy and nonsense. By the time the canopy gives way to the right, revealing a sprawling lawn and distant woodland, I’m half-expecting to spot the March Hare and Mad Hatter taking afternoon tea, the Queen of Hearts wielding a flamingo, a Cheshire cat grinning from the trees. Before I can share my Lewis Carroll-inspired reflections with Marnie, the car takes another turn and from behind the last of the trees, an impressive Art Deco mansion hoves into view.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe, utterly stunned.

  Illuminated all round by ground lights, it’s a bone-white, flat-roofed building, totally asymmetrical. At the centre, a temple-like entrance welcomes guests with a row of concrete columns and narrow, metal-framed windows that ascend the entire height of the structure. I look up, catching the sight of greenery – a rooftop garden, perhaps – and the edge of something that might be a penthouse. And then I survey the buildings to either side: a modern three-storeyed extension to the left, still in keeping with the Art Deco style; and to the right, beyond a trellised area, a selection of smaller, individual lodges.

  ‘See,’ Marnie announces. ‘Up-market, I told you.’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  The Mercedes draws to a halt at the front of the mansion, nestling in amongst a gathering of luxury cars: a Bentley, an Aston Martin, a Rolls-Royce, a couple of Porsches. The chauffeur opens Marnie’s door. Mesmerised, I dump my bag on the seat, get out and wait for her to join me.

  ‘This is a sex club?’ I gurgle.

  ‘Shh,’ she warns, coming to my side. ‘Don’t say those words.’

  With no further ado, she grabs me by the arm, drags me across the gravel and hauls me up a grand set of stone steps. I’m virtually shoved through the main doors, and only released when we both wheel to a halt in the entrance hall.

  ‘My God,’ I gasp.

  With a gleaming marble floor beneath my feet, plain stone-like walls reaching the full height of the building and a massive chandelier suspended above my head, it’s as if I’ve been transported into some classic 1930s Hollywood movie. Gathering my senses, I home in on the details: a pair of leather sofas: a marble desk guarding the entrance to an office; mahogany double doors to either side; another door at the rear, just to the left of the office; to the right, a swirling stone staircase fit for Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to dance down; and finally, a series of portraits lining the walls.

  In total awe, I move forward, scrutinizing one face after another.

  ‘All originals.’

  I give a start.

  That wasn’t Marnie’s voice.

  Swivelling on my heels, I discover we’ve been joined by a woman who’s the perfect match for her surroundings. A short black dress clings to her skinny body. Perhaps in her early thirties, with raven hair crafted into a flawless bob, alabaster skin, blood-red lips and bright green eyes, she’s effortlessly glamorous, entirely self-contained and distinctly dangerous – the very likeness of a movie star from the black and white era.

  ‘There’s nothing fake in these buildings.’ She points at one portrait after another, reeling off a list of artists I’ve never heard of.

  I have no idea what to say in return. Instead, I glance at Marnie, silently begging fo
r help.

  ‘We’re here to meet Christophe Dupont,’ she offers.

  ‘I know.’ The screen siren makes her way behind the desk and opens a leather-bound book. ‘And welcome. My name is Celine. I’m here to assist you.’

  In what way, I wonder. And welcome to where? So far, apart from the mysterious sign at the gate, I’ve seen no branding whatsoever. ‘Does this place have a name?’ I ask, approaching the desk.

  ‘What would you like it to be called?’ Celine’s lips quiver.

  A strange question. So strange, it throws me completely and I hear myself utter the first ridiculous thing that comes to mind. ‘Sex R Us?’

  ‘Ella,’ Marnie warns. ‘Behave.’

  Although Marnie’s clearly embarrassed, my flippancy doesn’t seem to bother the siren. Picking up a silver pen, she turns it in her fingers and studies the book.

  ‘Most people simply refer to it as the club,’ she says. And then she proceeds with business. ‘Mr Dupont’s waiting for you in the bar.’ She motions to the doors on the right. ‘But before you join him, I need to ask you to sign in.’ She holds out the pen. ‘We’ve received your non-disclosures, but this is for safety purposes.’

  ‘Can you tell me something? I ask, taking the pen and filling in my name and address. ‘Why did we have to sign a non-disclosure?’ It’s been niggling me for two days now, ever since Marnie backed me into my office and refused to leave until I’d put my name to an NDA.

  ‘It’s something we ask of all visitors.’ Celine’s crimson lips shift into an insincere smile. ‘We have some very high-profile members and guests here. They demand absolute confidentiality.’

  ‘I bet they do,’ I grumble, signing my name and handing the pen to Marnie. The truth is I don’t care who I bump into this evening – politician, celebrity, royalty, whatever. NDA or not, I won’t be letting anyone know I’ve visited this place. Whatever dignity I’ve got left, I’m not about to throw it away.