Page 69 of Worth Every Game
“Great.” He signals for the bill, and a few minutes later we’re out on the street. It’s cold, our breaths fogging like smoke. Ipull my coat around me, wishing I’d put on tights. My legs are freezing.
“Home?” I ask.
Jack shakes his head. “There’s one more thing we have to do before we go back.” He grabs my hand and tugs me along the darkened Mayfair street.
“Where are we going?”
“Just around here,” he says, his long strides clipping along the pavement, me tottering behind him.
He stops outside a large church that’s nestled between terraced buildings. Letting go of my hand, he pushes open the huge wooden door. “Come on,” he says, tipping his head inside.
I hesitate. “Are we praying?”
“No.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You can if you want to. But I know what I’m worshipping.” He looks me up and down deliberately, and my heart stutters. “That’s a killer dress, by the way. Did I mention that?”
“You did not. You said it didn’t matter what I looked like.”
“And that I’d fuck you in a heartbeat.” He grins. “Get inside. It’s cold. Your nipples look freezing.”
So he has noticed my lack of underwear.And he’s right. They’re hard as bullets, but I’m not sure it’s on account of the temperature. “Such a gentleman.”
“Always.”
I shake my head at him as I pass into the church. It’s empty, but there are dim wall lights glowing and displays of battery-operated candles in alcoves, and the air smells of wax polish and some kind of incense. Frankincense, perhaps.
“We shouldn’t be in here,” I whisper.
“They leave the door open for a reason.”
I bite back the urge to tell him that I’m pretty sure his reason isn’t the same as that of the church, but he snakes an arm aroundmy shoulders and whisks me up towards the front, taking a sharp right turn before the altar.
He pushes through a side door and leads me down another corridor. There’s a warren of passages back here, and we pass down several of them before Jack stops in front of a door, pulling a key from his pocket.
What the hell?“Don’t tell me you’re moonlighting as a priest?”
He slides the key in and unlocks the door. “No. But I know the owner.”
“God?”
His laugh is dark and ripe, and far too sensuous for a church. The two of us here, so close together in the semi-darkness, has sinful thoughts racing through my mind. Jack’s scent fills the air, and my hormones begin to buzz. That naughty part of me—the slutty part—wants him to stop what he’s doing and take me right here, against the wall.
He pushes the door open and flicks a light switch, turning on more of those dim wall lights that lit the church. He ushers me inside, locking the door behind us. Before me is a large hall full of velvet upholstered chairs set out in rows, and the walls are painted a tasteful gold, faux marble pilasters lining the room. We’ve entered from the side, and at one end there’s a large door that looks like the main entrance. At the back, there’s a raised stage with a grand piano.
I stare for a moment, taking it all in, and it hits me like an electric shock when I realise where we are: Stanmore Hall, one of the most famous classical music performance venues in London.
“Is this part of the church?” I ask in awe.
“No. I mean, maybe it was once, but not anymore. The regular entrance is locked tonight.” Jack points over at the main door, which I assume must open out onto the street.
Locked?I turn to him. “Hold on. Isn’t Andrei Orlov supposed to be playing here?” The information filters through my mind, dredged up from my subconscious. The world famous concert pianist was definitely scheduled to play this week. “Yes, he is. Kate and Nico were talking about coming to see him. This is a sold out show. Where is everyone?”
Jack slides a hand into his pocket, his eyes bright. “It is sold out. I bought every ticket.”
Shocked laughter explodes from me. “What? How? You only asked me out this morning. Jesus. All those people. Andrei…”
“Don’t worry. Everyone was well compensated for their tickets. And Andrei is fine; he’s giving Kate and Nico a private performance instead, and I’d far rather watch you than a classical pianist. So, tonight, the stage is yours.”
My legs feel weak. “Stanmore hall,” I whisper. “You’re crazy.”