It Happened One Flight

9. Lesson

My eyes fly back open and I tense from his touch.  His hands stop moving.  "Samantha, are you well mon mimi?" He kisses my shoulder. Fuck. What have I done? Fuck. I sit up and pull the blanket around me to cover my nakedness.  My head throbs. More panic sets in when I realize I left the envelope at the cafe. He scoots around to sit parallel with me and touches my face.  "I forgot something at the cafe last night.  I have run back there and you should really go." There is a faint knock at the door.  He hops off the bed, leaning into the bathroom to grab a towel. "Don't answer it." I squeak meekly.  He unlocks and opens the door, "It's only breakfast." He laughs.

"Oh, good morning. I must have the wrong room." I am going to be sick. "Pardon me Monsieur." Another voice interjects which is followed by "George Harrison!" in unison and two requests for autographs, silly banter, thank yous.  The breakfast trolley rolls into view, "Look Samantha," Laurent exclaims excitedly holding a small scrap of paper, "George Harrison's autograph. He looks great for fifty something." The door clicks shut.

"He's 48." I correct a bit too quickly.

"Well he looks fit. And still on the prowl, apparently. Ah, to be a Beatle." He chuckles to himself. I scramble to get dressed.  Laurent seems puzzled by my sudden activity as he offers me a cup of steaming coffee. "Not breakfast person? Perhaps I can offer you something else?" He asks with an smug grin, the towel slipping down his hips. "Laurent, I am sorry, you" before I can complete my sentence George calls my name. Sternly. My blood runs cold.  Laurent stares at me, incredulous, "Is that? Do you want me to get it?"

"No I will, thanks." I trek to the door, shaking so badly I have place my hand on the wall to keep from falling. He is holding a small pink cake box. "Sami." His voice is a dispirited but seductive whisper. I can't look him in the face. I can't answer him. My heart is hammering in my chest.

"Would you like some coffee?" Laurent boorishly calls out.

"No, I would like you to leave."  George replies evenly.

"I think that might be up to Samantha, not you." He is full of himself now.  "Laurent, go." I snap. I still can't look at him.  But I feel his eyes on me. It is turning me on, weirdly.  I want to grab and kiss him. Within a few moments Laurent exits the room, "Here is your envelope." He holds it out to me.  He looks at George, "I don't see what the fuss is. She's just a typical easy American. You must have had 100s of them. Great tits though."  He makes a lewd gesture and disappears down the hall.

George shakes his head disdainfully as he steps in the room and closes the door.  "His cologne is hideous." He scowls at me, "You should take a shower."  He walks to the window, unlatches it, pushes it open wide. The frosty winter air pours into the room.  He lights a cigarette and takes several long drags.  Silence. I study his sharp profile as his smokes. I realize this might be the last time I gaze at him. I want to apologize, but for what? We haven't discussed what this is between us.  He turns back to me,  "You never read my message?" He looks from my face to the envelope I am clutching in my hand. He stubs out the cigarette on a saucer. "I stopped at my favorite bakery." He tosses the cake box carelessly onto the room service cart.  It lands with thud.  "I need to get back to London," He pauses, concern on his face, "Dhani is sick."

  "George, is he going to be okay? What is wrong with him?"

"Yes. Mononucleosis. He is with his mom. I wasn't going to come. I can't stay for the week like we planned, obviously." He jeers then softens his tone, "But I missed you terribly.  When you didn't call I thought I would just nip over for the day. Take you out to dinner. Stroll along the river.  Sleep with you in my arms.  Seems as though someone beat me to it." 

I want respond to his last statement but he moves past me toward the door. "Let me know if you still want to see Friar Park at the weekend. The phone number is in the note. If you can be bothered." He says over his shoulder.  He forcefully opens the door. It bounces off the doorstop and slams closed. I slide down the wall. I am numb. I open the envelope and read the note. It tells me Dhani has Mononucleosis, that he we will be arriving Sunday morning, and a number where I should call him.

I take that shower. The hot water and fragrant lavender shampoo help to ease my still throbbing head but not my confusion.  I step out and wrap myself in the plush hotel robe. I pour myself a cup of lukewarm coffee and pull the sheets off the bed.  I wander to the still open window. What does he expect from me? We haven't discussed any type of future.  I wish I could be honest about my feelings for him. But it is too much of a risk. It has only been a month. I can't be falling in love with him.  He's a well known philanderer. It is just bit of fun. Still, I feel so much joy when I am with him. Everything else just fades away.

I speak with George briefly on Tuesday to check on Dhani. He is curt and monotone with his responses.  The warmth and sexiness in his voice has vanished. Neither of us mention me coming to Friar Park.  

I finish my week of meetings and fly to London Friday afternoon. I change and go to the fitness center to burn off some frustration and to think.  Back in the room, I screw up my courage and the dial his number. "Hello, Harrison residence." A posh woman's voice comes down the line.  I almost hang up, then ask for him. "He is not available at the moment." She sweetly informs me. "May I leave word?"

"No, no thank you."  I am crestfallen. I consider going out for a drink. Maybe I will just go purchase a bottle of wine.  The phone rings. "Be outside in an hour." He hangs up.

An hour later am standing out front of the hotel not certain what to expect.  He is late. I idly fuss with my scarf. 

I hear the car before I see it. He comes to a screeching halt.  The window lowers enough to hear him growl "Get in." I am stunned and provoked by his aggressive demeanor.  I hesitant. He revs the engine and looks out the windscreen, drumming his elegant fingers impatiently on the dashboard. I barely have time to pull the door closed as he drives off.  "Put your seat belt on." He concentrates on negotiating the snarled evening traffic. This is a very different trip to the one in Japan.  The only sounds are of him clutching, shifting, and the engine responding as we race through the black winter night once we leave London. He is definitely exceeding the speed limit.  By a lot. In spite of the danger, it is a thrilling rush.  He downshifts as we approach a gate.  We roll up the long drive to the house.  It is breathtaking.  But my mind is preoccupied. He turns the car off and gets out, walking toward the house.  I watch as he arrives at the door, pauses and comes back to the car.  He tugs the door handle, "Get out." He has the same inflection in his voice.  Commanding and gruff.  I am seriously annoyed and oddly aroused.  I have never allowed myself to be told what to do by anyone. I follow him inside, apprehensive.  We walk without exchanging a word. Finally, he stops in a sitting area with a piano.

"Drink." He hands me gin with a splash of tonic. I do as I am instructed, baffled by my compliance.  I look up at him.  His gorgeous brown are eyes are full of anger and something else. Without warning he roughly clutches my face and kisses me. Hard.  This is unlike any kiss he has given me. Dominate. Possessive.  I am overwhelmed and wet. He crashes me against the piano.  The fallboard bangs shut, startling me. "Sami," He tips my head up to look me in the eyes, "You said you were mine. But your actions give me a different message." He glares at me, fingering the scarf,  "When I am finished with you tonight there will be no doubt to whom you belong."