‘No,’ she said, but she tried shooting him a reassuring smile anyway. ‘I feel so helpless.’
‘There’s not a lot you can do, Charlotte. He needs to acknowledge he has a problem first.’
‘So how do I make him see that?’ she asked.
‘You can’t.’
Charlotte pouted slightly.
‘You’re not used to not being able to fix things for them, are you?’ Craig asked.
‘No,’ she admitted.
‘You know you have to let them sort themselves out, right?’
‘Yes.' She sighed, resigned, keeping her back to him, lest she lose her resolve to not weep again.
‘Can you do that?’
‘No.’
‘Always looking out for somebody else,’ he commented. ‘Who’s looking after you, Charlotte?'
Charlotte turned to say something self-effacing and found herself caught in a breathless and determined kiss, one that was bent on making up for previous lost opportunities. How did he get so close? Mmmm, how can I get him closer? She parted her lips beneath the pressure of his and invited him in. Her hands gripped the sink, she wasn’t going to surrender entirely, but she gave him her mouth and her breath and her face. Don’t stop, don’t stop. His hands moved around her hips, tipping them towards him and automatically tugging her hands away from the sink at the same time. Given their freedom, her arms disengaged from her brain and entangled themselves around him.
He pulled her closer and slid his hands around her back, one heading north and the other south to cup her butt, fingertips tantalisingly close to the core of the ache building within her. She drowned in the kiss, barely able to bring herself up for air. His desire was obvious and sharp against her abdomen.
Her mind cleared of everything but him. This enigmatic man who was at once her arch enemy and her greatest temptation. She burned for him in a way she’d never known before. He might be playing with her, drawing her in to make his kill, but with his lips and hips pressed against hers, she didn’t care. He could do what he wanted, take everything. She'd give it all just to feel him inside her once more.
Without breaking their kiss, he lifted her so she was sitting on the kitchen bench. Her knees parted to invite him closer, and her legs wrapped around him to hold him there.
One of his hands found her breast. He traced a finger around its curve, then cupped it, his thumb searching for and locating her alert nipple, teasing it through the satin of her barely-there slip. A moan escaped her.
He pulled back from the kiss, to grin at her momentarily, before dipping his head, peeling the satin away, and claiming the prize his thumb had found with his mouth. She arched towards him as his tongue caressed her, her hand holding his head in place, wanting him to never, ever stop.
She reached for him, wanting to take him with her. His erection was bursting out of the top of his jeans, and it surged towards her fingers as they brushed its tip. He paused at her breasts, to moan throatily. Her hand traced its length on the wrong side of his jeans, and his fingers step, step, stepped up her thighs, searching determinedly for her underpants. As he yanked them down, rather desperately, her mind turned to the condoms in her bedside drawer. And the fact her bedroom was occupied. Damn!
She withdrew her hand and hoped to find some neutral territory on his arm, but the shift of his biceps as he tugged at her underpants did nothing to douse the flames. Gathering every ounce of willpower she could summon, she pulled back from him. He followed at first, greedy, but he quickly sensed things had changed and released her.
‘We can’t,’ she managed when she found her voice. ‘My condoms are in my bedroom.’
He’d straightened, but his fingers remained entangled in her underpants. He twisted them tighter, unwilling to resign just yet. Breathing deeply, he looked down at her and considered her.
She was panting heavily and could feel the flush across her cheeks, neck and chest. One of her shoulder straps had slipped off, exposing the breast and aroused nipple he’d been nibbling on.
He kissed her again, tormenting her until she surrendered once more, unable to resist his lips, his mouth, his tongue. She pulled him closer, wriggling across the bench top to wrap her legs around his hips and hold him fast. Her hands dove under his t-shirt, and then skated across his tight chest, exploring.
Still refusing to let go of her underpants, he pulled back slowly and carefully from the kiss. ‘The condoms are a problem,’ he murmured. ‘But I seem to have started something here, and it would be remiss of me to walk away and leave you hanging.’
Unsure of where he was going, Charlotte started to object. ‘Craig...’ she sighed, ‘we can’t...’
‘Do you trust me, Charlotte?’
Hands still fastened to his chest, legs still clamped around his hips, Charlotte exploded with laughter.
‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re going to ruin me.' But she was laughing as she said it and he grinned at her.
‘But you took care of my sister last night,’ she said, ‘and you threw out those little shitheads and stayed with me when I needed someone to hold me. So even though you're planning on ruining my career, I’d trust you with my life.' She grinned at him, savouring the feel of his fingers against her thighs, ready to give him almost anything.
His smile was an odd mix of regret and triumph. He untangled one of his hands and reached up to trace a finger from her forehead down her cheek. ‘Trust me then,’ he said. ‘If I really am going to ruin things for you, I should chalk up some favours.' His hand found her chest, and he nudged her gently. ‘Lie back.’
She complied, slowly, releasing him and watching to see what he would do. Trusting him. When his free hand found her breast, her eyes closed, and she relished in his touch. The hand in her knickers came alive again, tugging, tugging, tugging until they fell down her legs, over her ankles to be lost on the floor. Suddenly his fingers were caressing her, exploring, teasing, opening her. She relaxed and surrendered to his touch.
His breath against her breast warned her before his lips reclaimed her nipple. She arched into his mouth, the movement opening her more so his fingers probed deeper. The sensation started to rock her and recognising it, he withdrew, slowed down to concentrate some more on her breast before he slid his tongue down, down, down, jumping the satin of her slip bunched around her waist to find a sensitive spot on her hip. His fingertips skated the flesh on her inner thighs, driving her legs slowly apart, in anticipation of his next move.
Once more, his breath warned her of the touch to come. But as his mouth claimed her and he proceeded to devour her, nothing could have prepared her for the sensations coursing through her, making her completely lose control. She came quickly and remarkably. When he lifted his head to grin at her, rejoicing in his accomplishment, she might have cried if she had any tears left.
Instead, she said, ‘Holy shit,’ and lay there, panting as he gently rearranged her slip. Eventually, she sat up and wrapped her arms around him.
He responded, pulling her closer. ‘You’re beautiful, Charlotte,’ he murmured into her hair. She sighed into him some more. If only she could stay there forever.
‘Well, now that’s an interesting way to start the day,’ she said eventually, reluctantly creating a small gap between them.
‘Indeed,’ he growled, a fingertip skating the underside of her breast before he stepped back and out of her arms.
She shuddered.
But once his touch was gone, common sense started making a comeback.
‘What do we do now?’ she asked him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Hmm. Another coffee perhaps?’
The silence stretched uncomfortably between them as she brewed the coffee. He didn’t move away entirely, but gave her room to move in the small kitchen. His restraint was painful. If only he would touch her hair, her arm, her fingertips when she handed him his coffee.
Charlotte was in trouble. Where did they go from here? Back to being foes? B
ack to fighting each other? Neither of them was going to renege, she was sure of that. Neither would compromise. She’d already offered to meet him mid-way, and he’d declined. There was no second-chance in this competition, and there was no second prize. Charlotte looked at him sadly. The dull ache in her heart would only intensify if she let this man any further in to her life. Her defences needed to go back up.
‘I want to be clear I am not complaining, but you know, we’re not doing each other any favours here,’ she said.
He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair.
‘I’m sorry, Charlotte,’ he said, his brown eyes dripping with regret.
‘Craig, I don’t want you to be sorry. Believe me, I’m not. I just think we need to stop doing this.’
‘I know. You’re right, we do.' He sighed heavily again. ‘But is that what you want?’ he asked, his voice inflected with a hint of hope that perhaps it wasn’t.
No.
‘Yes. It is. You’re messing with my head. I can’t focus on my career or my future when you keep distracting me. I’m supposed to hate you, Craig. I need to hate you, so I can take care of myself.’
‘I don’t want you to hate me, Charlotte.’
‘It’s not easy.' She laid her palm against his cheek to emphasise the point.
He covered her hand with his own and then lifted it to kiss. ‘I should go, huh?’
Ignoring the nagging part of her brain making a point of what an ungrateful tramp she was being, she nodded her agreement. ‘I’m sorry, Craig.’
‘Me too,’ he said. He planted one last passionate kiss on her unsteady lips.
‘Bye, Charlotte’, he murmured and then he was gone, leaving his untouched coffee staring at her accusingly.
Chapter fifteen
Thankfully, Emily awoke not long after Craig left and commenced vomiting into the toilet bowl, her body purging the toxins she’d poisoned herself with last night. Distracted by face wiping, hair holding and toilet cleaning, Charlotte was able to take her mind off Craig. Not entirely, but enough to hold the sense of loss at bay.
By mid-afternoon, Emily managed to crawl out of the bedroom and work up the stamina for some mashed potatoes, a sure sign her stomach lining was recovering.
‘I’m not even going to ask you how much you had to drink last night,’ Charlotte said, handing Emily a warm bowl of mash.
‘Oh God,’ Emily moaned, spooning tiny mouthfuls. ‘I just lost control. At first I just wanted some liquid courage after the Cassette incident, and then I got my stupid drunk bravado going. Suddenly I was invincible. I’m not even sure how I got back here, but I vaguely remember being held up by Craig.’
‘Yeah, he brought you home.’
‘Sorry.’ Emily looked sheepish. ‘He would have been the last person you wanted on your doorstep last night. He’s nice, you know,’ she continued, not breaking pace. ‘Not very dastardly at all. Especially not for a property developer.' She eyed her sister suspiciously.
Fighting to control a blush, Charlotte replied, ‘At least he kept you safe. Well, maybe not from yourself.’
The dig was a successful sidetrack. Predictably, Emily was eager to avoid any further navel gazing. She asked after Andrew and his band. ‘When did they leave?’
‘Early this morning. I suppose they wanted to try and get a surf in before their sound-check this afternoon.’
Charlotte paused, searching for the right words. Emily had her fair share of issues to deal with at the moment, suppress them though she might. Was she ready to deal with Andy’s as well?
Regardless of Charlotte’s reservations, it was only a matter of time until Emily learned of the overdose and she'd be furious with Charlotte for not telling her here and now.
Charlotte drew a deep breath. ‘Em, there’s something I need to tell you about Andy, and it’s not good.’
Emily looked up from worshipping her mashed potatoes and clocked the seriousness of her sister’s face and tone. ‘Oh crap. I don’t think I want to hear this.' She put her spoon down and braced herself.
‘Andy’s been using heroin.’
‘Using using or occasionally using?’
Charlotte looked at her sharply. ‘Depends who you ask. Does that matter?’
‘Sort of. He told me last year that he'd been tasting. I thought perhaps he might still be just tasting.’
Charlotte’s blood pressure rose instantly, propelled by Emily’s matter-of-fact tone. ‘You knew, and you never told me?'
‘I didn’t want to freak you out,’ Emily explained flippantly. ‘Sometimes you forget you’re older, Charlotte, and you knew Dad longer. His death was harder on you than Andy and I. I guess Andy thought it was something he could share with me and not you.’
‘Jesus, Emily.' Charlotte was pissed. ‘Forewarned might have been forearmed. I was so fucking angry with him that I threw him out this morning. If I had known I might have handled it differently.’
‘You threw him out?’
‘Pretty much.' Charlotte skated around the detail. ‘We didn’t part on amicable terms.’
‘Do you want me to talk to him?’
‘Well, yes,’ she snapped. ‘Given you’re in on his little secret you probably should. Then you can both talk about how unreasonable I am and how hard it is to deal with me.' Getting huffy wasn’t the most mature response, but Charlotte had channelled all her maturity into turning away the man of her dreams after he’d eaten her for breakfast that morning. Sullenness was all she had left.
Clearly her siblings didn’t trust her. Clearly they had secrets between them from which she was excluded. Ouch, ouch, ouch, it hurt. She may not have had any tears left to shed after that orgasm, but they’d had some time to build up again.
Observing her sister was close to weeping, Emily gingerly pulled herself up off the couch and encased Charlotte into a hug, opening the floodgates as she did. ‘It’s not like that, Charlotte,’ Emily explained, holding her sister until her sobs abated. She found her a tissue, and they sat down together.
‘You've always looked after us, Charlotte. And when we were kids we needed you, but we’re all grown up now. You can’t stop us from fucking up all over the place. I married a tosser and am now getting outrageously drunk to try and prove to, I don’t know who, someone, that I don’t care he cheated on me with the only woman in the entire world I loathe. Andy is experimenting with the drug that killed our father. You can’t stop us from being reckless, Charlotte, and you can’t always be the one to pick up the pieces. You can’t mend my broken heart, and you can’t make Andy admit he has a problem and he needs help. We have to figure this stuff out on our own. If you keep trying to fix us, what is going to happen to you? You won’t have anything left to look after yourself.’
Who’s looking after you?
Charlotte sniffed, not very daintily. ‘Someone said something like that not long ago,’ she told Emily.
‘You’ve got to stop living through us and for us, Charlotte. You need to look after yourself and your own happiness.’
Silent minutes ticked by. Charlotte was afraid to think of what that might mean. What would make her happy? What did she really want? Somehow, she couldn’t allow herself to imagine what it might be. After a time she remarked, ‘You’re very philosophical for someone with a hangover.' Emily wasn’t the only one skilled at avoiding introspection.
But she wasn’t to be deflected this time. Emily had a point to make. ‘The other night when we were working in the gallery, you said you thought of the gallery as ours. You took me by surprise. I’ve always thought of it as your baby. I thought you loved it. The whole package, supporting emerging artists, providing the neighbourhood with a space to appreciate the beautiful and unusual – that’s all you. All I do is paint.'
Charlotte picked at her fingernails as Emily pressed on. ‘But once you said you thought of it as ours, I started to think about why you were doing it, and whether all that stuff was enough for you. I started to wonder whether you were truly happy. I t
ried to think when I last saw you happy. When I last saw you have a good old belly laugh. I had to go back to before Geoff and I got married - when you were studying and working casually for that architectural firm. That was the last time I saw you excited about the world.’
‘These emerging artists don’t excite you, Charlotte. They're a pain in the arse. Me included. And yes, I can see that you love the neighbourhood, and you love seeing Ben every day, but do you really need the gallery to have that?'
Emily continued. ‘When I saw your sketches, I couldn’t help but wonder why you shut yourself inside that virtually empty gallery all day, staring at average art, when you could be bent over a desk creating architectural masterpieces. And then I realised you only did it for me.’
Charlotte looked up from peeling back her cuticles as Emily started to cry. It wasn’t entirely the hangover’s fault.
‘I don’t want you to live your life for me, Charlotte. If that’s what you're fighting for, I wish you wouldn’t.’
Charlotte found her voice and defaulted to denial. ‘I’m not, Emily. I love the gallery. I actually quite like most of those talentless artists, and you’re right, I love seeing Ben every day. I don’t have to answer to anyone, and I have no stress in my life. Well, I didn’t have any stress in my life. I’ll be devastated if I lose the gallery, Emily.' Was it true? Was it? Charlotte wasn’t so sure. Emily was making sense. She had to admit, when she was sketching, she'd felt more alive than she had in a long time; like someone had given her a key and set her free.
Emily wasn’t finished. ‘There’s something else I need to tell you.’
‘What is it?' Great, another secret to be revealed. Fidgeting and looking around the room, Emily seemed to be struggling with this revelation the most.
‘The pieces I’ve been working on. I showed some photos to Gareth Moorehouse, and he’s agreed to show them. An exclusive show, in two weeks’ time.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m showing my work in the Moorehouse Gallery.’
Charlotte was slower to digest this piece of information. Emily was showing in another gallery. The Moorehouse Gallery. One of the most exclusive in the city. Because Gareth Moorehouse wanted to show her work. Emily had finally been recognised. Gareth Moorehouse wouldn’t show her unless he expected to make good money off her. Better money than the kind you make through some shitty little West End gallery run by your sister. The Moorehouse Gallery. Wow.
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