Freeing Alex (The Alexandra Drake Series) Read online

  Freeing Alex

  Part one of the Alexandra Drake Series

  By Sarah Elizabeth Ashley

  Copyright © 2013 Sarah Elizabeth Ashley

  © Copyright Sarah Elizabeth Ashley 2013

  FREEING ALEX

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Sarah Elizabeth Ashley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are a product of the author’s imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and organisations is purely coincidental.

  Condition of sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The Alex Drake Series

  Part One ––Freeing Alex

  Part Two –– Loving Alex

  Part Three–– Eternally Alex–– Early 2014

  Acknowledgements

  Alexandra Drake stayed with me and gave me the motivation, drive and encouragement to continue through to completion of this, my first ever novel, as well as my family of course –– particularly my darling husband, who has spent many evenings alone with nothing more than the TV for company; my, children who have stood by and watched as Mum bashed the keyboard, but also forbidden me to write under my ‘real name’; and my biggest critic, my mum: I am so sorry I kept you awake.

  Thank you to my readers for your comments, support and feedback.

  Thank you all so very much – all of you. Now… who wants strawberries?

  Find Sarah on Facebook: facebook.com/AlexDrake

  http://sarahelizabethashley.com

  Twitter @SarahEAshley1

  Playlist

  The Script ft. Will.i.Am –– Hall of Fame

  Calvin Harris – Feel So Good

  Icona Pop –– I Love It

  Andrea Bocelli and Hayley Westena –Vivo Per Lei

  Little Mix –– Change your Life

  Daft Punk ft. Pharrell –– Get Lucky

  David Guetta –– Titanium

  Paul McCartney –– Let It Be

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Prologue

  “Don’t you dare ever forget to iron my bloody shirts again! You’re a fucking waste of space, a hopeless bitch. I should never have fucking married you. Your parents couldn’t wait to offload you onto the first poor bastard that came along.”

  Lewis was in an absolute rage. I just stood there petrified, quaking in the corner of our kitchen, the ironing board out and his few shirts to be packed half done, ironed for the second time. It was summer and warm, the windows open. Fortunately, I knew our neighbours were out, otherwise they would have heard the row. I stood there in my shorts and vest top, subjected to his vicious onslaught.

  “You’re making me late, bitch. Get the fucking things ironed now before you make me any later. Fucking useless waste of space!” He sneered at me, shaking with anger – something I was used to, but he hadn’t been this bad for a while. I moved from my corner, trembling as I stepped gradually to the ironing board, tears rolling down my cheeks. Just breathe, Alex, breathe.

  Of course, I’d done nothing wrong. His shirts were always pressed nicely before being returned to his wardrobe. But this was a new obsession, wanting them pressed again before they were put into his suit carrier; he wanted me to iron his shirts twice! A few weeks ago, during one of his good moods, I’d suggested that I didn’t iron anything until he was ready to pack, then his shirts would be freshly ironed and packed. That suggestion had resulted in a row and a nice bruise across my ribs and one possibly broken. Over the years, I’d learnt how to take care of myself and how to nurse these things.

  With shaking hands, I removed the first shirt from his suit carrier. It was hanging neatly and wasn’t creased; it was only going to be in there for an hour or so until he reached his hotel. But he wanted it pressing again. I removed it from the hanger and, draping it over the ironing board, I picked up my steam generator and started to press the shirt, still shaking and still sobbing. I could see his back; his breathing was rapid. He was still gripped by his violent rage.

  “Stop the fucking crying, you stupid woman!” he yelled again at me. With a quick movement, he yanked the iron out of my hand and raised it above his shoulder. I turned away from him, raising my arms over my head and face, cowering away and fearing what he would do. Since the birth of our then thirteen-year-old daughter, he’d become violent. The hurt had always been bruises, minor cuts and, of course, emotional – apart from my mark, the mark he’d inflicted upon me when Anna was just a baby.

  I hated the thought of fire and heat as a result of that mark and fear coursed through me as I glanced at the iron in his hand above his shoulders. “You fucking stupid bitch, you make me do this, stupid bitch!” he spat as he slammed the iron onto my shoulder, pressing down.

  The searing pain cut through me as I wilted to the ground. I don’t know how long he held the iron on my shoulder for, but it was agony. Once he’d had enough of the torture, he scooped his clothes up, shoved them into his suit carrier and left, leaving me huddled on my knees, crumpled on the floor, the burning pain intensifying by the second. The iron, still on, he had flung on the floor beside me.

  Once I heard the front door shut and his car pull off the gravel drive, I staggered to the kitchen sink, retching. I vomited until my stomach was empty and staggered upstairs to the shower. Cold water... cold water... kept playing through my mind.

  I should have gone to Accident and Emergency. After all, I hadn’t been for six months – long enough for them not to suspect anything. But how I could pass this off, that I had burnt myself with the iron on my back? Well, I couldn’t. I turned the shower on and stood under the cold water, fully clothed and shaking for what seemed like ages, letting the cool water bathe my burning skin. I heard the telephone ringing. It would be Anna, asking me to collect her from town.

  After carefully removing myself from the shower I stepped out of my sopping clothes. Taking off my vest top was torture in itself. I dried off, patting my shoulder injury. Looking in the mirror, I studied the extent of Lewis’s latest efforts to destroy me. “Nice job, Lewis,” I said to myself. “I won’t be wearing anything backless for a while, if ever again.”

  I slipped a cool cotton blouse on – I couldn’t wear a bra, the straps would sit right across the burn. I finished dressing with a pair of denim shorts and checked who had called; it was Anna. Calling her back, I arranged a meeting place in thirty minutes.

  Venturing downstairs, still feeling incredibly sick, I took two painkillers and tidied t
he kitchen as best I could, finding it difficult to move. Lewis would be gone for the week as usual, so I could take it easy for the next four or five days, pray that his lates effort to hurt me didn’t become infected and then make sure the house was spotless before he came home.

  That was five years ago...

  Chapter 1

  So… I’m Alexandra Drake, although everyone calls me Alex, and I’m forty-two. Recently my life changed, for the better, perhaps. Well, it certainly couldn’t have got any worse! As I sit here in the foyer of Reid’s Hotel, a prestigious five-star luxury hotel in Covent Garden, London, I can’t help but think about where I’ve come from, how quickly my life has changed in the last few months. Anna, my daughter, she’s seen changes too. She’s moved with me down to London, to the Cheyne Row home included in my “Aunt Maggie’s” estate, a huge house that we’ve had re-decorated since we moved in and made it ours, although I still don’t know if I really feel at home there.

  Anna’s eighteen and finished school. She’s off to university in October, assuming she passes her A Levels that she sat back in May, and gets the grades required.

  Looking back, it’s a wonder that the shock and disbelief of what Tom Chandler, my solicitor, told me back in May didn’t kill me. First of all, I’m told that my bastard of a soon-to-be ex-husband tried to intercept the letters that the solicitor had sent to me regarding Maggie’s estate, he’d even telephoned the legal practice and told them that I wasn’t capable or competent to deal with any legal affairs. Then I was politely informed that the woman who I always regarded as Aunt Maggie wasn’t my aunt at all – she was, in fact, my birth mother, and as to who my birth father is, heaven knows!

  The couple who raised me, Mum and Dad, were actually my aunt and uncle, Maggie’s sister and her husband, but nobody told me. Chandler had calmly read out a letter to me from my birth mother which clearly explained what had happened, what she’d done all those years ago. That they had planned to explain but, well, I suppose circumstances had prevented this; I was eighteen when my dad died, they had planned to tell me then. Lewis, the bastard, came along very shortly after that, forged a huge valley in the relationship that me and my mum had and she passed away shortly after we married, so little old me was never told that I was adopted, that Maggie had given me away as she felt her career prevented her from bringing up a child – although from what I see here before me, this hotel, I get the impression it was more like empire building!

  To complete the mammoth shock, I inherited everything that “Aunt Maggie” owned, which includes this place, a fifty per cent share in a high-end night club and several silent partnerships and investments in properties and organisations the length and breadth of the country. There are also holiday homes in Tuscany and California and millions in the bank, and when I say millions, I’m not joking.

  Yes, I’ve gone from a twenty-two-year marriage, that wasn’t the best by any stretch of the imagination, to this, the start of my new life.

  My husband could be very abusive and controlling, forcing me to give up my job as a primary school teacher and, well, I suppose keeping me as nothing more than a housekeeper. Before you shout, “you should have left”, I would like to add in my defence that I had nowhere to go other than a hostel and I wouldn’t do that, me on my own maybe, but not with Anna, and besides which, Lewis was really only ever home at the weekends, his work taking him away Monday to Friday.

  Lewis is a partner in a building company and most of their work is in the north of England. He preferred to stay away, and I didn’t complain. It’s been like that since… oh, I can’t remember, years and years. I know he has other women, in fact I’m sure there’s a mistress or two stashed away. He simply lost all interest in me, all interest in every respect, not that it bothered me, I cringe at the thought of him touching me now anyway! Other men, yes, I’ve looked, drooled and wanted but everyone I have fancied has been married and I wouldn’t do that to another woman and, anyway, God forbid if Lewis ever found out!

  I watch the comings and goings in this luxurious, sumptuous place, where the richest of the rich stay, dine and drink. I know from the reports that I have seen, that are sent to me by my accountant, that this place is a goldmine. The money it takes is astronomical, as are all of my aunt’s – sorry, my investments. I’m still in shock, I think, even though it’s been a few months since I found out about my inheritance and then left my home in Staffordshire. I escaped with Anna on a Tuesday afternoon, our beat-up old Focus struggling to get above sixty miles an hour on the motorway. It eventually died as we pulled up outside our new house, meaning that my first purchase was a new car. Anna and I went car hunting and bought with our hearts, a pretty white Audi R8 Spyder. It’s gorgeous but I regret it already as I loathe driving in London, completely. But, I tell you, it didn’t half feel good spending that sort of money! Empowering or what!

  I’m here today to meet the illustrious James Aconi, the hotel’s General Manager. I’ve heard lots about him, mainly from my solicitor who, as they were unable to make contact with me initially, discussed the running of this place with him on a weekly basis. I suppose he was technically looking after Maggie’s affairs until they could find me, process her will, and pass everything onto me. Apparently he’s amazing at his job, sounds like the perfect gentleman, Tom can’t speak highly enough of him. I have no idea what he looks like, although the surname Aconi leads me to believe that he’s of foreign parentage. From what I’ve been told about how experienced he is, I’m expecting someone at least the same age as me, possibly older.

  I shuffle in the deep sofa, waiting for Mr Aconi. How much longer will he keep me waiting? I check my appearance in my compact mirror. My shoulder-length dead straight blonde hair – my own colour blonde, I might add – still looks fine, my blue eyes brighter than they’ve been for years, probably because I’m happier than I’ve been for years. Putting the compact away in my chain-store handbag, I look down at my floral dress, from a chain store again. I look totally out of place here amongst the designer dresses and suits, although at least I’m slimmer than the designer-wearing brigade. For 42 I think I’ve kept myself in pretty good shape, I’m still only a size 12. Well, my boobs mean that a 14 fits better on top. But no, I think I’ve not done too badly at all, no middle-aged spread to speak of and no excess flab! What would all these people milling around think if they knew I owned the place?

  I glance at my watch. I’ve been waiting ten minutes already, I’ll give it another five and then I’ll ask what’s happening. I’ve been asked not to introduce myself to any staff just yet, so the girls that greeted me at reception just looked me up and down when I announced myself, telling them that I had an appointment with Mr Aconi. I bet they think I’m here for a job! I just smiled sweetly, oh yes, feeling very powerful.

  Looking around, I take a sharp breath as I see the back of a large man. The same stature as Lewis, the same hair, looks just like Lewis from the back. I go cold at the thought. I have no doubt that if he found me, came looking for me, it would result in some form of punishment, as he would refer to it. Yes, I’m divorcing him and he’s acknowledged that, but I haven’t told him where I’ve moved to. Anna and I didn’t even tell him we were going, we just left, although I suspect he knows where we are. Either his solicitor would have told him or he’d have found out somehow, and I know that one day he’ll make contact. Knowing him like I do, I’m certain that he won’t let go completely without a fight, he’s so motivated by money and I’m sure that the settlement that I’ve offered him, effectively to “go away”, won’t be enough.

  The large man still has his back to me and I feel just the start of panic. He looks so much like Lewis from the back, although deep down I know it’s not. What do I do? Do I leave, walk out? No, Alex, you’re strong now. Stick with it, girl, breathe deeply and look away.

  No matter how much I concentrate on calming myself, the cold feelings start turning to warmth, a sure sign that I’m on the verge of an episode, something I suffered with
for a little while since Lewis assaulted me with that iron. But then the man turns, I breathe deeply, a sigh of relief, it’s not him. Mentally pulling myself together, checking my breathing, I glance at my watch. Right, where the hell is this Aconi guy?

  Standing, I walk to the large marble reception counter. One of the girls is busy with a guest, two others are in the office behind reception, the door open. They’re standing in the doorway talking openly and not quietly either, unaware that I’m standing there, I think.

  “Did you see her?” one of them says. “She was the same one that came in last week. Roger said the sounds coming from his office, well, let’s just say he was probably shagging her into next week!”

  “Really?” Her colleague doesn’t look surprised at all. “Thomas says they come here looking for him, he must tell them what he does, where he works.” She laughs. “Can you imagine, though? He’s so hot, so fit. Wouldn’t you just want to get laid by him?”

  “Oh yeah.” The first girl rolls her eyes. “Molly said she had him last year and he’s a stallion between the sheets, I mean really, really hot!”

  The colleague flicks through she papers she has, looking down, clearly still unaware that I’m waiting, that she’s being listened to. “I know, she told me that too! And that he’s, well…” she pauses, “very well hung, if you get my meaning!” Both of the girls sigh.

  “Worth working here just for a boss like that!” the first girl muses.

  “I know. I heard about him when I worked at that hovel around the corner, why do you think I applied for this job? Only because of the great Aconi!” They both laugh as one of them saunters out of the office towards me.

  “Hello. May I help you?” She looks me up and down. Clearly my chain-store dress is not suitable for this place: if only she knew.