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‘I'll behave, I promise.’Those words sent tingles up my spine. ‘You don't need to fight me yet.’ What did 'yet' mean?
I tossed the stupid phone in the drawer and threw myself into my work. An hour later, I finally gave up. I couldn't focus. Mr Tell pinged around my brain, refusing to let me think about anything else.
It struck me that I knew almost nothing about this intense man. My instincts were all telling me to run, but why? I had no idea. So I did a stupid thing. I decided to Google him. I bypassed the many images of him, the sight of that mouth making my skin flush. I didn’t need to get lost in the memories of what that mouth had done to me last night. I needed a clear head and cold, hard facts.
I scrolled through dozens of articles before I spotted one written ten years ago that caught my eye.
Alfie Tell: The scandalous life of London's most notorious playboy.
By David Hanson
Oh hell. I knew it. I knew he was trouble. I also knew I shouldn't read it but if this man had a sordid past, I needed to know about it. So I took a deep breath and read on…
Arriving at the infamous Never Tell Clubhouse in London, I feel a twinge of trepidation.
Inside lies a man who, at just 23, is already a legend.
Alfie Tell, the second offspring of hotel tycoon Joseph Tell, began his rebellion at the tender age of 16 when he threw a party at his boarding school in Sweden. A party that resulted in 18 arrests and £50,000 worth of damage.
At 18, he - along with four of his friends - founded the exclusive Never Tell Club. In the years since, the young Lothario's name has become synonymous with lavish parties attended by the highest in society—sporting royalty, Hollywood royalty and, of course, actual royalty.
It pains me to tell you that I am explicitly forbidden from describing the exterior or surrounding gardens of the mansion. All I will tell you is that what I see has me awestruck. I stand outside the club, the doors as intimidating as their owner's reputation, trying to prepare myself for whatever I might find inside. I swallow my nerves and knock.
The door is swung open a moment later by a half-naked woman wearing what appears to be the bottom half of a maid’s uniform. Her breasts are bare and she has her mouth taped shut.
Before I can comment on her bizarre attire, she gestures me into an impressive foyer.
Her eyes cast down, she turns and leads the way up upstairs. I follow her like a lamb to the slaughter.
I trail a hand along the banister as we ascend, then follow her down a narrow hallway. It is dark and poorly lit and I feel a growing sense of unease as I follow the gagged, half-naked woman.
We pass a series of open doors and I can't help but sneak a peek. There is a room with a hot tub, another room full of cushions and an abandoned hookah, another containing an enormous bed with a series of hooks and ropes attached.
It is unnerving to see rooms like that empty, rooms that echo of debauchery and hold the ghosts of past sins.
Finally, the maid comes to an abrupt halt at a door painted blood-red. The faint sound of classical music reverberates through the door. She knocks twice, then abandons me.
A haughty voice inside commands my entrance and I let myself in, whereupon I am immediately greeted by a dart that whizzes past my face and sticks in the door approximately two inches from my left eye. A raucousbout of laughter follows from a group of four young men surrounding a billiards table, each of them shirtless and wearing only trousers and braces. These are his Tellers. Co-owners of the Never Tell Club. Kal Strauss, Eli Roth, Cas Nova and of course, Damien Marx.
A young woman's legs stick out from under the billiards table, revealing slender ankles and one Louboutin shoe.
"We didn't interfere with her if that's what you're thinking," a bored voice says behind me.
I turn and there, sprawled on a chaise-lounge with a cigar in one hand, is the infamous Alfie Tell.
The sickeningly handsome young man is dressed in a blue-black three piece, his jacket cast aside, his shirt-sleeves rolled over.
"Vivaldi?" I ask and nod at the record player where the Winter section of Vivaldi's The Four Seasons is playing.
The young Lothario seems vaguely pleased with my knowledge of classical music. He waves his cigar at the chair nearest to him, apparently inviting me to sit down.
"Is she alright?" I ask, nodding at the girl under the table. I reach for my phone to record our conversation before remembering it isn't there, as recordings of this interview were strictly prohibited.
"I imagine so," he answers in a bored, half-drunk drawl.
"And the maid?"