A/N: Finally Chap. 6! I know it has been a long time since Chap. 5. I had some catching up to do on some other fics and RL stuff after concentrating on this fic during Twi25. I am sincerely hoping future updates to be more frequent, as I'm going to trade off back and forth between this and my other WIP.

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Previously:

As the color drained from Edward's face at the reality of her words, she reached up and slapped him across the face. She pushed him away and gathered up what was left of her clothing around her, as she looked him one last time in the eye. Her eyes were hard and her face expressionless. "Now get out." And she slipped down off the table and rushed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

~*~ Alone ~*~

"Your bath is ready, Edward."

Edward turned his head in Carlisle's direction but his eyes didn't meet the older man's. They were dull and unseeing.

"Thank you, that will be all, Carlisle. You can go now." The words he spoke were raspy and low, barely audible.

Carlisle pivoted on his heel, but hesitated, looking back at the distressed young man. "Are you okay Edward? If you'd like to talk . . . ."

"Please Carlisle, just go. I'm fine."

Carlisle knew he wasn't fine. He had seen Edward walk out of that building tonight and what he saw scared him. Edward's jacket hung off his shoulders haphazardly, his shirt unbuttoned. His hair was a mess and the expression on his face was one of a tortured man in shock. He'd half-stalked, half-stumbled toward the car, and when he got in, he collapsed heavily against the seat. He leaned his head back against the seatback and closed his eyes and ordered Carlisle to take him home. He'd not said one more word the entire ride.

Carlisle was worried about him, but he also knew it wasn't his place to pry. Edward would come to him when he was ready, he always did. Edward was one who needed to work his problems and thoughts around and around in his head until it drove him mad, and then he usually would come to Carlisle for reassurance and counsel.

"As you wish. Good night Edward."

~*~O~X~O~*~

Edward sat staring straight ahead in the full tub, the water quickly turning cold. He kept hearing her voice, her words in his head, over . . . and over . . . and over. I don't have to be beholden to any man ever again. All this time he had imagined her with all those men from the bar, had imagined her with the Viscount—and she hadn't been with any of them.

He was repulsed and ashamed of his actions tonight. Ashamed of all the things he had assumed about her and all the vile things he'd said to her. And repulsed at the way he just . . . took her. He couldn't believe how he lost such control. But there was something about her. The minute he saw her, the minute he breathed in her air; he lost himself, he lost all sense of reason. There was only . . . her. He needed to touch her, to feel her, to be with her.

But to do so, so forcefully . . . thinking about it again caused his contemptible male body to react. He leapt out of the tepid water and ran to the sink basin, retching and sputtering, sick at what he'd done tonight and sick that it aroused him so.

When he finished he sat on the vanity chair nearby. He couldn't get his mind to shut off, remembering . . . the feel of her creamy, velvet skin, the feel of her moist lips on his. And then . . . despite how forceful he was with her, the way her lips molded and moved with his, the way her body arched into his, the way she gasped and moaned for him.

He stood up and his stomach convulsed again, heaving and expelling all that he had in him until there was no more. Still breathing heavily he leaned his forehead against the cool wall. She'd wanted him. She'd protested at first but the way her body had given in, had taken him in, all of him. The way she clutched and clung to him, and shuddered around him. Dear God, the way he treated her and yet—she still wanted him.

And then he remembered afterward—the hard look in her eye, the things she said, the slap to his face. He glanced up into the mirror, his left cheek still tinged with red from her powerful hand. He certainly deserved everything she threw at him and then some.

Now get out. Her last words kept repeating and reverberating in his brain. The tone in her voice was hard and cold . . . and final.

His heart plummeted in his chest. If he had ever had any small, slight chance with her, he had ruined it all in the space of one short hour. She surely would not let him into her life again. She was done with him. As well she probably should be. He didn't deserve her.

~*~ O ~*~ X ~*~ O ~*~

Bella slammed the door behind her and leaned back on it heavily. When she finally heard movement in the next room and then the quiet shutting of her apartment door indicating he had left, then and only then did she let go. She took in several deep breaths and tears sprang to her eyes. She glanced down, taking in her appearance. Her torn slip and gown were in shreds, barely covering her. There were a few areas on her skin that were starting to color, especially on her arms, where he had grabbed her. She held up her hand and saw it was trembling, as a shiver washed over her near naked body. She rushed over to the bathtub and started drawing a bath, letting the water heat up.

~*~ O ~*~ X ~*~ O ~*~ X~*~ O ~*~ X ~*~ O ~*~

After burying her father the young lady had returned home to an empty apartment with a late-rent notice on the door and mostly-bare cupboards. She had already cried so many tears she had none left. Instead she sat and stared emptily at her surroundings until dark and sleep eventually overtook her.

The next morning she awoke to the same bleak existence she had fallen asleep to the night before. Her father was the only family she had and with him gone, she now had no one to lean on anymore—she had to take care of herself. So she picked herself up, dried the last tears away and went off to find herself a job. She knocked on the door of every business she could think of. A few places thought she was too young. Most places said they simply weren't hiring right now. She worked at the grocer and she tried working as a maid, but with her clumsiness those jobs didn't last long.

One night she was heading home after another long day walking the streets, looking for work. Her feet hurt, she was exhausted, discouraged and hungry. Her head down, nearly asleep on her feet, tears of frustration rolling down her face she literally ran into an older woman standing on the street corner and nearly knocked them both down. As she tried to apologize, the woman with flowing, fiery, red hair whirled on her with eyes blazing. As the young woman sputtered and babbled an apology, the older woman suddenly was eyeing her up and down, sizing her up. The young woman was a disheveled mess and clearly desperate. The red-headed woman played on the young woman's innocence and desperation, first by being sympathetic to her and loaning her money, and then drawing her into working for her on the streets as a "lady of the evening."

The young woman was shocked and scared when she realized what she would have to do, but she was already beholden to the red-headed witch and she needed money. She had tried so hard to find a job for weeks and had come up with nothing. It was either this or ending up out on the street with nothing but the clothes on her back.

During her first "job" she had cried the whole time. It was painful and she felt so ashamed and dirty. But at the end of the day when the red-headed lady handed over her portion of what she had earned, it was more than she could ever make in a day working as a house maid or in a store.

So the young woman got up the next day and did the same thing again . . . and the next day, and the next day. Eventually she grew numb to the men and to the idea of what she was doing and learned how to close herself off.

One day she noticed a tall dark-skinned man with jet-black hair in a ponytail watching her from across the street. She assumed he would come over to inquire of her services, but he never did. Instead he moved on after a few minutes and she quickly forgot about him.

Except that he passed by again the next day . . . and the next. And always he would stop and watch her.

One day she turned around and suddenly there he was, literally inches from her face. Assuming what he wanted, she recited her usual opening line to him. He smiled at her and replied that yes he was interested but not the way she thought. He paid her for an hour of her time then took her around the corner for a cup of tea. And just like that, the young lady found herself adjusting to another radical change in her life.

The dark man, a native from America who had come across the sea seeking fortune, owned his own business. In fact he and the red-haired woman dealt in the same profession. The difference being, that he opted to run his "business" a bit more discreetly, serving a more elite type of clientele. His girls worked in the lap of luxury compared to the girls on the streets.

The man had been taken with the beautiful brunette from the first moment he saw her on the street. She seemed a bit shy and awkward but there was something special about her that just stood out from the other girls on the streets, a strength and a resolve that existed underneath the awkwardness.

It required some seedy negotiation but eventually the dark-haired man was able to get the red-haired woman to release the young woman to him. In turn, young woman liked the man from America and she was so happy to be rid of the red-haired woman and to be off the streets she didn't care about much else.

Overnight she went from working on dirty, damp streets to a lush, opulent club dripping in dark wood and velvet. She wore fancy dresses of the finest fabrics and even fancier corsets and stockings. Her hair curled and rouge on her cheeks, she did not look at all like the same person. She still was in the business of servicing men for money, but the men were of a better social class and the money was far more than she could have ever dreamed. The man from America was extremely good to his girls—paying them well, making sure they had anything they needed, and making sure the clients treated them well. Inappropriate behavior was not tolerated. He never thought twice about throwing a customer out or banning them from the club if they caused a problem for one of his girls.

Many years went by, and the young woman remained a favorite of the American man. They developed a close friendship, in fact he was the only real friend the young woman had ever had. She eventually began to help him run the club, working side-by-side with her friend.

He poured so much of himself into the work of owning and maintaining his business that he ignored the initial symptoms that told him something was wrong with his health. One day the young woman found him collapsed on the floor in the back room and within a few days he was gone. He had succumbed to scarlet fever. The young woman was devastated and found herself once again mourning the loss of the most important person in her life.

This time however, she would not be left scrambling, trying to find work and put food on the table. She was amazed to discover that her wonderful friend had left her an amazing gift—he bequeathed the entire club to her, and her alone. She became the only female in all of London to own a gentleman's club. The day the lawyer handed her the key, she left her "working girl" days behind her and walked in the front door a real businesswoman. To honor her friend and his gift she changed the name of the club, placing both of their names in the title. He would never be forgotten.

~*~ O ~*~ X ~*~ O ~*~ X~*~ O ~*~ X ~*~ O ~*~

Bella craned her neck, leaning her head back over the edge of the porcelain tub. The scalding water heated her skin and seeped into her tight muscles. She purposely made the water as hot as she could stand it, wanting to burn off all traces of his touch, his smell.

She never should have opened the door; clearly he was insane, coming night after night to the club, then following her to her apartment. Any other patron, she would have been notifying the police as soon as she could get word to them.

But Edward was not just "any other patron." Bella had known the Masen family would be in attendance at the ball and she knew so many years had passed that they would not recognize her. Lord and Lady Masen probably barely saw her when her parents worked for them, there is no way they would know her now or remember her.

And Edward . . . he was just a baby. He surely would not remember the little dark-haired girl that once played with him all those many years ago. She was certainly not a little girl anymore. And he was definitely not a baby anymore—he was all man now. She remembered looking across the crowded room and seeing him for the first time that night, before he had ever taken notice of her. He had the same strange bronze-tinted hair, but he was tall and lean, his gaunt face showing off well-defined cheekbones. Every young lady in the room was fully aware of him and gossiped about him—who would he dance with this evening, why was he not courting anyone. They followed his every move. He was the prize they all coveted, the most eligible bachelor in the room.

Her reaction surprised herself as well. Her breath stopped for a moment and her heart skipped a beat at his beauty and . . . something more, she wasn't sure what at the time. There was a strange pull she felt to him, as if her body instantly knew of its own accord when he was in the room. She realized she had felt the same pull when she was a child, though at the time she assumed it was strictly curiosity.

She tried to ignore him the rest of the evening. But then he caught her on the balcony . . . and then he wanted to dance. She should have ran from him then, she should have said no. Because when she looked into his emerald eyes, when the heat of his hand touching her body electrified them both and she saw the look on his face, she knew. She knew he felt the connection too.

God why, why couldn't he let it go? After he found out what she was, why did he keep coming to the club every night? Why was he so persistent, why didn't he just forget her? He knew they could not be together. She fought every night to not go over to him, it was for his own good that he just forget her. It was pity for him that led her to open her door tonight, hoping she could finally persuade him to leave her alone.

She knew he had been drinking at the club, but she had not expected such anger from him. And then suddenly he was gripping her arms and pressing himself against her and nipping at her neck and . . . it was all too much. Her traitorous body cared not for what was right or what was proper or what could or couldn't be between them—her body burned for his and only craved more.

Bella shivered in the tub, her body cold and yet heated all at once at just the memory of him touching her, of him inside her. Even now she felt the heat coiling again between her legs. So many men she had been with in her young life, all forgettable. Not one of them had ever made her feel like he did. Not one of them had ever brought out the sounds from her that he had. And never before had she felt such overwhelming pleasure. Her whole body shook with intense need for him. She was embarrassed at her body's betrayal, after the things he said, the things he said during . . . but she couldn't stop herself.

Finally, after, she managed to pull herself together, at least mentally. She didn't know why she even said anything to him, she didn't owe him any answers, and he certainly didn't deserve any explanation of her associations with the Viscount. And yet she told him anyway. He was wrong in his tirade and she needed him to know that. Even though society would always brand her, she was not a common whore—at least not anymore— and she refused to be treated as such.

Not that it mattered whether he knew the truth or not, she was sure he would not be back, now. He had gotten what he wanted. And if he did return, she vowed she would be stronger this time. No, she would not give into him again.