Solomon's Secrets: Chapters 8, 9 and 10

I enjoyed posting a chapter a day last week and finding appropriate images to share with you, so this week for

Operation Author: 365 Actions to Becoming a Successful Author 

I'm going to continue to serialize chapters from Solomon's Secrets. Today I'm sharing three chapters; 8, 9 and 10 - because 8 and 10 are really short.

Warning:  
Things start getting saucy and this content is not suitable for under 18's

 

Bristol

 She’s a liar. She knows things. Sees things.

I know it. I see through her.

But it makes me want her.

She carries herself like the world can never touch her. Never lets anyone in. But he’s getting closer. A kiss, a contact so fragile it could shatter in seconds. It melts, but leaves its scent. A whiff of desire.

A little more. Just a little push. If he could only have the courage to do it. Jon is my way in.

He will work his way in. He can open her up in so many different ways.

Then I can tease out her inner self. Bring her to the surface. Bring her to truth. Bring her to climax. I’ll feel her inside me. He will step aside and I’ll know her completely. We can strip away all the pretense. Force her honesty.

Her soft, alabaster flesh will be pressed into mine. Her warmth and sweat right there, next to me, swallowing me. I’ll fill her. Push myself in. Work deeper. Her body under mine, our bodies as one. She’ll want it. She may resist, but I will have what I want from her. Jon’s time will be up and she’ll be mine.

Two weeks later

Harbourside, Bristol

“I’m so glad to get those shoes off!” said Sasha, clambering onto the settee beside him and resting her feet on a cushion. She took each foot in turn and massaged her toes.

“Thank you for coming to the party with me. I appreciate it,” said Jon.

“Hey, no problem. As soon as you told me there was a free bar it was a no brainer!”

They laughed together, then settled into quiet comfort.

“Seriously, Sasha. Those awards ceremonies are no fun without someone to share them with. If it hadn’t been for you I’d have been stuck with a bunch of boring old farts in ill-fitting suits.”

She smiled and tipped her head back into settee.

“They weren’t so bad. For accountants.”

Jon chuckled and shuffled back into the opposite corner, his eyes passing over her.

“The coffee’s smelling good,” he said, making conversation.

“The machine will be a couple more minutes. Are you sure you don’t want something stronger?”

“No, no. I have work in the morning. I’ll have a quick drink then head on back to the hotel. I just wanted to make sure you got back safely really.”

He idly twisted his fingers through his hair and she was fascinated by his movements for a moment.

“You tried to tell me at the party, but am I right in thinking you’ve tracked down Assim Hadad?” he asked.

“I have. I managed to charm his secretary into revealing his schedule,” she was still feeling pleased with herself, “He’ll be leaving his Paris apartment in a few weeks to fly out to Alexandria for a week. There is a window of three days when the place will be empty without any danger of his housekeeper interrupting. It’s worth a shot.”

He smiled and nodded.

“I knew you’d get there,” he said, “What about the manuscript, or the other rings – any progress?”

“Nothing much. But if we follow the clues to the rings I have a feeling they will lead us to the manuscript.”

He smiled in satisfaction.

“So when do you set off?”

“Me?”

“Sure. Why not? Fancy a bit of breaking and entering?” he winked, “I can get you there, but you need to get in. Are you alright with that?”

“I guess so. All I need to do is sneak in, look around and sneak out. As long as his schedule doesn’t change it should be easy. But I have a busy couple of weeks, I’m not sure when we can meet next before I set off.”

She returned to massaging her feet and winced, finding a particularly sore spot.

“I’m heading back to Nice tomorrow afternoon, but will be back in London at the end of next week. Where will you be then?” he said.

She stopped rubbing her feet for a moment and looked up at him, “That works out rather well actually. I’m working at the British Museum for the next two weeks, assisting them with some research for a joint project with the University. I could meet you in London?”

“Excellent. I’ll find you.” He smiled and watched her go back to rubbing her feet.

“What are you working on at The British Museum?”

“Some artefacts from a copper age burial mound was recently unearthed in Wiltshire. Contractors stumbled across it preparing the groundwork for a new housing estate. Bristol University sent a team over and they’ll be using some of the resources in London to examine them. I’m there just to advise and help train the students.”

“So you do still get involved with archaeology then? I always thought it was something of a diversion for you, working on this manuscript?”

“Well, it’s what the university pay me for!” she said, grinning.

“So why are you so obsessed with finding the rings and the manuscript? Is it because of the box?” he asked.

A flash of panic ran through her. Why is he asking about the box? She forced a smile, trying to mask her guilty conscience.

“What do you mean?” she asked, then looked away.

“I think you know what I mean Sasha. What happened in Varna with David?”

She laughed nervously, “Let me grab those coffee’s for us.”

She got up but he gripped her arm to stop her. The grip was gentle, easy enough for her to shake him off, but he was determined to get an answer from her.

 “Leave the coffee for a moment,” he said, a note of irritation in his tone, smiling to try to mask it. She had to give him some sort of an answer, he was suspicious enough already.

“You already know David and I had an affair, so what do you think?”

She narrowed her eyes and glared at him.

“Actually, up until this point I didn’t know for sure, but now I do.”

She felt her cheeks flame. Shit - now she had no chance to hide her guilt. She slumped back down onto the settee and rubbed her feet once more.

He laughed quietly then smiled at her, “It makes sense now. You admired David Thornton when you worked with him, you were a young student archaeologist and you idolised him. He took advantage of that, and perhaps of you and you feel you owe it to him to continue what he started.”

“It wasn’t quite like that.”

“But he’s the reason this is important to you, isn’t he? There are rumours he stole something from the Varna dig, and soon after he was dead.” He raised an eyebrow and searched her eyes. He knew she was hiding things from him.

 “David was no thief,” she said, leaving no doubt in her tone.

He looked at her, silent for a moment.

“I’m sure he wasn’t,” he said and a small smile flickered across his face. He watched her as she rubbed the balls of her feet, trying not to make eye contact with him.

 “Come on,” he patted his lap, “give them here. I’ve been told I have magical hands!”

The mood had shifted, as if both of them were making a conscious effort to be convivial.

She laughed, “Magical hands! Well, the mind boggles!”

He smiled broadly and gestured to her feet.

“Are you sure?” she said, her voice challenging him to reveal the punchline of the joke.

“Absolutely, come on. Let me. Consider it an apology for pressing you before.” A contrite smile on his lips.

She slid her feet onto his lap hesitantly and he wrapped his hands around them.

His fingers were soft and warm, like sliding her toes into woolly slippers on a cold night, “oh, that does feel good!”

She slid back and stretched along the settee as he got to work on her feet. Circling his fingers with firm pressure around the knuckles of her toes then slowly working the circles over the balls of her feet. He pressed his fingers into the tender flesh of her instep, cradling her calves gently across the impeccably smooth cloth of his trousers. The soft, luxurious, fabric sent shivers of pleasure along her legs as her skin brushed against him. She closed her eyes, enjoying the gentle tickle of his fingers along her toes.

“How’s that?” he said softly, his voice as soothing as his hands.

“Mmm. I agree on the magical hands.”

“What can I say, I’m a man of hidden talents.”

She chuckled quietly, the tensions melting away, the last vestiges of the evening’s wine still lingering, making her feel pleasantly woozy.

“I’m sure you are!” she muttered and stifled a yawn, “I suppose in your line of work, touch is important?”

“It is. I like to feel the quality of the silks I trade with my own fingers. I’ve been told I have a knack for picking up minute flaws only the most receptive sense of touch would notice. Flaws so insignificant most silk traders wouldn’t blink. I however, strive to experience perfection.”

He spoke almost reverently, his tone lyrical and enthralling. She could feel herself becoming more and more aroused by the patterns of his speech and the feel of his touch on her skin, working fluidly together to pull her deeper and more completely into the moment. It was the closest she’d had to intimate contact for a long time. Not since Tom.

“How do you experience perfection?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Moments. Snapshots. An enveloping sensation. It’s intangible, it’s infrequent but when you experience it, it swallows you completely.”

She could almost taste his words. Like sliding a beautifully cooked piece of meat around your taste buds or sinking into a bath of warm scented water. Was she experiencing perfection, right here, right now?

He had worked the circular movements further now and was pressing his fingertips into the voids bedside her Achilles tendons. The flexible skin sliding along the bones, the warmth of his touch rippling over her flesh. He methodically, hypnotically, rolled his fingers further along her leg, massaging her calves now, his touch moving rhythmically along the contours of her muscles. She groaned involuntarily. He slid his hands back down the front of her feet, trickling his fingers along the bones just below the surface, her skin undulating under the pressure. Then swept them back up over her shins. She slid further down the settee, her feet moving further across so her knees were almost over his lap. As she shifted her weight, she brushed her foot across his groin, feeling the hard mound in his trousers. She felt herself blush, hoping she hadn’t crossed an unseen boundary. She opened her eyes and looked at him, ready to apologise if necessary, but his face was set with a contented smile. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something lustful. He continued to work his hands in warming circles along her legs. They slipped under the hem of her dress then into the dip under her knees. She allowed her knees to fall away from each other, opening her legs a little.

“How are your feet now?” he asked. She opened one eye.

“I’d forgotten about those!”

He let out a soft laugh.

“If you want me to stop. Please say,” he said, pausing briefly.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed the words.

He applied a little more pressure and moved his hands to concentrate on one of her legs. He enclosed his hands around her thigh, moving further up. Levering apart her legs and tracing his hand along her inner thigh. His fingers worked slowly up, edging closer to her most intimate self. She was tingling all over. The room around them seemed to melt away as she allowed him to explore the contours of her skin.

Part of her longed for the intimacy, to feel good, to release herself to him - but something stopped her.

Her eyes snapped open.

“Stop,” she tried to say, but the words seemed to wrap around her tongue. She said it again, forcing the word, as if it had come from some deep primal part of her body, long forgotten.

“Stop.” This time it was unmistakable.

She closed her legs and pulled them away from him as if he had burnt her.

“What is it?” his voice full of distress, “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“No, no. Not that.” She shook her head and hid her face, pulling her knees up to her chin and hugging them, closing herself in.

“Sasha, I..” his hand hovered inches from contact, ready to reassure her. She shrank back, putting space between them.

An awkward silence lingered before she looked up at him. His eyes were filled with unease, anxiety – and something else. A darkness. For a split second she wanted to run. A strange sense of fear gripping her. She shook it away. Ridiculous, she told herself, there was no reason to fear him, it wasn’t logical. And yet…and yet?

“Forgive me Sasha. I’ve gone too far. I’m sorry.” He fumbled his way off the settee.

He paused, hovering beside her until she looked up and their eyes met.

“Should I leave?”

A weak smile fluttered across her face before she eventually answered him.

“No. I’m sorry Jon. I’ve had a lovely evening. I have, I’m just…I’m not ready for…” she offered him an apologetic smile.

Again, that darkness flicked across his face, before he wiped it clean with a tender smile.

“Please. Don’t apologise. You’re right. The timing is wrong. We’ve both had a drink. Let’s end tonight before we spoil it. Goodnight Sasha.”

He scooped up his jacket and left her apartment.

 

Bristol

Cruelty. Such cruelty. Why? Why does she do this? Does she get a kick from it? Does she enjoy making him squirm? Does she want to hurt him? Does she want to hurt me? I’ll show her hurt. Real hurt.

No.

No. I can’t. I won’t. She’s too precious.

What would Gabriel do? He was always more of a man than Jon.

Gabriel would tell us to be patient.

I must be patient.

My time will come.

*

Sasha's fear of commitment, but also a nagging sense that Jon Solomon is not all that he seems, drive her to push him away. She could easily have had a sexual encounter with him in this chapter. 

Can you guess who Jack is yet?

 

Tom Hiddleston as Jon Solomon (image from: http://thetomhiddlestoneffect.tumblr.com)

 

Kate Winslet as Sasha Blake (image from: http://www.public.fr)

Coming soon - Solomon's Secrets is in the final stages of preparation for publication. Help me to see it in print by pre-ordering now.

• e-Books £3
• Paperbacks £10 (inc P&P)

http://bit.ly/SolomonsSecrets_Fund

Solomon's Secrets: Chapter 7

Operation Author: 365 Actions to Becoming a Successful Author 

I'm serializing chapters from Solomon's Secrets.

I recommend that you read the previous few posts to get up to speed with the story so far. 

Enjoy, and please leave comments. Thanks

Harbourside, Bristol

 Her head throbbed, pressing in at her temples. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. But she was close, she could feel it. She needed his viewpoint. So far, ploughing through these scrawled texts was all retch and no vomit – it never got there. But could this be it?

The thumping at the door made her jump. She’d been expecting him, had been the one to call him, but her nerves were on edge. Too many memories, too much sadness. These three little Moleskine books were all she had left of David, and until now, she had kept them locked away. Out of mind.

“Hang on!” She scrabbled to her feet, dancing between the notes, sketches and maps she had carpeted her apartment with.

She wound her unruly, unwashed hair up into a knot and grabbed a couple of hairpins from the bowl by the front door where she always dumped earrings, loose change and hair grips. She jabbed them into her hair, checked the mirror briefly, then flung the door open and waved him in.

“Hi – what’s up?” he said, following her in.

“Hey,” she said without looking, she carved a path back to the floor cushion, an island in a sea of paper, “I think I have something.”

“This place is a mess Sasha, I’m amazed you can find anything in here. Can I sit?”

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Try not to disturb anything.” She folded her legs under her again and flicked through one of the notebooks, chewing on a hairgrip.

Jon picked his way to the settee she’d pushed up to the balcony door.

She spat the hairgrip out, “Ah. Here it is,” she said, then handed him a book, her finger slid between a couple of pages.

He took the book from her with a faint smile she hardly noticed, and scanned through the handwritten text.

“What am I looking for?”

She reached across and grabbed the book, finding the appropriate line, “There.” She passed the book back, willing him to get it. To understand. To see through the fog of David’s disjointed journal entries.

“These are David Thornton’s journals?”

She nodded.

“Rational water? What does that mean – it makes no sense?”

“Of course it does. Water. Phlegm. Rational,” she jabbed the book, glaring at him.

“How much coffee have you drunk, Sasha?”

“Oh come off it, Jon. Don’t patronise me. It’s a ring.”

“What are you talking about?” his face was wrinkling into a frustrated knot now. She sighed.

“Water. One of the elements. The four rings represent each of the elements”

“You mean the four elements; earth, air, fire and water?” he stared at the book page, trying to make sense of the connections.

“The elements and the humours are linked. Balance. The four rings are about balance.”

“Humours?”

“Yeah, you know. The four humours? Ancient medical science, the theory Democritus would have been familiar with, proposed an excess or deficiency of one of four bodily fluids directly influenced people’s temperament and health; Yellow Bile, Black Bile, Phlegm and Blood. A healthy person is in balance between all four. Each humour was linked to one of the four elements. And each of them were indicative of a certain temperaments. The element of water was connected to phlegm and those with an excess of phlegm were said to be unemotional and calm. In Democritus’s time they would have been called phlegmatic but the modern term, used in eastern medicine, identifies the temperament as rational. Rational water.”

“So does he say where the water ring is?” he inched forward on the settee.

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What does that mean?” he sounded deflated.

“He talks about Giza, as in the pyramids, but spells it geezer. He’s referring to an Egyptian man.”

“Really?” Jon’s brow wrinkled. She would have to work harder to convince him.

“Dr David Thornton was a professor of archaeology – I’m pretty sure he could spell!”

“I know who he was,” he puffed air through his lips, “But it seems a bit of a leap.”

“Well, no. Look, here,” she snatched the book from him and flicked forwards a couple of pages, “You see,” she prodded the book and shoved it back at him. He took it and examined the page.

“A newspaper clipping?”

“Read it!”

He read the passage aloud; “Well known Egyptologist, Dr Assim Hadad, is to cut the ribbon to open the new exhibition at The British Museum next week, showcasing the contents of the tomb of Pharaoh Ramesses II’s son.  The tomb was first investigated in 1935 but recent work by an American Egyptologist, Kent Weeks, discovered more of the tomb and its fascinating contents. Artefacts and images from the tomb will be shown outside of Egypt for the first time and will be accompanied at the opening event with a talk from Dr Hadad, who has recently released a book about this tomb.” He looked up at her, his brows knitted, “So?”

“Look at the date.”

“April 1998?”

“It’s just before David went out to the Varna Necropolis. Where I first met him.”

“And?”

“He would have gone to the exhibition – he was working with The British Museum then. In fact they helped fund the Varna dig. What if he spent time with Hadad? Hadad must have one of the rings.”

“Why him? It’s a bit tenuous.”

“But David knew Hadad. And tenuous is better than nothing.”

“That proves nothing. You’re assuming David had some prior knowledge of the rings?”

Her body pulsed with the burden of her thoughts. She knew David’s connection to rings because he’d left one for her. But could she trust Jon with such information? If he knew she had two of the four rings she would have to explain how she got it. Then he’d know about the box.

She took a long breath, thought about what she could trust him with.

“Jon, there is something I need to tell you.”

His face changed. Something flickered across his eyes. Anger? Disappointment? Concern? She couldn’t say. That inexplicable shadow again.

This could be interesting?

“Go on,” he said.

“I never told you how I came to acquire the photocopy of the manuscript.”

“I had assumed it had come to you through the university?”

She shook her head, turned her eyes away. The guilt was a nail to the chest.

“David Thornton gave it to me.”

“Gave it to you? Why?” his voice changed, an edge of resentment in it.

“Well, left it to me, actually, along with these books,” she looked at him, trying to judge his reaction, they both paused, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But it didn’t seem important.”

“Didn’t seem important,” his voice dropped to a low hiss, “Is there anything else you have kept from me, Sasha? I’m paying you for your work on this. I expect to be able to trust you.”

“Of course you can trust me, Jon.”

She smiled weakly.

“Look, it’s not important,” she continued, trying to brush his doubts aside, “All that is important is we know David was aware of the rings and had acquired the photocopy from somewhere. And he has left us clues in these books. Clues we need to follow. What else do we have?”

Jon sighed and ran his fingers through his thick blonde curls. He rubbed his eyes, as if he way erasing that shadow.

“OK,” he sat back on the settee and smiled at her, his mood seeming to lift, “I’m sorry I doubted you. I find it hard to trust people, you know?”

“I hear you,” she smiled.

“A man with my money and influence. I’ve been burned before.”

Something flashed across his eyes. Some creeping malevolence. She was wary of him for a moment but quickly dismissed it. She imagined someone had stolen from him and he was still bitter about it. She could understand.

“Well rest assured, Jon. I trust you, and that’s not something I find easy either. I’m used to being self-reliant. It’s tough having a partner to work with. I’ve done it before and it was all a bit messy. Forgive me if I keep things back. It’s not deliberate, I’m just not used to sharing. That’s all.”

He offered her a warm smile. His eyes melting into it. He looked genuine, vulnerable somehow.

“Well,” he rested his hands on his knees and pulled himself upright, “good work, Sasha. I mean it. But you look like you need a break. Come on,” he held a hand out to her, “I’m taking you out.”

“But I’m a mess!”

“You always look good to me.”

She flashed a sarcastic smile, “Yeah right. You bloody charmer. And here am I, claiming to trust you!”  she laughed. “Come on, let’s get you some fresh air.”

He smiled and she took his hands, clambering to her feet. She was glad of the diversion. He was right. She needed to get out. It had been two days since she’d left the flat and had surely contributed to the headache.

“Let me just nip to the loo,” she said, slipping his grasp. She had the urge to kiss him. She brushed his arm, gave him a quick peck on the cheek then escaped to the bathroom, leaving him stood in a snowdrift of paperwork, looking bewildered.

*

Sasha Blake loves solving puzzles, it's why she became an archaeologist. She's stubborn, bordering on obsessive and is caught up in a mystery that started with her having an affair with her professor at University, Dr David Thornton. Fifteen years on, she is still trying to find out what he was hiding and why he died for it. She's getting closer but needs help.

Tom Hiddleston as Jon Solomon (image from: http://www.gannett-cdn.com)

 

Jude Law as Dr David Thornton (image from: http://www.listal.com)

 

 

Kate Winslet as Sasha Blake (image from: http://specialkatewinslet.blogspot.co.uk)

Bristol Harbourside apartments (image from: http://www.bristol-business.net)

 Tune in tomorrow for the next chapter...

Coming soon - Solomon's Secrets is in the final stages of preparation for publication. Help me to see it in print by pre-ordering now.

• e-Books £3
• Paperbacks £10 (inc P&P)

http://bit.ly/SolomonsSecrets_Fund


Thanks :)