Serving Him Read online

  “Ow!” A half-full container landed on his toe. At least they’re not glass. Rowan finished rinsing before backing out of the shower. He groped for a towel with one hand whilst rubbing water from his eyes with the other. He had a tendency to be accident prone but nothing was going to burst his bubble that morning. Dancing with a bit more caution got him through the drying process without further mishap. A dollop of product helped tame his hair, though it still managed to exert dominance over his efforts with a few random waves, including one rebellious lock that existed only to fall into his eyes. He discarded the towel in order to take a critical look at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Tilting his head to the side, he gave himself a once-over.

  “Not too bad.” He patted his flat stomach, wishing his abs were visible. He twisted, trying to get a view of his arse. The role specification for the post at The Retreat had been very clear. Full or partial nudity would be required. They hadn’t asked for a nude photo with the application, just a head shot, so Rowan hoped they wouldn’t be disappointed by his physique—or lack of it. He didn’t want to miss out on his dream job because he had no money for a gym membership. Working at the hotel kept him trim because he spent most of the day running up and down stairs, fetching and carrying, but it didn’t help build muscle mass. There was nothing he could do about that. Hopefully The Retreat was seeking a short, skinny houseboy with uncontrollable hair. He sighed, his buoyant mood a little deflated.

  Rowan finished his morning routine, tidied the bathroom then dressed in his hotel uniform of black trousers and collarless shirt with the hotel’s logo on the pocket. Black socks and polished brogues completed the ensemble. There was still time to check that his flat was immaculate before dashing downstairs to the kitchen in the main part of the house. Just like the rest of Briar Rose Cottage, the kitchen was an eclectic mix of traditional country style laced with a liberal helping of bohemian psychedelia. The units were littered with crockery—spots and stripes clashing with rose-patterned bone china. Photographs in a variety of frames fought for space with trailing potted plants, jars full of shells and sea glass and a collection of china owls. The table in the middle of the room was covered by a bright green tablecloth and stacked with piles of paperwork, a laptop and three partly full coffee mugs. Rowan’s aunt, seated in front of the computer, gave him a limp wave.

  “Morning, sweetie.”

  “Morning, Rory. You’re up early.” Rowan set about making a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Haven’t been to bed yet.”

  “Aurora Stanton! You’ll get bags under your eyes.” Rowan examined his aunt. “Too late. There’s already a full luggage set in situ.”

  “Brat. Give me coffee.”

  “It’s not ready yet. Give it a chance to brew.”

  Rowan gathered the discarded mugs, placing them in the sink to be washed later. He found two clean ones. “What are you working on?” His aunt, despite coming across as a scatty artist with a penchant for gypsy-style clothing, was a solicitor specializing in family law.

  “Will dispute. Old lady left everything to an animal shelter. Daughter’s challenging it, claiming her mother was senile.”

  “Was she?”

  “Nope. Sharp as a tack.”

  “Well, good luck with that.” Rowan tapped his foot, waiting for the coffee machine to finish hissing at him. He poured two mugs, putting one in front of Rory. “There you go. Instant revival.”

  “You know you’re my favorite nephew, right?”

  “I’m your only nephew.” Rowan poured himself a bowl of Coco Pops, drowned them in milk then waited for it to turn brown. He didn’t bother to sit, but ate leaning against an oak dresser that had probably stood in the same place since the 1700s.

  “That’s not a healthy breakfast for a growing boy. I’m obligated to tell you that as your older, wiser relative. Now pour me a bowl too. A big one.”

  Rowan snorted. “I think I’ve reached my growth limit at five feet nine. You’re only eight years older than me and I dispute the ‘wiser’ bit.” Rory was his dad’s sister. A late baby, she was fifteen years younger than her brother.

  “You’re twenty-one—just a baby.”

  “A baby that has an interview.” Rowan couldn’t help grinning.

  “For The Retreat? Wow! Go you. Come here and hug me. I’m too tired to get up.”

  Rowan put his bowl on the table before leaning down to receive his hug.

  “You’ll have to tell me all about it tonight. We’ll celebrate with a Chinese takeaway. Now get me my cereal then skedaddle—you’re going to be late.”

  Rowan glanced at the clock. “Oh, nuts!” He delivered Rory’s breakfast, grabbed his coat then ran for the door. Briar Rose Cottage was at one end of the picture postcard village, Fordingby Manor was at the other. Once the home of the local squire, it boasted a carriage arch, leaded windows and extensive gardens. A review in a national newspaper had described it as ‘a Cotswold beauty’—Fordingby Manor is an ultra-chic and immensely relaxing retreat for grown-ups, with magnificent gardens, contemporary rooms, superlative food and an ultra-luxurious spa. It lived up to the hype. Rowan jogged along a road lined with golden stone cottages, any of which could grace the lid of a chocolate box. Not that he’d ever seen a box of chocs with a picture on the lid. In fact, Rory’s chocolate addiction ensured the lid of any box that made it to Briar Rose Cottage was discarded and the contents scoffed in record time. Rowan only got a look in because Rory thought strawberry creams were created by the devil in a moment of down-time between torturing the damned. He giggled at the thought, tripped on a loose paving slab then lurched into an ivy-clad garden wall, banging the same hip he’d bruised in the shower. A large gray cat eyed him with disdain from the gatepost. There was no time to stop and feel sorry for himself. He rubbed at the sore spot but kept walking—well, limping.

  Five minutes later, Rowan slipped through a side gate into Fordingby Manor’s walled garden. He wove a path through the rose beds, skirted a manicured lawn where Elton the peacock was showing off to his harem of uninterested hens, then rounded the fountain. He paused to toss a penny into the water, muttering a wish under his breath. His donation joined hundreds of other glittering copper discs and Rowan wondered how many of the wishes attached to them had been granted. He shrugged—he’d take a chance on anything that might help him at the interview. He shot through the staff entrance with two minutes to spare before the start of his shift. He used the precious time to hang up his coat, check the shine on his shoes and run a hand through his tousled hair. He walked toward the concierge desk in reception just as the ornate grandfather clock on the far wall struck seven.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hoyte.” Rowan assumed a stance with his feet a shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back and awaited the critical scrutiny of his boss. It was a routine he was familiar with. Alvin Hoyte was a formidable figure. Six feet four, he had fast bowled for the West Indies in his youth, regularly decimating England’s best batsmen—a fact he reminded Rowan of at least once a week. Now he held court as the chief concierge at Fordingby Manor and considered it his God-given duty to turn Rowan into a first-class assistant. His philosophy for staff training consisted of ninety percent stick and a few meager slivers of carrot.

  “Mr. Stanton.” Alvin’s deep, lyrical tones relayed his displeasure. “You are supposed to be here five minutes before your shift starts, not five seconds.”

  Rowan didn’t bother trying to defend himself. He stood still while Alvin picked a couple of bits of hedge from his trousers.

  “Have a run-in with some foliage on the way here, did you?”

  “I kind of tripped. The wall I hit had stuff growing on it.” Rowan examined the shiny toe caps of his shoes.

  “Hmm. We can discuss standards of appearance later. In the meantime, a bouquet has arrived for the Sapphire Suite, Mrs. De Witt in the Coach House has requested tickets for The Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford tonight, and there are four c
opies of The Times awaiting your attention with the iron before you deliver them.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hoyte.” Rowan fought back a sigh and prayed that the four hours until his morning break would go by quickly.

  Chapter Two

  “You are the most accident-prone, clumsy, hopeless friend I ever had! Here, take this.”

  Rowan took possession of an ice pack handed to him by his friend and colleague Ed Sperrit. He pressed the cool gel pouch to his eye. “You’re a chef. Why aren’t you giving me steak?”

  “Like I’d waste a good piece of sirloin on your useless mug. Now shut up and keep that ice on your face. It’ll help with the swelling.” Ed stood, hands on hips, five feet two inches of redheaded annoyance. “And I’m not a fully qualified chef…yet.”

  “Pudding boy then.” Rowan flinched as Ed smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey! I’m already injured.”

  “Call me pudding boy again and you’ll have more to worry about than a black eye and a sprained wrist. I create magnificent desserts to tantalize the taste buds of my discerning clients.”

  “Custard. You make custard.”

  “Philistine.”

  “Food snob.”

  “I can own that.” Ed extracted a tubular bandage from the first aid kit. “This is the best I can do for your wrist. The breakroom is not equipped for major emergencies.” He slid the stretchy fabric onto Rowan’s arm. “Now tell me again how you managed to get in such a state.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Rowan declared.

  “It never is.”

  “Hey!”

  “So, you weren’t the person who fell over a crate in the wine cellar, grazing both knees like a four year old in the playground?”

  “I saved that bottle of Chambertin Grand Cru.” Rowan felt he should defend himself. The wine had been worth a small fortune.

  “And you weren’t the person Elton chased into the shrubbery where you ripped your trousers, cut your thigh and exposed your SpongeBob underpants to Mrs. Templeton-Jones?”

  “I was taking snacks to her grandchildren. How was I to know Elton had a thing for chocolate spread sandwiches? And besides, she told me it was the most fun she’d had in years.”

  “And this time?” Ed slumped in one of the breakroom’s well-worn armchairs.

  “Royston Arkwright wanted fresh ice for his malt whiskey, so I took up a bucket but he was in the bath… I was trying not to look at his bits but I had to get the ice in his glass without dropping it on him and those tongs are so fiddly. Anyway, I got two cubes in the drink but then the bubbles parted—that was a sight I will never forget—so I took a step back. The floor was wet and I slipped. The ice bucket went flying so there were cubes everywhere and when I tried to get up I fell down again. I caught my face on the corner of the sink…”

  “And is Mr. Vickers as big as his ego suggests?” Ed fell around laughing.

  “Let’s just say that forestry is an appropriate industry for him. He must be right at home with all that wood.” Rowan tried not to laugh because it hurt too much. “How does it look?” He took the ice pack away from his face.

  “I think Alvin will have you locked in the linen closet doing stocktakes for the rest of the week,” Ed replied.

  Rowan groaned. “Oh God. I have an interview on Friday. What are they going to think?”

  “What? You didn’t tell me! For that place in the New Forest? The den of kink?”

  “It’s called The Retreat, Ed, and I only got the letter this morning. I didn’t have a chance to tell you yet.”

  “Wow. You’re really going to do it? I mean, I know you’re into all that weird stuff, but are you sure it’s what you want?”

  “BDSM is not weird! It’s an alternative lifestyle and, yes, I’m sure. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look after someone.”

  “And get your arse spanked in return?”

  “Maybe.” Rowan’s cheeks heated. “I have to get the job first.” He flexed his aching wrist and winced. “How long does it take for a sprain to heal?”

  “Do I look like a nurse? I’ve used ten minutes of my precious break time patching you up. How about you show some gratitude and make me a coffee?”

  Rowan shook his head, immediately regretting the action which sent pain shooting through his face. “I think I could have managed. But, out of the goodness of my heart, I will make coffee. Only because I want one too.” He dragged himself up. “And ibuprofen. I need that as well.”

  The junior staff’s breakroom was in the manor’s cellar, the only natural light coming from a grilled window at ceiling height. Despite the gloom, it was a comfortable space with cast-off furniture from the hotel lounges, a well-equipped kitchen and a full-sized pool table. Rugs and lamps made it cozy. At eleven in the morning, Rowan and Ed had the room to themselves. The housekeeping staff were hard at work getting vacated rooms ready for new guests, while the two women on reception would be checking people out. Ed only had a short breathing space before he had to get back to lunch prep. He worked an awkward split shift with a few hours off in the afternoon while Rowan went through from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, a pattern he worked for four weeks before switching to evenings when he worked from four till midnight. He and Ed usually managed one break together each day.

  Rowan spooned fresh coffee into a cafetière. “I’ll miss you if I get this job.”

  “Of course you’ll get it. You’re cute, you have this whole innocent vibe going on, and you like taking orders from men in leather.” Ed grinned.

  “Who said anything about leather? Though I do like the smell. Rubber too—stand me in a garage with a pile of new tires and I’m happy.”

  “Christ, you’re weird. Most people love the smell of fresh-baked bread or melting chocolate…” Ed sniffed the air. “Or coffee. But rubber? I suppose it’s good in case they squish you into one of those latex suits or a mask.”

  “Not all Doms have a rubber fetish.” Rowan handed Ed a mug of coffee. He took a sip before moaning his appreciation.

  “Oh, that’s good. So what will you have to do at this interview? Is it at The Retreat?”

  “It’s in London at a club called The Underground. The club’s owner also owns The Retreat. It’s much easier to get to—they sent me an open train ticket so I can work out the best time to leave. I have to confirm I’m coming by email, but the letter didn’t say anything else. I suppose they’ll ask me questions just like any other job interview.”

  “It’s not your average hotel job, though, is it? So I doubt it’ll be an average interview.” Ed laughed. “I’m picturing you kneeling in your underwear while some guy in a harness flogs you between questions.”

  “And this is why I don’t take you along when I go to a club.” Rowan chewed on a nail. “I never thought about it. They might want me to take my clothes off.”

  “Better make sure you wear your kinkiest undies.” Ed snorted coffee.

  “My supportive best friend. I don’t have anything kinky and Friday’s my only day off. I won’t have time to shop.” Rowan thought about the contents of his underwear drawer, inducing a state of near panic.

  “You have heard of the internet?” Ed asked. “And express delivery. Do you need a brown paper bag?”

  “No…no.” Rowan swallowed more coffee. “I didn’t think this through, did I? I mean, I understand what the job entails and mentally I’m prepared for that but there are hoops to jump through before that stage. I want it so badly. I need to think about how I’m going to handle things if I don’t get it because chances are I’m going to screw up this interview. That’s if they don’t take one look at the state of me and ask me to leave.”

  “Rory will be able to lend you some makeup—you can cover up the bruising so it’ll hardly notice. And they will want you. You have to believe in yourself. You told me once that being submissive doesn’t mean you’re weak. Time to listen to yourself.”

  Rowan smiled. “You remembered something I told you. That has to be a good omen.�
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  “It was a one-off. Don’t let it swell your head.” Ed swallowed the last of his coffee. “I have to get going or chef will be finding new and sadistic ways to abuse me. I know that’s your thing but I’m as vanilla as my custard.”

  “Jen loves you. She won’t hurt you. Much.” Rowan pictured the feisty head chef brandishing a ladle. She was short, plump and had the attitude of a starving Rottweiler when it came to food. Possessive didn’t begin to describe her attachment to her precious kitchen. She did have a soft spot for Ed, though. She worked him like a dog but only because she wanted him to be the best chef he could be. She and Alvin got along well, commiserating with each other over the failings of their respective apprentices whilst plotting ways to make them work harder.

  “I’ll see you later,” Rowan said. “Rory and I are having Chinese tonight if you want to come round.”

  Ed made his way to the door.

  “I don’t finish until nine-thirty tonight so I’ll have to take a rain check. But give me a call if you need help shopping for underwear. I have links to some great brands.”

  Rowan could hear him laughing all the way down the corridor.

  * * * *

  That evening, Rowan sat at the kitchen table with his aunt, laptop open in front of him. “I had no idea there was so much choice when it came to clothing that hardly ever gets seen.” He clicked on another link.

  “I think the general idea is that it does get seen.” Rory lifted her glass of wine in a toast. “How did Alvin react to your little accident today?”

  “I think it’s safe to say that my boss was not impressed by the state of his assistant. He sent me to the silver room, where we keep the hotel’s banqueting plate, with a tin of polish, some rags and orders not to be seen for the rest of the day.”