THE BILLIONAIRE'S LOVER

5 | IN WHICH SHE WENT TO ONE HYDE PARK

'Guest bedroom,' murmured Blake, pointing languidly, 'and bathroom. Guest cloakroom. Master bedroom.'

So much. . .gleaminess. And the sense of space. Malora thought they called it lateral living or something. For people too rich for, like, rooms.

Blake peeled her hands off ushered Malora into the master bathroom, where he showed her how to use the shower. It was this shining marble enclosure where water came at you from everywhere. She wasn't sure how much of it she took in but, honestly, there were probably U2 spy planes less complicated to operate.
Then back out into the. . .for want of a better term. . .hall area.

'Kitchen, sitting room, reception room—'

'Sitting room and reception room?'

An elegant shrug. 'One for sitting, one for receiving—'

As ever when slightly nervous, Malora regressed to about the age of thirteen and started giggling.

'—guests,' Blake finished coldly.

'Sorry.'

'Dining room, study, shower room, balcony.'

'Thank you.'

'Finally, this is for you.'

This was a phone—the latest model iPhone something. Malora took it instinctively and then wished she hadn't. 'I thought only prostitutes, drug dealers, and spies needed two phones.'

'There's an app on there that controls the apartment. You can use it as needed or program it in advance, if you want the heating or lights or a particular electronic device to activate or deactivate at a certain time, for example.'

'And I couldn't just download it for myself because. . .?'

Blake clearly had a PhD in ignoring people. Well, ignoring her. 'The phone,' he went on smoothly, 'also contains Mr. Pitts' contact information in London, New York, Lisbon, Berlin, Tokyo, and Beijing. And you can access one of his drivers, a range of restaurants and private caterers, masseurs, hairdressers, manicurists, tailors, and similar services, all of whom are at your disposal. The apartment will be maintained daily and the details of the cleaning company are likewise to be found in the address book. In the unlikely event of an emergency, a private security contractor can be summoned by using the relevant application. Or by triggering any of the panic buttons situated around the apartment.'

'You do know that I'm not going into witness protection, right?'

'Finally, I am on speed dial one.' He gave her a surprisingly sweet and boyish smile—though there was something chilling in it, too. Maybe it was just a little too perfect. 'Please don't hesitate to call me should you need anything.'

Malora shuffled, feeling overwhelmed and faintly awful. 'Um. Thank you. But surely this isn't your job.'

'My job is whatever Mr. Pitts needs.'

Wow. Because that didn't have a ring of "pet assassin" or anything. Or maybe all the talk of panic buttons and private security firms had gone to her head. 'I'll try not to bug you.'

'Malora.' It was the first time he'd used her name to directly address her, but he said it meanly, like she was someone else's dog who'd pissed on his carpet and he didn't feel it was his place to rebuke her. 'I've been asked to look after you and I will do it to the best of my frankly considerable ability. However, if you make things more difficult than they have to be out of some misplaced bourgeois guilt, I will be quite displeased.'

As she opened my mouth to reply, Malora hoped something appropriate and vaguely sensible would emerge. Except what happened was, 'And I won't like you when you're displeased?' Because weak attempts at humor had served her so well so far.