Page 22 of The Forgotten
“Do tell,” Quinn said. She knew where this was going but was still hopeful that he wasn’t having her on.
“I see you coming up to my room for a nightcap. This party is beginning to bore me.”
Quinn looked up at the man. He made her uneasy, but she’d come tonight with the sole purpose of gathering some form of DNA and, at the moment, she had nothing. Chatham’s jacket was immaculate, with not a stray hair in sight, and he’d given his emptyglass to a waiter a few moments before. She’d go for one drink and then leave.
“One drink,” she said.
“One drink,” Chatham agreed.
Quinn nearly flinched when Robert Chatham placed his hand on her lower back and steered her through the crowd, out the door, and toward the bank of elevators in the lobby. She wasn’t prepared for this, but her plan, although not bulletproof, was relatively basic. Have one drink, ask to use the loo, collect stray DNA, make her excuses, and depart.
Robert Chatham stood across from her in the lift, studying her with a small smile. “You remind me of someone,” he said, tilting his head to the side as if appraising a painting. “Can’t put my finger on it.”
Perhaps I remind you of my mother, whom you raped when she was just seventeen and probably haven’t given a second thought since, you arrogant wanker, Quinn thought bitterly.
“I know. You remind me ofDestiny, a painting by John William Waterhouse, particularly because you’re wearing that color. Are you familiar with the Pre-Raphaelites? I own a rather priceless Rossetti. I know it’s a bit childish, but I keep it in a place where only I can enjoy its beauty. It’s one of my most treasured possessions.”
How nice for you, Quinn retorted in her head. “I am more of a modern art girl. I like things that are edgy and new,” she replied, just to annoy him. She actually didn’t care for modern art at all and would have given much to own a Rossetti, but spending millions on art simply wasn’t her style. If she had the money tospend, she’d give it to a charity for children or refugees, not on a painting to hide from the world and gloat over.
They exited the lift, and Robert unlocked his room, ushering Quinn inside. It was a suite, with a large, airy bedroom and a cozy sitting room, complete with a discreet minibar. Quinn stepped inside, eager to put some distance between her and Robert Chatham, but she’d barely taken a step before he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She instinctively pulled back, unprepared for such intimacy. Robert Chatham leaned in, his lips brushing her neck while his hand moved to her breast. He trailed kisses down her neck, moving downward and running the tip of his tongue along the top of her breast, just above the neckline of the dress. Quinn quivered with revulsion.
“You are so lovely,” he breathed as his hand found her buttock and squeezed.
Quinn managed to wedge her hands between herself and the man, pushing him away. She knew he’d make a play for her, but she hadn’t expected it to happen that quickly. Most people took a little time to gauge their prospects and allow the sexual tension to build before making their move. Robert Chatham clearly didn’t play by those rules. He just assumed that Quinn was game and didn’t seem like the type of man to take no for an answer. Given what he’d done to Sylvia, she should have expected that, no matter how many years had passed. Once a predator, always a predator.
“I need a moment,” she whispered and fled toward the loo the second his hold on her slackened. Quinn rushed to the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Her breathing was ragged, and she found that she was shaking as she leaned against the cool tiles of the wall. Robert Chatham was big and strong, and aggressive. She had miscalculated. There would be no flirting over a glass of wine or an opportunity to say no. He meant to get downto business as soon as she emerged from the bathroom, so she had to take what she could and get out before the situation got out of hand.
Quinn looked around the bathroom. It was spotless. There was nothing out of place, not a hair on the sink or the floor, or a used tissue in the rubbish bin. The room must have been cleaned after Chatham showered that morning, the cleaner taking away anything that might prove useful. Quinn found Chatham’s razor and turned it over. The blade appeared to be brand new, not a single bit of stubble stuck behind it. She looked around in dismay. There had to be something she could use. Not even his dressing gown, which hung on a hook behind the door, had any hair on it.
Quinn grabbed the rubbish bin and looked inside. It was empty, but on the very bottom, stuck to the trash bag, was a used plaster. She pulled a pair of tweezers out of her bag and carefully removed the plaster. It had a bit of dried blood and several hair follicles stuck to it. Robert Chatham must have nicked himself while shaving, which would explain the new razor. He must have disposed of the old one. Quinn bagged the plaster and hid the evidence in her bag before taking a deep breath and exiting the bathroom. She had to get out of this room, and fast.
“I am sorry, but I must go,” Quinn said, smiling apologetically. “Duty calls.”
“And what duty might that be?” Robert asked, smiling at her like a cat who was about to devour the canary.
“My husband is expecting me,” Quinn lied.
“Is that so? You weren’t in too much of a rush before.”
“I quite forgot,” Quinn said, shrugging in a nonchalant manner.
“Forgot you have a husband, or that he’s expecting you? I would hate for a woman to forget about me,” he drawled, moving closer to Quinn until she was forced to take a step backward.
“No woman would dare forget about you,” Quinn replied, inching slowly toward the door.
“No, she wouldn’t. And neither will you, if I have anything to say about it.”
Quinn gasped as Robert Chatham pushed her roughly against the wall and kissed her hard, pinning her with his body and making it impossible to escape. His tongue invaded her mouth just as his hand invaded her body. He slid his hand up her skirt, pushing his fingers against the silk crotch of her knickers and rubbing urgently to arouse her. Quinn tried to press her legs together, but Chatham wedged his thigh between her own, preventing her from doing anything to stop him.
Quinn tried to break the kiss, but he grabbed her head with his free hand to keep her in place, kissing her hungrily. She felt as if she were being devoured. Chatham’s erection pressed into her pelvis, making her cringe with disgust. She had to get away, and there was only one way she could do so now. Quinn gathered all her strength and pushed him away. His eyes were glazed with desire, and his trousers bulged, his intentions clear. He blocked the door, leering at her.
“Aren’t you the little cock-tease?” he said, advancing toward her again.
“Will Samsung remain in business with you if you’re accused of assault?” she spat out. “It wouldn’t be the first time for you, would it?”
That had the desired effect. Her words hit Robert Chatham like a bucket of cold water. He yanked open the door and held it open. “Get out, you bitch. I will destroy you if you say a word against me. You hear?”
Quinn didn’t bother to answer. She rushed out of the room and toward the lift, which thankfully came very quickly. Quinn rested her forehead against the cold metal wall of the lift. Her legs shook, and her breath came hard and fast as her brain finally accepted how close she’d come to getting hurt. She’d led him on, that was true, but that didn’t give him the right to force himself on her if she said no.
