Page 39 of Duplicity

His gaze rakes over my bare breasts in the mirror, dark and filthy, before he takes the beautiful grey lace bra off its hanger and holds it by its straps in front of me. I slide my arms through it and he pulls it up, fastening it behind my back.

‘That’s more like it,’ he murmurs. He reaches around and cups my breasts through the lace, his thumbs strumming over my nipples. My eyes stay locked on the sight of his big hands caressing me as I stand here in this exquisite lingerie he’s insisting on buying me. It’s such a decadent, taboo concept—that he’s paying for my body and I’m selling it to him—that it has my heart thumping behind my rib cage.

Abruptly, he pulls away. ‘I’m very invested in getting this shopping trip over with quickly,’ he says. He bends his head to nip me on the shoulder before reaching for the grey dress. ‘Come on, let’s give this one a whirl.’

One hour, a dozen speedy outfit changes and tens of thousands of pounds later, we leave the palatial changing room and its toxic sales assistants and emerge through a side entrance of Selfridges to where Brendan’s driver is waiting. At my new boss’s insistence, I’m wearing the off-white dress and heels while, behind us, three smartly dressed porters carry an array of distinctive yellow carrier bags and garment bags to complete myPretty Womanmoment.

Really, though, it’s the man striding along beside me who commands most of the attention. I can’t miss the glances from my fellow shoppers, which range from curious to downright feral. I can’t blame them. Even if they have no idea who he is, even if he’s only wearing half a custom-made suit, BrendanSullivan cuts a dashing figure. I’m as bad as them, shamelessly ogling his very nice arse as I scurry along in my heels, trying to keep up with him. He’s bored now, and he wants out.

Yan, his driver, directs the porters as they load the fruits of our shopping spree into the boot of Brendan’s shiny black car while an excited Mark, paws up on the back of the seat, yaps at us through the open boot hatch.

I have an instant stab of guilt. ‘Has he been in there the whole time?’

‘Nah,’ Brendan says easily. ‘Gabe lives just behind here. Yan took him for a runaround in his garden.’

Oh, thank God for that.

Brendan opens the back door for us. ‘Let me get in first and secure this mutt. Hiya, mate. Who’s my best boy? Did you have a nice walkies? Did you dig up Uncle Gabe’s garden like a good boy?’

I eye the back of the car warily—it seems I am now a woman who must inspect every surface before plonking her Dior on it—but the cream leather seats look immaculate. Either Mark is a very clean doggy, or Yan tidied him up after his romp.

‘Hi, sweetie,’ I coo at Mark as I slide in behind Brendan. The dog is now sitting nicely in the footwell, his enormous head resting on the empty middle seat between us. I pet his smooth head and allow him to sniff and then lick my hand. If I’m honest, my first day is off to an intense start. I’m already exhausted between dealing with those two snobby women, the three million outfit changes, and the confusing charge I’ve been feeling since Brendan showed up.

It’s a lot, and Mark is a grounding force.

I glance over at Brendan. He was so sweet in there. I love how he looked after me and dealt with their crap. Honestly, it was pretty attractive. This whole situation I find myself in may be asfake as anything, but I can’t deny he made me feel special in that changing suite.

He’s frowning down at his phone. ‘Gotta make some calls.’

‘Of course,’ I say brightly.

He gives me a nod and sticks in an earbud. ‘Elaine. Yep. Heading back now. You’ll need to give Marlowe a tour at some point this morning. Did the plumber come back with a quote?’

I quietly check my phone with one hand, leaving the other on Mark’s sleek head. Camille has sent a message wishing me luck for today, which is sweet, and Athena has added me to the Seraphim group chat. I don’t know any of them yet except for Athena’s good friend Sophia, but they’ve all chimed in with tips and messages of support that range from sweet and supportive to filthy and hilarious.

I smile to myself, grateful for the reminder that, no matter how weird this new lifestyle might be, I’m not the only one out there living it. I’m in no doubt as to my reasons for doing this, but it hurts to imagine little Tabs going about her innocent day at school when I’ve had a dangerously hot man dressing and undressing me in designer rags all morning.

If I’m making a sacrifice, surely it should feel harder?

When I’ve locked my phone, I close my eyes and zone back into Brendan’s conversation. He’s still on the phone with Elaine.

‘No. Tell him he’s got to liaise with the boiler guy. I’ve had enough of his muppetry. Oh, and send flowers to that woman from Saturday night, will you? Ava? Eva? I’ll text you her address… I dunno, something pretty and expensive.’

My hand freezes against Mark’s comforting warmth. Because, just like that, Brendan has hit me with a very timely, very helpful reminder that I’m not the only woman he’s lavishing withpretty and expensivegoods.

I’m an employee. A new novelty. But I’d do well to remember that this gorgeous, charming guy is most likely spinning a hell of a lot of plates.

I just hope I don’t shatter into pieces when he drops me.

CHAPTER 19

Brendan

I’m antsy as fuck by the time we approach our offices, which are based in the heart of the Docklands, in Butler’s Wharf. Crawling through Monday traffic from the centre of town is not a good use of time by anyone’s standards, and spending a good chunk of my morning in Selfridges isn’t a good use of time bymystandards.

The parts where I got to watch Marlowe trying on sexy AF lingerie were fan-fucking-tastic, don’t get me wrong, but the rest of it was excruciating. I spend most of the journey firing off admin requests to Plain Elaine and dealing with emails. My email strategy centres around deleting everything possible and shooting back replies to everything else. It’s an endless game of tennis, and as we approach Butler’s Wharf, every single ball I had is now littering someone else’s court.

Marlowe is quiet in the car, either staring out of the window or at her phone. While I’m working, I shoot her surreptitious glances between smirking to myself. She looks spectacular in that white dress—every kinky Seraph fantasy I’ve entertained since I learnt about the agency come to life. She’s every bit as ravishing as she was that night when we met, when her beautyturned me into a total muppet, but the dynamic is very, very different now.

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