When Robert woke up the next morning, he smelled coffee and bacon. He didn't want to go near the girl, but he was starving. He'd eat but then he'd stay away from her for the rest of the day, he decided. He dressed in his jeans and took a clean white t-shirt, since the black one was too dirty to wear.

He was about to leave the room when he hesitated, his hand on the door knob, feeling suddenly nervous. It seemed as soon as he'd lost control over his temper the day before, he'd had a panic attack, and he did not want to go through that again. He had to keep his anger under control today. There wasn't anything she could do that should affect him like that. He could do this, he told himself firmly before he opened the door.

The sitting room was empty. It was another grey day outside and it had rained but the room was bright. He walked in the kitchen. The girl had her back to him while she stood at the oven. She was wearing her ugly clothes and her hair was in the single braid down her back. When she turned and saw him, she looked surprised, but made an effort to hide it saying, "Hello." She looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes.

He said nothing and sat down at the kitchen table. She offered him tea, and he accepted. She'd made an entire pot for him and when she poured it, he could see her hand shaking slightly. He felt a pang of guilt seeing it, but pushed the feeling away.

While she poured, she stammered, "What's – what's your name?"

"What?" he asked loudly, surprised.

"I – I don't know your name," she said haltingly.

He couldn't believe it. "Moreau knows my name," he said, watching her suspiciously.

"Well, he didn't tell me," she said quietly, looking embarrassed but Robert was skeptical.

It was impossible they wouldn't have shared that information. She was obviously lying, attempting to manipulate him into chatting with her. He felt the anger starting to bubble up. Just keep it together, he told himself firmly. He was not going to allow her to make him lose control. At the same time, he felt a stubborn resistance to telling her his name. He wasn't going to play along with her games.

She waited, holding the tea pot while Robert refused to look at her. As the seconds passed, he could hear her breathing because she was standing too damned close to him and it was too damned quiet in the kitchen. Finally, it became awkward and he decided just to say it to get her to leave him alone.

"It's Robert," he muttered, refusing to look at her. He was never called Robert, he'd always been Robbie to his family and mates, but since that's what the bastard called him, he decided to say it. It gave him a small amount of satisfaction to know they didn't know it wasn't his real name.

"Thank you!" she replied, letting out a breath and sounding relieved. "It's been awkward for me. Not to be able to call you by your name, I mean." Robert couldn't believe what a smooth liar she was for someone so young.

She put the tea pot on the table and brought him his breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast. While he ate, she sat down sideways at the table with her coffee again. He was so hungry he had to concentrate on chewing his food, and it helped him ignore her.

When he was nearly finished, she said softly, "Robert?" In her American accent it sounded different. She said it slower, and emphasized both syllables almost equally.

He swallowed and said sharply, "What?" already wary.

"I'm sorry about yesterday."

Here it is, he thought. She was going to try to convince him she cared about his feelings. He refused to look at her, feeling the anger starting to bubble up again. Just ignore her, he told himself, keeping his eyes on his plate.

She said softly, "I'm so sorry I – I did what I did. It was wrong of me," and he looked up at her suddenly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Was she actually admitting to trying to seduce him?

When he didn't say anything, she continued, "I just didn't know any other way to show you I didn't have a key. I'm sorry I upset you." She wasn't admitting to anything at all, he realized, the anger surging through his veins. She was still trying to manipulate him.

"And about the key, I didn't –," she started.

"Look, I'm not really interested in talking," he interrupted her loudly. She just needed to shut up so he could finish his tea and go back to his room in peace, he thought angrily.

She looked at him with her mouth open a little, like she was in shock. Her eyes were that slightly different blue he'd seen yesterday, almost purple, and she looked like she was going to cry. She was fucking shameless, he thought, building on what she started yesterday and trying to make herself seem innocent. He wasn't about to let her think she was getting away with it. Not for one more minute.

He slapped his hand on the table so hard it hurt and she jumped, looking at him with alarm. "If you think I'm fucking falling for this, think again!" he shouted.

She looked quickly to the floor and she said very quietly, "I'm not trying to do anything." She wouldn't even look him in the eyes, he thought angrily. It was a sure sign she was lying to him. "I just wanted to tell you about the –," she started.

At that point, he lost control, jumping up and knocking his chair over. She startled, nearly falling out of her chair and looked at him, her eyes wide with fear.

He shouted, his body shaking with anger, "D'you think I'm so fucking stupid I don't see what you're up to? I'm not going to sit here and listen to this!" She looked at the floor again and he could see her body trembling.

He couldn't believe he'd done it again. He'd let her get to him and he felt awful. He made himself pick up his chair and set it down carefully then took his dishes to the sink, giving himself some space from her. He couldn't allow her to do this to him, to affect him like this. He stood at the sink, concentrating on getting in control then turned back to her. She was still sitting in her chair, looking at the floor.

"Don't try to manipulate me because it's not going to work. Understand?" he said, speaking slowly and firmly.

"Yes, sir," she said quietly to the floor.

Her calling him 'Sir' was all it took to push him over the edge again. The rage flooded through him and he took a step toward her, his fists clenching. She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes wide.

"Don't call me 'Sir'!" he shouted. "That's what you call that fucking bastard! I'm Robert, d'you understand!"

She looked shocked, saying quietly, "Yes, Robert."

He had to get away from her or something terrible was going to happen. He quickly left the kitchen and went to his bedroom, slamming the door as hard as he could, again, trying to get rid of some of the anger. He paced back and forth in his room, trying to calm himself, his body shaking with the rage. He concentrated on breathing slow and steady breaths. He would not have another panic attack.

He was going mad, he thought. It was the only possible explanation for him being like this all the time. Unless he'd always been like this and just didn't know it? As the rage drained away, he was filled with despair. He was trapped with that girl making him go mental every time he was in the same room with her. He was going to wind up hurting her, and then he really would be a monster. He just needed to stay away from her, he thought. He just had to make sure he stayed in a different room from her at all times. Then he realized how absurd it was, the flat was so fucking small, there was no escaping her.

The image of him throwing himself off the balcony to escape her, popped into his head. It wasn't a serious thought, but he felt like cold water had been thrown on him. He couldn't flirt with the idea of suicide. He had to keep it together, for his family's sake as well as his own.

He was wired and anxious, pacing around his bed, the oppressive silence of the place weighing down on him. If only he had way to listen to music or play a game, he could calm down. He felt like he was going through withdrawal from the lack of any electronic entertainment. His anxiety level was rising by the minute and he realized he had to do something or risk having another breakdown. He should run on the treadmill, he thought suddenly, grabbing a pair of running shorts.

When he'd changed out of his jeans, he looked at the brand new running trainers they'd left for him. They were all different sizes. He pulled on the pair in his size, the panicky trapped feeling coming back. He had to force himself not to think about how carefully they'd prepared for his imprisonment.

He opened his door hesitantly, hoping he wouldn't see the girl. Her bedroom door was closed and it was quiet. He walked to the treadmill, wishing he had an iPod or some way to listen to music while he ran. He was relieved to see the other door to her bedroom was closed when he went in the ballroom. He'd never run on a treadmill before, but it wasn't that difficult. He started slow and found a comfortable speed. It felt good to be exercising, and he took off his shirt so he could let the sweat cool him, as tension began to ease out of him. When he was too winded to run anymore, he walked. When he got his breath back, he ran again. He didn't like feeling so out of shape.

Since he'd left school and team sports, he'd been too busy with the band to work out as much as he used to. Robert had inherited his dad's body, tall and lean. But unlike his dad, whose body bordered on thin, Robert's years of swimming had given him more of a swimmer's body, with wider muscled shoulders that narrowed slightly to his waist.  He wasn't as big as some of his teammates, but he had long, strong arms and big hands to help pull him through the water, giving him an advantage. His job painting houses wasn't exactly hard work and even though he'd tried to fit in exercise when he could, he'd still lost muscle and gotten a little soft.

He alternated between running and walking until he was too tired even to walk. Then he got off the treadmill and lifted weights. It felt really good to feel his muscles being pushed to their limit. He was sweaty and tired when he was finished, but he felt much calmer. He hadn't brought a towel with him so he just put his shirt back on.

He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, passing the girl in the sitting room. She was kneeling in front of the fireplace, and it looked like she was cleaning it. When she saw him, her eyes got wide with fear and she looked away quickly, leaning over her legs and burying her face in her knees, making him feel guilty. He told himself it might be for the best. If she was afraid of him, she'd probably stay away, and then he wouldn't get angry at her anymore. When he passed her on his way back to his room, she was still bent over her legs, not moving. He forced himself not to look at her, or feel anything.

When he went into his room, he discovered she'd gone in there while he was running, opened the curtains, made his bed and cleaned his rooms, folding the clothes he'd left lying on the floor. He felt anger surge through him again, feeling like she'd invaded his privacy. Why wouldn't she leave him the fuck alone, he seethed.

He bathed, shaved and dressed. He needed clean clothes and grudgingly took socks, briefs, and a t-shirt. He might not have any choice in wearing their clothes, but at least he'd dress the way he wanted to. By time he'd finished, he was hungry again.

When he got to the kitchen, he was dismayed to see she was there making a sandwich. After she noticed him, she went back to making her sandwich as if she didn't mind him being there, completely surprising him. He'd expected her to be afraid of him again, like she had been when she was cleaning the fireplace. Her behavior was bizarre – a total mystery. He stood in the doorway trying to decide what to do. He didn't want a repeat of what had happened in the morning, but he still felt calm from his run. He could control himself this time, he thought.

When he picked up the bread to make a sandwich, she said, "I'm making you a sandwich right now."

"I don't want you to do that," he said a little loudly, feeling a prickling of anger.

"Oh, I don't mind," she replied, as if he was just being polite.

He closed his eyes momentarily, willing himself to remain calm. He could feel the anger, but he felt like he was in control. He spoke slowly and firmly. "I don't want you to be making me food. And I don't want you cleaning up after me," and then he couldn't help adding, "I don't need a fucking servant."

"I understand," she said quietly, putting the sandwich at his place on the table. Then she asked, "Do you want a glass of milk?"

Did she not fucking hear him, he wondered, his hands clenching into fists and the anger boiling up inside. He brushed past her to get his own glass of milk, willing himself to stay in control. She was sitting at the table with a half of a sandwich and a glass of water when he sat down and started eating. He kept his eyes on his food and ignored her.

After a few minutes, she spoke in a quiet voice. "There's a reason why I do it. The cleaning, I mean." He looked up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. She was hunched over, looking at her plate with most of her sandwich uneaten.

He wouldn't respond to her. Let her talk to herself, he thought. He kept his eyes on his food and continued to eat.

"Sir – he likes for things to be kept clean. He expects these rooms to be kept a certain way. He gets upset if he comes here and things aren't the way he expects them to be. That's why I cleaned your -," she stopped herself suddenly and said, "The bedroom."

"Well, I don't care. Stay out of there," Robert said, concentrating on his sandwich. He was doing alright. He felt calm. He could handle this.

She was still hunched over her plate and said quietly, "If I don't clean your room, he might – not like it."

Robert wondered what the hell she was saying now. Was she making some kind of threat? It seemed like such a ridiculously blatant attempt to manipulate him into allowing her to continue cleaning his room, he almost felt like laughing at her, but it wasn't funny.

The anger was rising, but he still felt in control. He said slowly and firmly, "Look, I don't have any choice in being here but I don't have to play along. You will not take care of me. I don't want you to go in there anymore. D'you understand?"

"Yes, Robert," she said quietly to her plate and then, to his relief, stood up. She threw out the rest of her sandwich and started cleaning her dishes.

He quickly finished his sandwich and got up to leave, but realized he couldn't let her wash his dishes now that he'd insisted she not take care of him. He took his dishes to the sink. She moved out of his way, avoiding looking at him while he washed and dried them. She'd put hers away so he did too. Then he left the kitchen feeling better than he had since he'd arrived. He'd had a confrontation with her and managed to keep from letting his anger get out of control. It occurred to him that exercising had been a really good idea. It had made huge difference in his ability to deal with his anger.

He didn't know what to do next, and wandered into the ballroom. Before he knew it, he was next to the piano. He longed to sit down and play but made himself walk away and paced back and forth on the opposite side of the room, wishing he had a computer or video game to play. He seethed, thinking how they were torturing him on purpose. They had the clothes and trainers in different sizes ready for him, but no iPod or Playstation? It was fucking unbelievable they hadn't intended for him to suffer like this. When he got out of here, he was going to make them pay for what they'd done to him, he thought angrily. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would make them pay.

He went to the sitting room. The girl's bedroom door was closed and it was quiet. He opened the desk and grabbed a pen and a few sheets of paper, taking them to his room and closing the door. He sat on the bed and made a chart, starting with the date he was taken, then listing the days since then underneath in a column. He noted the weather next to the two days he'd been awake. Then he wrote down a detailed description of where he was, accurately trying to describe what he could see from the balcony, feeling tremendous satisfaction they would never know he was gathering information on them.

When he was finished, he folded the paper and slipped it and the pen under his mattress. Then he went in the library and looked at the books. He pulled out Great Expectations. He'd seen a few movies based on it and it seemed like it would be a decent story. He'd never read Dickens before, but maybe it would be alright. He took it to his room, closing the bookshelf door behind him, laid on the bed and started reading.

When it was evening, Robert went out on the balcony trying to figure out what direction they were facing. It was still overcast, but the clouds in front of him were much lighter than the ones overhead, he was facing west. They were on the west coast of somewhere. Maybe Scotland, he thought looking over at the forest. He'd just gone back in the room, when he heard a knock on the door. He wondered if the girl was going to question what he was doing on the balcony.

When he opened the door, she looked up at him surprised, like she didn't think he wasn't going to answer. He was a little shocked at how she looked. It was obvious she'd been crying and looked exhausted. He felt guilty as he looked at her, knowing that dealing with him couldn't be easy. But she was partly to blame, he reminded himself a little angrily. If she wasn't constantly lying to him and trying to manipulate him, he wouldn't be losing his temper all the time.

He asked sharply, "What is it?"

She started wringing her hands, then stopped herself and took a deep breath. "I was going to make dinner and – I wondered if you wanted to help – cook." He looked at her suspiciously and wondered what she was up to. Was this some new tactic to get him to interact with her?

She added quickly, "You said – you didn't – you didn't want me to cook for you." He was surprised at how cleverly she'd turned things around, using his insistence that she not take care of him as an excuse to get him to interact with her. He was ready to tell her off, and then he thought about the paper under his mattress and changed his mind. Maybe he'd get some information out of her.

"Alright," he said, "I'll be there in a minute." He closed the door, took the paper out from under the mattress, and wrote, 'Facing west' on it before he put it away. Then he took a moment to collect himself before he joined her in the kitchen. No losing his temper, he told himself firmly.

When he walked in, she showed him what they were eating; chicken, potatoes, and broccoli. "I'm sorry. I'm not a very good cook, so I usually have simple food," she said apologetically to him. Like he gave a shit, he thought. She let him choose what part of the cooking he wanted to do.

They worked in silence for a few minutes before he asked her, "When's he coming back?" He couldn't help emphasizing the 'he' with a sneer.

"I'm not sure. He shows up at random times," she replied, cutting broccoli.

He thought this might be the first time he'd heard her refer to the bastard as 'He' instead of 'Sir'. He wondered if the 'Sir' was some kind of charade she'd decided to drop since it wasn't working on him.

Then she looked up at Robert and said, "He came here last night to see how you were doing but –." She trailed off at the end and didn't finish the sentence. Robert had been holed up in his room, and Moreau had obviously decided not to bother him. He was glad. He didn't want to talk to that smug bastard.

She continued, "I told him you were having a hard time. I hoped he might decide to let you go home but –." Instead of just trailing off, she spread her hands out as if to say she'd tried to help him, then she went back to cutting the broccoli.

He was amazed she was still so shameless in her attempts to manipulate him even though he'd told her off. He had to admit, she was pretty good at making herself seem sincere. He realized she was a lot more skilled at what she was doing than he'd given her credit for. He was going to have to be careful around her. Then it dawned on him that he hadn't felt angry with her once tonight, even though she'd done her best to manipulate him. He felt even better now than he had after he'd had lunch with her.

They didn't talk the rest of the time they cooked, and when the food was ready, they ate in silence. Robert ate as quickly as possible. As soon as he was finished, he got up, washed his dishes, and put them away. He hesitated, then washed half the pans and utensils they'd used for cooking, putting those away as well. She stayed seated at the table not looking at him, even though she'd finished eating.

When he was leaving the kitchen, she said softly, "Robert?" but he kept walking. He went directly to his room and closed the door. He couldn't believe how she just kept at it, trying to get him to spend more time with her. He picked up his book and laid across the bed to read. He read until the book falling on him woke him up. He got up, put on pajama bottoms, brushed his teeth and went back to sleep.

********

Hmmmm.  What was Georgie going to tell Robert?  And why was she so upset after he told her not to clean his room?  Well, that answer is probably easier to guess than the first one, but I'll let you find out by continuing to read. 

Fun Fact:  When I first posted these early chapters, this chapter had a much higher count than the other ones and I realized people were clicking on it because they thought the title referred to something naughty happening in the story *cough* like maybe 50 shades of naughty *cough, cough*.  I feel sorry for those readers, they must've been so disappointed when they realized nothing like that was happening!

But don't worry, there are naughty bits coming up.  It's just that Robert and Georgie have to develop a relationship first.  Because this is that kind of story, not the other kind!  Comments are fun for me to read so drop a line if you like and show some love with a vote!  Thanks!