The Director's Cut by Js Taylor (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud txt) 📕

of rehab. It’s in all the papers. Probably they’re just for depression or something.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I still feel like I have to tell James.”

Lorna shrugs.

“Up to you.” Her expression changes. “What do you think will happen with you and the talented Mr Berkeley?”

I can’t help the smile which creeps onto my face.

“I don’t know.”

“Issy! You are crazy about him!” She shakes her head. “I am so thrilled. With your track record of not dating, I was starting to think you were gay,” she adds. “Except, you know, you never tried anything with me.”

“Lorna!” I swat her arm.

“Just joking. Look honey. I am thrilled. Really. Not to mention that the love of your life has got me a movie role.”

“He’s not the love of my life,” I protest.

“Whatever,” Lorna waves her hand. “I can see it in your face. Just make sure I get to be maid of honour. Then everyone’s happy.”

She gives me a wicked grin, and I feel a surge of love for Lorna. Everything seems so normal with her around. I throw my arms around her.

“Hey! Slow down!” she jokes. “You haven’t paid for my dinner yet.”

I hold her tight and give a laugh, which is somewhere close to a sob. With all the events of the last week, it’s good to hear Lorna make light of things.

My phone beeps in my pocket, and Lorna pulls away.

“Let me guess,” she drawls. “Mr James Berkeley wants you back?”

Chapter 8

James arranges to meet us outside the restaurant. And despite my protestations, Lora insists on getting a separate cab.

James eventually agrees but insists on hailing it himself, paying in advance, and taking the taxi’s license.

“Text Issy when you arrive,” he says gravely.

“Do you have a problem with taxis?” I ask as we walk over to where he says he’s parked.

James shrugs. “A class thing probably,” he admits. “The kind of people I was brought up with, everyone had private drivers. It feels alien to me to allow a woman to get into a car with a man she hasn’t met before.”

He pauses for a moment. “It was a wrench to see Lorna get in a cab,” he continues, “so don’t think for a moment I ever would let you take a taxi unaccompanied.”

Whoa. Mr Old-Fashioned is back.

“You do know,” I reply tartly, “it’s the new millennium?”

James face stays stern. “I mean it, Issy.”

“What if I need to get somewhere?”

“You’ll call me, and I’ll send my private driver.”

I sigh, defeated. I might be making some headway on James’s gentle side, but his traditional values still seem non-negotiable.

He’s stopped by a parked car, and it’s a moment before I register.

“This is your car?”

“It’s a hired car.”

“Wow.”

We’re standing in front of a sleek blue four-seater with an open top. It has a retro look to it – the kind of car you’d imagine playboys driving in the 1950s. I don’t know much about cars. But I spot the mark is Bentley.

“I’m glad you like it,” says James.

He opens the door for me, and I slide into the passenger seat.

“Did you have a nice lunch?” he asks.

“Yes. Thank you,” I say, looping over my seatbelt.

“Good.” James leans over and satisfies himself it’s properly fastened.

“It’s an old car,” he explains, catching my expression. “Sometimes the seatbelts don’t click in right.”

“Just drive the car, Mr Berkeley, and allow me a little more credit than a pre-schooler. I can fasten my own belt.”

He grins, pops the gear, and cruises slowly out onto the Barcelona backstreet. The car turns, and after a moment, we’re driving along the main road, which intersects with Las Ramblas – the main pedestrianized drag.

Along that route are buskers, pavement seating, and all kinds of colourful stalls. And I can’t wait to walk along it later. But right now, I’m enjoying the sun on my face and the sights and smells of Spain as the car makes along the seafront.

My phone beeps suddenly. I hold it up to James in illustration.

“Lorna says she got back to the hotel.”

“Good.”

“So,” I say, “what exactly do you have planned for this afternoon?”

I’m wondering how low key we need to be. James thought we should be safe from the press, after all.

James waits a moment before replying. “I was planning on taking you to my hotel suite, but this incredible city has changed my mind,” he says.

Are we doing the tourist thing instead of the hotel?

I love the idea of being a regular couple with James. There’s plenty to see in Barcelona, and there’s no one I’d rather see it with.

But I’d also been looking forward to the hotel.

“I picked something up for you,” he says slowly, “whilst you were eating.”

Something about the way he says it changes the atmosphere in the car instantly.

My thoughts swing in a moment, from ice-cream to hotel sheets.

Oh?

“What’s that?” I feel a little thrill of anticipation from his tone.

“Check the back seat.”

I turn my head. There’s a long slim box, which I hadn’t noticed when I first got in. Then again, the amazing car had arrested my attention.

It’s a plain kind of box. Functional almost.

What could be inside?

“Should I open the box?”

“Yes.”

I twist to ease off the lid, letting it fall to the side. And the moment the contents are revealed, I turn back front again, my heart beating fast.

Laying inside the box is a black riding crop.

I feel a spasm hit my groin.

What exactly has he got planned?

“What is that for?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I think you know,” he says silkily. “I was serious, yesterday. When I said I had plans for you.”

I feel myself swallowing. Part of me is scared. Another part is wondering what is going to happen.

“The choice is yours,” he adds, “as to how that particular item is put to use.”

It is?

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not taking you directly back to the hotel,” he says. “I’m taking you to an appointment.”

“What kind of appointment?”

“An appointment in which you’ll be expected to show obedience.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll be making a