This Other Country Read online

  Nikolas held him pressed against the wall, however, and shook his head. He brushed an unsteady finger over one of Ben’s eyelids. “Take these things out first.” Ben kissed him, roughly, trying to force him back onto the bed, but Nikolas was adamant. With an annoyed sound, Ben bent and removed the contacts, tossing them. Nikolas then fumbled with the diamond stud. It hurt like crap having it put in and now it stung coming out. Ben winced and held his ear about to protest, but Nikolas pushed him forcibly onto the bed and straddled him. He was rolling the stud between his fingers, staring at Ben.

  Ben put a hand tentatively up to Nikolas’s face, ignored his pull away and cupped his cheekbone. “Do you remember when your face was all bashed in?”

  Nikolas nodded, and if it hadn’t been too banal for him, Ben knew he’d have added duh. “Well, it was still you. Are you really so hung up on the superficial me?” For the first time, it struck Ben the answer to this was probably yes, and he added, far less sure of himself, “If I had been burnt in that fire. If my face was all burnt up, would you still love me? Want me?”

  “It’s not really fair of you to ask me this, Ben. Who would know the answer to such a thing until it happens?”

  “What?” Even though he’d been unsure of himself, he’d been sure of Nikolas, and had expected a violent profession of undying devotion—or Nikolas’s version of that, which was probably a grunt, a slap for stupidity, and then being turned over and fucked.

  He tried to sit up, but Nikolas held him down, shifting to sit more comfortably on his favourite place. Desire between them was not gone, but it had certainly dampened a little.

  Nikolas pouted. “How can I answer that, Ben?”

  “Very easily I’d have thought! I’d still be me! So it’s not me you love but this face? If someone else could take it and put it on, you’d love—?”

  “You’re becoming hysterical, stop—”

  “This isn’t hysteria! This is fucking anger. Get off me!”

  § § §

  “Ben, listen.” Nikolas avoided the punch and held Ben’s hand. “Please.” That always worked. It was one of the reasons he used it so rarely. “If you were burnt like that, do you think you would be the same person?”

  “Of course I would!”

  “Then you’re a fool as well as too beautiful for your own good.” Compliments were so sparingly given they were always good to throw in once in a while, too. “You don’t know this, because you’re at the centre of it and can only see from inside to out. But I’m outside and see it with all your other observers. You go through your life with a wake of awe trailing behind you when people see what you are. The wake washes over their reactions to you, easing your way, making life beautiful for you through your perfection. Do you see what I’m trying to say?”

  Ben was frowning so deeply it was pretty obvious he didn’t, but it gave Nikolas a chance to regroup and try to explain. “Your life is smoothed for you, eased as if your beauty were tangible—like a scent? Ack, I can’t explain it better.” He tipped off Ben and lay to one side, contemplating the ceiling. “All I meant was if your face were ruined then I think you would find life very different to how you do now, and consequently you would change before I had a chance to assure you I wouldn’t.”

  § § §

  There was a long silence after this. Ben was pretty sure Nikolas had just told him it would be all his fault if Nikolas didn’t love him any more. He slid a hand onto Nikolas’s shirt, playing with a button. “It’s only dye and paint, Nik. It’ll fade. Grow out. Jesus. This is ridiculous.”

  Nikolas nodded. “I know. Eight years I’ve been held captive of an alignment of bones and flesh and the shade of a pair of eyes. Perhaps I do deserve to be going on this course. Perhaps I can learn some perspective.”

  “Learn to love my face less?”

  Nikolas huffed. “No.” He had no intention of telling Ben the rest of his thought—he needed to learn how to admit Ben was his captor and that, therefore, Ben held all the power.

  § § §

  Although Nikolas was fairly sure they wouldn’t be asked either to arrange flowers for the table or cook the dinner in the first place, and being very well aware that Kate was enjoying herself exacting some kind of petty revenge upon him, he knew at least familiarising themselves with these roles would help them make the transition from the people they were now to the ones they had to impersonate for the next week—and possibly longer if they, like other men, found some, as yet unknown, reason to stay for another three weeks.

  He didn’t dislike flowers.

  He’d actually grown rather used to having tasteful displays everywhere. Like most very wealthy people, his ex-wife had a standing order with an excellent florist who’d supplied artful seasonal creations weekly. Philipa also had personally indulged a great love of flowers and greenery, and spent many hours with her gardeners in her vast greenhouses, cutting and choosing blooms for the house. Nikolas had taken all this in the same way he did his clothes, furniture and artwork—as the background necessities to the fiction he presented to the world of the cultured, well-bred gentleman. He was a lion impersonating a pampered Persian house cat for a while, and surrounded by flowers, bespoke tailoring, literature and art, people didn’t see the untamed wildness of the amber eyes, nor suspect the killing rage that lay just beneath the surface of the impeccable grooming.

  So he didn’t dislike flowers at all.

  He just didn’t want to have to stuff them into vases himself.

  He didn’t even own any vases and had to endure Ben smirking at him as he had to jam them into various cooking pots and some empty wine bottles.

  Ben could laugh. Nikolas noted with some satisfaction that for a man who never stopped either eating or thinking about food, Ben was entirely undone by a cookbook that finally told him there was more to life than bacon sandwiches and steak—the only two things along with fried eggs and toast Ben could actually cook. It amazed Nikolas that he’d lived with a food addict for five years but had never once been offered anything remotely edible. They ate out almost every night or he ordered ready-made gourmet meals from a select caterer patronised by his ex-wife’s family. He was watching Ben now out of the corner of his eye, face scrunched up with effort over his book, dictionary to one hand because he refused to ask the meaning of such things as sous vide or alginates.

  As he studied the lowered blond hair, fingers running through it, making the strands shine against the tanned fingers, he couldn’t help his thoughts straying back to the bed. Undressing Ben, turning him over, entering him, he’d indeed discovered all the changes were very superficial. Ben’s arse was as tight to enter as he needed it to be. He could recall now in startling detail the look of Ben spread and open beneath him when he pulled out to play with the wanton looseness he’d created. He could feel again the silky touch of him as he’d pushed fingers deep, stroking him from the in—

  “You’ve just murdered that lily.”

  “Huh?” Nikolas glanced down at the shredded petals and slumped dejected. He’d thought it was a rose.

  He had a long way to go.

  With a small, feral, private smile, he asked casually, “Do I need to make a reservation somewhere tonight or is all that,” he indicated the bags of ingredients still untouched on the floor, “going to turn into something impressive to eat?”

  Ben carefully turned a page. “I’m getting there.” He turned another. “I think we’ll start with Thai cucumber shrimp. Hmm, then maybe lobster tail poached in…beurre monte?…With a—”

  “I think that’s pronounced—”

  “—with a julienne of carrots and…snow?…Snow peas followed—stop laughing—by chocolate soufflé.” He sat back, pleased with himself—then apparently realised he hadn’t actually cooked any of it yet.

  § § §

  Nikolas discovered flower arranging could be done in the living room. And, amazingly, could be done whilst lying on the sofa, watching a movie. And drinking a bottle of red wine (if he used large gl
asses, he’d discovered he could drink the whole bottle and stay within his three-glasses-a-day limit). Which was a shame for Ben, as his new hobby needed him to stay in the kitchen. And swear apparently. Every so often, Nikolas heard, “Fucking hell!” or “Shit!” wailed to increasingly desperate levels of incredulity. He was glad he had a moment away from Ben anyway. He dug out his mobile phone and made a quick call. He still had some friends left in his old life. It was useful.

  § § §

  He’d never been so glad to be a billionaire when he was finally invited into the kitchen to eat, because even when Ben apologised sheepishly, “I’ll clean up later, yeah? It’ll get cold if I do it now,” all Nikolas could concentrate on was the thought of calling his cleaning service and then ordering in all new pans to hang up, pristine, where they should be. But he was gracious enough not to let any of this show on his face as he sat down in the place Ben had laid for some reason with a screwed-up napkin. “That’s a swan.” Sometimes Ben read his mind too easily. The table was nice, Nikolas thought, with his… rose?…lily?…Some flower or other in the empty wine bottle. Artfully pushed in, if he said so himself.

  The first course looked very good. On the plate. Decorative. Green cucumber rinds and the pink of the shrimp made an appealing contrast in colour and texture, so he was told. He complimented Ben and took a bite. His throat froze. His eyes actually started to water. To cover, he rose and fetched a bottle of chilled white wine from the fridge, staying with his back to the room longer than necessary in order to swallow. Suddenly, he heard gagging noises, and Ben rushed to the sink, spitting. “Fucking hell! What is this?”

  Nikolas had to agree: what was it indeed? Upon consultation, they decided tsp didn’t mean the large stirring spoon Ben had ladled the hot chilli sauce in with. It was the only explanation. That course was cleared, and after splitting the bottle of wine companionably between them, they were able to face the next. Obviously, if he started with red wine, it didn’t count on his three-glass limit if he then switched to white. Besides, he was only drinking to keep Ben company, so that didn’t count anyway. The lobster promised to be very good. They both ate a lot of lobster, as Nikolas rarely ate meat and could afford to eat what he liked when they went out. He took a forkful enthusiastically, prepared for it to be not as good as at his favourite restaurant, but…not for it to spring back when he tried to bite it. And spring again, like a little piece of rubber in his mouth. Ben was poking his, talking knowledgably about choosing the right lobster. Nikolas murmured his agreement, but delicately and unobtrusively spat his chewy hunk into his napkin. He clicked his fingers for Radulf who, getting that stealth was required, slithered unobtrusively from his basket and came over. Nikolas dropped the offering to the floor. Radulf snapped it up. A second, larger piece went the same way. All Nikolas got was jaw exercise and some cold, congealed butter to savour.

  “…so, anyway, I decided I didn’t really need one.”

  Nikolas took a long (very long) swallow of wine and asked politely, “Sorry? What? Need what?”

  “A thermometer. I didn’t have one. Said the beurre monte had to be just the right temperature or the meat would be chewy. Pretentious crap.” He took a large mouthful. Nikolas watched with interest out of the corner of his eye as he prodded the vegetables. He wasn’t an expert, but he’d eaten at the finest restaurants most of his life, and he was fairly sure snow peas couldn’t be substituted with normal peas still in their pods. Hey ho. He eyed Radulf, but the dog was still trying to swallow his third offering of lobster. Ben was still trying to chomp through his first—until that went the way of the shrimp, with a similar explosion of profanity. Nikolas normally didn’t let Ben swear—not because it bothered him, but because he liked telling Ben off—but he let it go this one time. He felt like saying fucking hell, too.

  Ben cleared it all away and produced his pièce de résistance. Again, Nikolas was no expert, but even he could have told Ben that soufflé was ambitious for a beginner—and chocolate? Ben didn’t even attempt to explain it away. They just stared at it for a while. Nikolas was tempted to point out that he’d seen similar things on pavements.

  “You opened the oven?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Although it cautioned not to?”

  Again a nod. “I had to see it, didn’t I?”

  “Apparently not. Shall we adjourn to our favourite restaurant?”

  Ben pouted but nodded. He glanced at his watch and sank lower in his seat. “Four hours.” He regarded the kitchen and sank his head into his hands. Nikolas readjusted his wilting flower. Then he chuckled.

  “What?”

  “I was just trying to imagine Nigel and Justin attempting to pass themselves off as Special Forces…”

  § § §

  Ben had cheered up considerably by the time they got home, as had Nikolas, because, obviously, wine drunk at restaurants didn’t have to get added to wine drunk at home when calculating your three-glass limit. That was so obvious it shouldn’t really need explaining. Nikolas had even managed to sneak up to his office in the glass tower and smoke a couple of cigarettes on the pretext of fetching some paperwork. The taste of the congealed butter had finally gone away.

  It was unfortunate, therefore, that he padded back down to the kitchen in bare feet later that night. He was averting his eyes from the mess, concentrating on finding a clean glass for some water, when he stepped in it.

  The lobster hadn’t agreed with Radulf either, only its effects had taken longer to work on his digestive system.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The course was in Lancashire. Not a county either of them knew. It was a four-hour drive, possibly five, depending on traffic, and Ben settled into a nice steady ninety in the outer lane of the M1. He was quiet. He hadn’t put Radio 1 on yet. He hadn’t started commenting on everyone else’s crap driving. Nikolas cast him a furtive glance, smiling privately, but insisted seriously, “It doesn’t matter, Ben. It’s only a cover story. Don’t take failure so personally. We can’t all be good at everything.”

  “No, that’s exactly—” He stopped and glanced over. “Oh, very funny.” He tapped his fingers on the wheel for a while then added more thoughtfully, “But don’t you think it’s weird? I mean, I can read, so why can’t I follow a simple instruction and get it right?”

  “I’ve no idea. I had no problem with my flowers. I’m almost a black belt in flower arranging.”

  Ben had radar for Nikolas-bullshit and clearly recognised the tone. Nikolas knew Ben never listened beyond the first words of any such pronouncements and, true to form, Ben ignored him now and carried on with his own train of thought. “I’m going to master it. I’ve decided. We’ve got that bloody great big kitchen in Devon, and we’ve never even taken a pan down off the rack.”

  Nikolas thought of his gleaming chrome kitchen in the glass house and then of the kitchen last night (and this morning, as he’d left Radulf and the kitchen for Kate to sort—sometimes his punishments for insubordination were masterful) and had a vision of things to come. He thought back to the perfect calm of Philipa’s house. The meals produced by unseen hands and offered on the finest china; of intelligent conversation; his library; his unrestrained enjoyment of whiskey and wine. He turned his head and considered Ben. He tugged the studded earlobe. He had Ben Rider-Mikkelsen. What else could he possibly need? “Good idea. You know how I always advocate a healthy diet. I would very much like to see you producing one for me.”

  Ben sent him an eye flick of derision but apparently went back to his elaborate plans to become a master chef.

  After a few more miles, Nikolas sighed. “We need to discuss our strategy.”

  “Strategy?”

  “Hmm. We are there to discover why some of the participants remain for a further three weeks, no? So, we need to make sure we survive the first week by sticking to our cover stories. I don’t believe this course will be what either of us has experienced before during covert operations.”

  “Why?”

 
Nikolas was pained to admit, “Well, for one thing, this strikes close to home for you, no? I don’t think you’ll be able to separate the role you’re playing with your own circumstances.”

  “Me? I won’t be able to? What about you?”

  “Ack. I’m thinking of you, Ben. You’ll see everything as relating to you personally. Which won’t be the case.”

  Ben thought about this for a while. “What you mean is you’re going to find this difficult and you’re going to take it out on me.”

  “There. See? That’s exactly what I mean. You’ll not be able to separate our roles from our real life and will misinterpret everything I say to suit your own agenda—the one where you’re badly treated and some kind of mistrodden underdog.”

  “That’s not a real word.”

  “Of course it is. Who actually had to learn his English, Benjamin? Not you. So, as I was saying, you’ll take what I claim in my role as Nigel to be me saying it. As me. And you won’t like it. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “No!”

  Nikolas sighed. “Pull over at the next service station. Please, obviously—God forbid I should forget to say please these days.”

  Ben pulled over as requested and parked. He turned with a questioning frown to Nikolas.

  Nikolas stared ahead then began in something of a rush, “We are playing men who are in relationship crisis. Nigel is resentful of Justin. He wants…things Justin isn’t prepared to give him. He wants to adopt children, which implies Justin isn’t enough for him, no? That some completeness in his life is missing?” He twisted around to face Ben and put a hand on his thigh. This was so unexpected and so uncharacteristic Ben automatically covered the hand with his, as if some kind of bad news was about to be presented that needed that level of physical support. Nikolas studied their joined hands. “I need you to know, that’s all.”