A Man Without Mercy

‘Ah yes. Mr Stone. Vivienne has mentioned you once or twice.’

Jack was taken aback by the dry tone in the woman’s voice when she said that. He wondered momentarily what Vivienne had said about him, but then dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

‘And you are?’ he shot back.

‘Marion Havers. I live in number two,’ she said, nodding towards the adjoining door. ‘Vivienne and I are good friends as well as neighbours. Look, I presume since you’ve brought her flowers that you know what’s happened.’

‘Actually, I didn’t know a thing till I went to Classic Design’s office this morning to hire Vivienne for a job. Nigel explained the situation, saying how upset Vivienne was, so I thought I’d come round and see how she was.’

‘How very kind of you,’ the woman said with a soft sigh. ‘As you can imagine, the poor girl’s devastated. Can’t eat. Can’t sleep. She did get some sleeping tablets from the doctor, but they don’t seem to be working too well. Anyway, after this latest catastrophe, I think she’ll be needing some serious anti-depressants.’

Jack had never agreed with the way people turned to medication to solve life’s problems.

‘What Vivienne needs, Marion,’ he said sternly, ‘is to keep busy. Which is the main reason I’m here: I was hoping to persuade her to come and work for me.’

Marion looked at him as though he were delusional, but then she shrugged. ‘You can try, I suppose. But I don’t like your chances.’

Frankly, he thought he stood a darned good chance. Okay, so Vivienne was very upset at the moment, but beneath her distress she was still the same sensible young woman he’d come to respect enormously. She’d soon see the logic in his proposal.

‘Could I come inside,’ Jack asked, ‘and wait till Vivienne’s finished in the bathroom? I really would appreciate a personal word with her today.’

Marion looked doubtful for a moment, until she glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I suppose it will be all right. I don’t have to leave for work for another half hour. Vivienne should be out of the bath by then.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Meanwhile, I could do with a quick cuppa. Would you like to join me? Or would you prefer coffee?’

Jack smiled back at her. ‘Tea will be fine.’

‘Good. Here, give me those flowers and follow me. And close the door after you,’ she threw over her shoulder.

Marion led him down a narrow hallway which had a very high ceiling, white walls and polished floorboards the colour of walnut. Jack passed three shut doors on his left before the hallway opened into a living room which surprised him by being so starkly furnished. It didn’t look anything like the stylish but comfy living rooms Vivienne decorated for him in his show homes.

Jack glanced around with disbelieving eyes. Where were the warm feminine touches which were her trademark? There were no colourful cushions or elegant lamps; no display cabinets or shelves; no ornaments of any kind, not even a photo on display. Just one long black leather sofa with a neutral-shaded shag rug in front of it and a chunky wooden coffee-table varnished the same colour as the floors.

Only one picture graced the white walls, a black-framed painting showing a girl dressed in a red coat, walking alone along a rain-spattered city street. Obviously a quality painting, but not one Jack found pleasure in looking at. Despite wearing red, the girl looked sad and cold. Like this whole room.

It occurred to Jack that possibly dear old Daryl had stripped the room of some things when he had left, which could account for its ultra-bare look. He wasn’t sure how he knew Daryl had been living here with Vivienne, but he was sure. She must have said something at some stage. Or maybe Daryl had, at that Christmas party. Yes, that was it: he’d mentioned he was moving in with her in the New Year. Whatever; maybe there had been more furniture in this room before he’d left and more pictures on the walls, plus the odd photo or two. The TV was still there, Jack noted, mounted on the wall opposite the sofa. But one would have expected a piece of furniture underneath it—a sideboard of some kind. There was room for it.

Marion stopped briefly to deposit the basket of carnations on the coffee table before leading him on into the kitchen which, though smallish, was brilliantly designed to incorporate every mod con and still leave enough space for a table and four chairs. Obviously, it had been remodelled recently, since the bench tops and the table top were made in the kind of stone which had only become popular during the last few years. White, of course; white was the colour for kitchens these days. That and stainless-steel appliances. Vivienne always insisted on that combination in kitchens she designed for him. But she usually introduced a bit of colour in the splashbacks as well as other decorative touches: a bowl of fruit here and there. A vase of flowers. And, yes, something colourful on the walls.

There was nothing like that here in Vivienne’s place, however. If it was hers? Jack suddenly wondered. Possibly this was a rental. He hadn’t thought of that. Only one way to find out, he supposed.

‘Does Vivienne own this place?’ he asked as he pulled out one of the white leather-backed chairs which surrounded the table.

Marion glanced over her shoulder from where she was making the tea. ‘Sure does. Bought it when she inherited some money a while back. Had it refurbished from top to bottom last year. Not quite to my taste, but we all like different things, don’t we? Vivienne’s one of those women who can’t bear clutter.’

‘I can see that,’ Jack remarked.

‘Would you like a biscuit or two with your tea?’ Marion asked.

‘Please,’ Jack replied. It was nearly one o’clock and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

‘How do you have your tea?’

‘Black, with no sugar.’

Marion sighed a somewhat exasperated sigh as she carried Jack’s mug of tea, plus a plate of cream biscuits, over to the table. ‘Lord knows what Vivienne’s doing in that bathroom. She’s been in there for ages.’

Their eyes met, Jack’s chest tightening when sudden alarm filled Marion’s face.

‘Perhaps you should knock on the door and let her know I’m here,’ he suggested.

‘Yes. Yes, I think I’ll do that,’ Marion said, and hurried off.

Jack listened to her footsteps on the polished floorboards, then to her knocking on a door, along with her anxious-sounding voice. ‘Vivienne, are you nearly finished in there? I have to go to work soon and you have a visitor—Jack Stone. He wants to speak to you. Vivienne, can you hear me?’

When Jack heard even louder knocking and obviously still no answer from Vivienne, he jumped to his feet and raced down to where Marion was standing at the first door past the living room.

‘She won’t answer me, Jack,’ the woman said frantically. ‘And the door’s locked. You don’t think she’s done anything silly, do you?’

Jack wasn’t sure of anything, so he banged on the door himself.

‘Vivienne,’ he called out loudly at the same time. ‘It’s Jack. Jack Stone. Will you open the door, please?’

Not a word in reply.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered as he examined the bathroom door which was solid wood, as opposed to chipboard, but also ancient and hopefully the victim of termites over the years. Telling Marion to stand back, he shoulder-charged it with every ounce of strength he had, splintering the lock in the process and taking the door right off at the hinges.

Jack half-fell into the bathroom, taking a second or two to right himself and see what the situation was.

Vivienne wasn’t lying comatose or drowned under the water, the victim of an overdose of sleeping tablets. She was alive and well, bolting upright in the bath as the commotion of the door being shattered finally penetrated the earplugs she’d been wearing. Her piercing scream testified to her shock, her mouth staying open as she gaped at Jack.

On his part, Jack just stood there in the mangled doorway, totally speechless. He hadn’t stopped to think about Vivienne being naked. All he’d been concerned about a few seconds earlier was her safety. Now, suddenly, all he could think about was her nakedness. His eyes were transfixed on her bare breasts which were, without doubt, the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen. They glistened at him, two lushly rounded globes, their smooth, pale flesh centred with dusky-pink aureoles and crowned with the most tantalisingly erect nipples.

Jack had never thought of Vivienne as busty before, perhaps because she always wore tailored suits and shirt-like blouses, which obviously covered up her curves. He recalled that, even at that Christmas party he’d attended, she’d worn a loose-fitting dress which had successfully hidden her knockout figure, one which would have any red-blooded heterosexual male salivating over her.

Unfortunately, Jack was a red-blooded heterosexual male who hadn’t been with a woman since back in early March, over two months ago. Hell, had it been that long? It obviously had, by the uncomfortable stirring in his jeans.

Thank goodness Marion pushed past him at that stage and started rapidly explaining things to a still gaping Vivienne. Dragging his eyes off those stunning breasts, Jack spun round and marched back to the kitchen, telling himself ruefully as he sat down and munched into a biscuit that he really had to get himself a life. A sex life, that was. He was, after all, only thirty-seven years old, a fit, virile man still in his sexual prime. He couldn’t keep restricting himself to holiday flings, or the occasional one-night stand. He needed sex on a more regular basis.

But that would mean getting himself a proper girlfriend, something Jack was reluctant to do. He’d had girlfriends before and they had always wanted more than just sex. They wanted to go on regular dates, attend family gatherings and, ultimately, they wanted a ring on their finger. Even if they were prepared to bypass marriage and just live with a guy, inevitably they still wanted children.

Jack didn’t want children. For the past twenty years he’d been father as well as big brother to his two younger sisters, protecting and providing for them, along with his mother, who’d been totally useless when she’d unexpectedly become a widow at the young age of forty. Jack himself had only been seventeen when his father had been killed in a motor-cycle accident. After it was discovered that his dad had been hopeless with money, with no insurance premiums up to date and more debts than you could poke a stick at, his mother had promptly fallen to pieces, leaving it up to him to become the man of the house. Jack had been obliged to leave school immediately and get work so that they could survive.

It had nearly killed him to abandon his ambition to become an engineer, but he’d had no alternative. There was simply no one else he could turn to for financial help. Jack had worked as a builder’s labourer seven days a week to cover the mortgage and put food on the table. Fortunately, he’d been a big lad who could handle the gruelling workload. Also, he’d been smart enough to learn most of the building trades in record time and eventually set up a building business of his own, one which had earned him more than enough over the years to provide for himself and his family.

Jack no longer regretted not becoming an engineer. He loved what he did. He loved his family, too; very much. But providing for and protecting them all these years had taken an emotional toll on him. There was simply no room left in his heart for another family. He didn’t want a wife of his own. Or children. What he did want, however, was more sex.

But getting more sex wasn’t as easy as some people seemed to think. Okay, so Jack didn’t have much trouble picking up women when he put his mind to it. But at thirty-seven his appetite for one-night stands had faded somewhat. Nowadays, he preferred to have sex with a woman he actually liked, not just one he lusted after.

What he needed, he decided, was a mistress, someone attractive and intelligent he could visit on a regular basis but who wouldn’t put any emotional or social demands on him.