Alone again, Zoe sat by herself on the shower floor, knees up, face down on her arms, hot water pouring over her. In spite of telling herself over and over to tough it out, she couldn’t stop the tears. She felt so totally violated she wondered if it might not be better just to attack the bastard and keep attacking him until he killed her. But, in the end, the desire to live was too strong. She forced herself to stand up, scrubbed herself all over to remove even the slightest trace of what had just happened.
When she had finished, she climbed out of the shower and dried herself. She looked at herself in the mirror. Was she strong enough to endure a repeat performance of what Bradshaw had done? She wasn’t sure. But even as she thought it, she knew she had to at least try. For as long as it took for somebody to find and rescue her. Or even better, for her to find some way to kill Bradshaw and get the hell out of here.
She reminded herself that having sex with repugnant strangers was what escorts and call girls had to do every day or, perhaps more accurately, every night, just to earn a living. What some ambitious women in business did to earn a promotion. Fucking their way to the top, as it was crudely called. What some actresses she knew did on the so-called casting couch to win a coveted role. And if she was going to be completely honest with herself, she’d even flirted just last night with the idea of having an affair with Randall Carter. Not just because he was a smart, good-looking guy, but also because he was a well-known, well-respected star who could unquestionably advance her career. So don’t think of yourself as so high and mighty, she told herself. Since you’ve already considered using sex to get ahead, you can certainly use it to stay alive. That’s what she told herself. Sadly, she didn’t really believe it. And it didn’t make her feel any better.
She found a half-empty bottle of moisturizer in the closet and rubbed the cream into the skin on her arms and legs, wondering as she did if the other half bottle had been used by previous “guests” of Tyler Bradshaw. Sarah Jacobs? Ronda Wingfield? Marzena Wolski? She supposed it probably had.
When she had finished, she grabbed a dry towel, wrapped it around herself, walked back into the bedroom. And stopped short.
Bradshaw was there, sitting in the easy chair, feet resting on the matching ottoman. He was dressed in clothes that made him look like he’d just jumped from the pages of a not so recent Brooks Brothers catalogue.
Faded Nantucket red trousers with frayed cuffs, a pair of two-tone boat shoes and a white tennis sweater. What kind of role did the asshole think he was playing? One of Whit Stillman’s preppies from Metropolitan? No. More likely Leo DiCaprio’s version of Jay Gatsby lounging around the rooms of his mansion in West Egg, Long Island, trying hard to be what he thought Carey Mulligan’s Daisy Buchanan wanted him to be. The cool, casual rich guy who belonged in the world Daisy had always inhabited, though both knew he never really did.
Bradshaw smiled and signaled her to sit in the matching chair on the other side of the fireplace.
“Do you mind if I get dressed first?” she asked.
“Not at all. Go right ahead. I’ve put all your things in the closet.”
“Can I have some privacy?”
“I want to watch you getting dressed.”
Zoe stared at him for a few seconds. Repressed a strong desire to tell him to go fuck himself. Instead she smiled and walked to the chair he was sitting in. Raised his head with two fingers placed under his chin and kissed him softly on the lips. “Of course, darling. If that’s what you want.”
She let the towel drop to the floor and posed for him. “This is, isn’t it? What you want, I mean?”
Tyler reached for her wrist and pulled her down on to his lap. He was already breathing hard. “Yes. It’s what I want. Very much. You are, without question, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. In fact, one I’d like to have stay with me a whole lot longer than you might have guessed.”
He pulled her to him and started kissing her, probing her mouth with his tongue. She returned the kiss, then pulled away and stood up.
“May I get dressed?” she asked.
“There’s a nice comfortable bed right over there.”
“Yes, there is. But I think you’ll have a much better time if we save it for later. In fact, I promise that you will.”
He must have known she was teasing him but she was hoping he’d like the tease.
“Of course,” he said, letting go of her wrist.
Zoe turned and walked toward the bureau, warning herself for about the tenth time not to slip out of character as the seductive and fascinating femme fatale able to entrap and ensnare this man in this strange empty mansion and manipulate him into doing what she wanted.
She pulled open a drawer and selected the sexiest underwear she could find and began putting them on in a way poor dead Desdemona never would have dreamt of. A sensuous striptease in reverse, bra first, panties second.
She reached for a clean pair of jeans.
“No,” said Bradshaw. “Not jeans. I want you to wear the white dress there. The one hanging to the right. I selected it especially for you. Very, very sexy.”
She pulled out the hanger and examined what Bradshaw had chosen for her evening costume. It was sexy. A floor-length white satin slip dress with an elegantly draped but low neckline with spaghetti straps and a low open back. The long sheath skirt was split halfway up her thigh. The dress reminded Zoe of something Carole Lombard or Greta Garbo might have worn in a 1930s romantic thriller. Or perhaps Ginger Rogers taking a spin across the dance floor with Fred Astaire. Was that what Tyler had in mind? She supposed it must be. She pulled it on and looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. Aside from the fact that the low back revealed her bra strap, she had to admit it looked fabulous.
Zoe took a deep breath and slipped the bra off and turned to face Tyler. “Shall we dance?”
“Perhaps a little later.”
“Then perhaps I should save the dress for a little later. Something you can look forward to.” She was tempted to flutter her eyelashes at him but figured that might just be overdoing it a little.
To her surprise he acquiesced. “All right. Put on the jeans if you must. But I want you in that dress later.”
Zoe slipped off the dress and pulled on the jeans along with a shirt and a warm sweater. She looked down at her bare feet. “Did you bring any socks?”
“Sorry. Totally forgot them. Do you need socks?”
“Perhaps not. But wouldn’t you prefer me with warm feet? You wouldn’t want me touching anything sensitive with cold toes, would you?”
Bradshaw smiled at thought. “All right, I’ll find something for you later. But for now you can go barefoot. Is there anything else you need?”
Is there anything else I need? Oh yes, she told herself silently, Uncle Tommy’s old Glock 17 would be nice. Her father had taught her to shoot with that gun and she had a good eye. Or, if not a gun, then a baseball bat. Failing either, I need to get out of this room. Get a better sense of the layout of this prison he’s got me in.
“Yes,” she said to Bradshaw. “Can I have a drink?”
He looked surprised. “A drink?”
“Yes. You know? Alcohol? Do you have any wine in the house?”
“All kinds of wine. A whole cellar full.”
“May I have some?”
“Of course.” He was smiling. Her request for a drink seemed to make him happy. Like an eight-year-old who was just told that, yes, he can have a puppy. Of course, Zoe thought, aren’t psychopathic eight-year olds exactly the kind to torture and kill the puppies they’re given?
“What kind of wine were you thinking of?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Zoe. “Perhaps a nice French red? Something really good and obscenely overpriced? Do you have anything like that?”
“I think we can find something,” he said. “Come with me and we’ll select one together.”
Bradshaw got up and held out a pair of flex cuffs. Told her to hold out her wrists.
Instead of holding them out, she slid her hands around his neck and pulled him to her. “Make me,” she said.
He leaned down. Kissed her softly as she nibbled his lower lip. He looked, she thought, sublimely happy. But happy or not, when he unwrapped himself from her embrace, he told her, “I’m still not sure I can trust you. You’ll have to prove yourself.”
He told her again to hold out her wrists. This time she followed instructions, putting them out in front of her rather than behind. Far more comfortable that way. He snapped on a pair of flex cuffs and tightened them just enough to be sure she couldn’t slip her hands free.
She followed him to the door and watched him carefully. After he entered the four digits, Zoe noted exactly where he placed his thumb to activate the unlock mechanism. And she found herself wondering if by any chance there might be a meat cleaver somewhere in this gigantic house. Or perhaps a saw. Or a pair of lopping shears. Cooking. Carpentry. Gardening. If she expressed an interest in all three activities, who knew what might turn up?