Chapter 2

I had to start early. To my amazement, Zoe got up without a moment's protest; we showered (separately) and went down for breakfast.

"I need to head up to ... well, somewhere near Leeds."

"Can I come too?"

"No, Zoe, I'm sorry. I just can not take you with me today. Here's what I'm going to do. I'll leave pretty soon to miss the worst of the traffic. I won't be back until early evening. You can stay in the hotel and eat in the restaurant. I'm going to leave you some money, so if you like you can look for some more clothes." I paused and looked at her. "I'm ... not trying to get rid of you, but if you don't want to stay until you sort out the position with your family, you've got a little money to get home or whatever. Zoe ... if you do go, please leave the key at the desk."

"You're trusting me?"

"That far, yes."

I headed off for ... well, where I had to go, wondering. Would she be there when I got back? Did I mind, either way? Well ... yes, I did. She'd got under my skin.

It was a long day, made longer by the creeping, insidious worry. Perhaps ... yes, I can say I don't just sell the product. My Ph.D. isn't just decoration. Long, but finally satisfying as I set off on a busy M1, heading south for Sheffield.

I entered the hotel with mounting trepidation. What would I find?

I had to tap on the door, of course, wondering if I was going to have to go back to the desk and ask for a key. She must have been poised to respond because the door opened after barely enough time for someone to cross the room and turn the handle. She pulled the door open, stepped back and swept her arm round in invitation; I entered and as the door swung shut behind us, she was in my arms.

"I missed you," she said, and my heart did a somersault.

"I was hoping you'd still be here when I got back," I admitted.

"Where would I go?" She asked, "You hold the keys to my heart."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. 'Getting in deep, here, ' I thought.

"Are you hungry?" That seemed a safe subject and I needed to eat.

"Oh, yes! Where will you take me?"

"The hotel restaurant, if you don't mind."

"No, that's good. Can you wait a couple of minutes?"

I shrugged and my stomach rumbled right on cue. She giggled.

"I really mean just a couple of minutes."

She disappeared and, not more than three minutes later, reappeared in a simple dress. Very plain, reaching to below her knees and with long sleeves, it transformed her into a young lady. I looked at her, really ... it was like the first time. Average height – five foot six or so; slim (to be kind) long, dark blonde hair framing her oval face. Large, dark blue, expressive eyes. The dress flattered her slim hips and modest bosom. Aware of my scrutiny, she twirled in front of me.

"Do I pass?"

"With flying colours," I responded quietly.

"I spent all your money," she confessed.

"Worth every penny," I told her.

We ate roast lamb (which melted in the mouth) with perfectly cooked and presented vegetables. Zoe was every inch the demure lady. They wouldn't serve her with wine though, without some ID.

"Where were you born?" I was sipping coffee as she worked on a glass of apple juice and a plate of 'death-by-chocolate' gateau.

She looked at me sharply. "Why?"

"Because you could get a birth certificate from the local registrar."

"Oh..." she looked down at the table. Something in her tone made me look sharply at her. She was crying silently, tears dripping on her dessert.

"Zoe..." she didn't look up, so I spoke sharply. "Zoe!"

She stiffened, sat up straight and looked at me.

"You'll be angry with me."

"Maybe. But I'm not going to knock you about or anything like that."

She nodded. "I know, but..."

"Finish your cake, Zoe, and we'll go upstairs. You can make your confession in privacy. I promise I won't be angry. Not very, anyway."

Her appetite overcame her anxiety and she put the dessert away. I was pleased; she needed a bit of weight.

We got up from the table; she was nervous, but held her head up and tucked her hand into the crook of my arm as we left the restaurant.

Back in our room, she directed me to an arm-chair and sat on my lap, her face tucked in to the side of my neck.

"I lied to you," she confessed.

"Why am I not surprised?" I tried hard to keep my voice even.

"I'm sorry," she said in a very small voice. "I'm sixteen," she went on. "I thought you'd be afraid to keep me around. I really, really want to stay with you."

{In Britain, it is legal to marry a sixteen year-old, but only with the permission of the parent or guardian. An individual can decide for themselves at eighteen}

I wrapped my arms round her and held her close.

"I never thought I'd say this, but ... I really, really want to keep you. But I don't think I can, Zoe."

She buried her face against me and started to cry again.

"Have you heard from your mother?"

"I need to check my Yahoo account."

"Let's do that now."

"In a minute. I want you to hold me some more."

She held on for so long I was becoming uncomfortable and I'm sure she could feel the evidence of my arousal. She let me go and had a slight smile on her face as she turned away.

It didn't take long to fire up the computer and log her on. There was an answer to her email with two phone numbers, a mobile and a land-line. I noted them down, but Zoe sat looking at the screen, holding her lip between her teeth and frowning.

"I don't want to go back."

"Don't you want to see your parents?"

"Yes ... no ... I don't know..."

"What are you afraid of?"

"That my parents ... my father ... will keep me away from you..."

I placed a hand on each shoulder, standing behind her and gently working the muscles of her shoulders with my fingers. I could feel her tension subsiding, but I had to work at keeping my own tension from being transmitted through those same fingers. 'Get a grip, Alex. She's sixteen, for God's sake. Even if there was room in your life for a woman, she's a girl, not a woman'. But another voice saying, 'sixteen or not, she's more woman than any you've met before ... and she needs you.' My internal argument raged as I tried to calmly massage her shoulders.

"Zoe ... in a couple of years no-one will be able to make you do anything. We can keep in touch somehow. In a couple of years you may feel differently about me anyway. But I'm not going to do anything without your parent's approval until you're of age ... or until they reject you."

"Alex..." it was almost a wail.

Eventually I conceded that we'd leave the call until the morning.

It was like going to bed with a python. Not that I've ever done that. But she clung to me, took me into her, kept on until I could no longer – after three ejaculations – maintain an erection. When she finally believed I was done for the night (I wondered how many weeks it would be before I'd be able to do it again... ) she lay half on me and wet my chest with her tears.