It’s like a hotel, thought Tati. Completely impersonal. There’s nothing of Brett in here, nothing real, nothing revealing.
As she thought it, suddenly all of Brett was on top of her, naked and demanding and as strong as an ox. When had he got undressed? Other than her shoes and jacket, which she’d somehow lost en route to the bedroom, Tati was still fully clothed. It was a shock to see Brett without his armour, exposed like an animal. But the bare skin of his broad boxer’s back beneath her palms felt wonderful, and the sensation of his powerful legs and chest bearing down on her was wildly exciting, like being pulled into a riptide of pleasure. Reaching behind her, Tati started to unbutton her skirt, but Brett grabbed her hands impatiently, pulling them down to his simply enormous erection. Then he pushed her skirt up around her hips, tore off her underwear and launched himself inside her so suddenly and violently that Tati gasped. He let out a loud cry of relief, like a tortured prisoner finally breaking his chains. Then he relaxed, settling into a slower rhythm as she arched her back against him, tuning in to her responses and exploring her glorious body.
Somehow Tatiana managed to wriggle out of her blouse and bra. Marco was a good lover, inventive and patient and technically proficient. But he couldn’t match Brett for raw desire. Brett wasn’t making love to her, or even fucking her. He was devouring her; sating himself on her body like a bee gorging on nectar. For Tatiana, the release was incredible. Here, in Brett Cranley’s bed, there was no room for grief or rage or pain or loss. There was nothing but the delicious sensations sweeping through her body, the bliss of knowing that in this moment she both owned Brett completely, and belonged to him completely.
Slipping off her skirt at last and running his hands languorously over her bare buttocks, Brett rolled her onto her stomach and took her from behind.
‘You’re incredible,’ he whispered in her ear as he moved in and out of her with agonizing slowness. One hand was between her legs, teasing her, brushing against her clitoris but never quite giving her what she wanted. ‘I want to feel you come.’
‘Oh God, Brett, please,’ Tati moaned, so excited and frustrated she felt close to tears.
‘Tell me you want me. Tell me you love it when I fuck you.’
‘No.’ Tati shook her head, even as her hips bucked and squirmed upwards against him. ‘I hate you.’
Brett moved both hands upwards to her breasts. Taking both nipples between his thumb and forefinger he squeezed hard, increasing the pace of his thrusts. Tati yelped with pleasure.
‘Come for me,’ Brett growled. He was past the point of no return himself now. Tatiana could feel it, even as her own orgasm rushed inexorably up from somewhere deep inside her, unstoppable, like a breaking wave. ‘Come for me now.’
And she did, biting down on the pillow and digging her nails into the soft sheets as if clinging on for dear life. Brett smiled triumphantly, closing his eyes as he felt her muscles grip and spasm frenziedly around his cock. Cupping both of her perfect soft breasts in his hands, he exploded inside her.
A few moments later he lay back on the bed, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling. Tatiana lay motionless, still face down beside him. Her back was still slick with sweat, her hair a tangled, tousled mop, cascading over the sheets and pillow. Brett had slept with countless women. Hundreds, certainly. But that, without question, had been the most satisfying fuck of his life. He wanted to do it again, immediately and repeatedly. He wanted to keep Tatiana Flint-Hamilton in his bed, at his beck and call, for the rest of his life.
Reaching out, he touched her bare back, stroking tenderly down to the tops of her buttocks. Tati rolled away from him. Sitting up in bed, pulling the sheet up to cover her breasts, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked at him coldly.
‘Where’s the bathroom? I need to pee. And take a shower.’
Her voice was businesslike. Distant. Brett frowned.
‘Through there,’ he said. ‘What’s the rush? Why don’t you rest a little? I thought I’d order us some food. We can have a glass of wine. Talk.’
‘What’s there to talk about?’ Tati was already walking to the bathroom. Brett noticed that her back was covered in scratches. He must have been rougher than he’d realized. ‘If you want to be helpful you could call me a cab,’ she called over her shoulder, stepping into the shower and turning it on.
Brett followed her. ‘Are you serious? You’re not staying the night?’
‘Of course not,’ said Tatiana, rubbing Floris shower gel under her arms and between her legs. ‘Marco’s expecting me. I suspect I’m late for dinner as it is.’
She said it as if it were an irritant. As if the mind-blowing sex they’d just had had been some boring chore that had delayed her plans and put a kink in her evening. Marching into the shower, Brett turned her to face him, his hand slipping on her wet, soapy skin.
‘You’re not seriously going to spend the night with another man. After this?’
Tati turned off the water. ‘After what?’ She thrust her chin forward aggressively. ‘It was sex, Brett. A one-night stand. It meant nothing.’
‘That’s a lie!’ shouted Brett. ‘There’s something between us. There always has been and you know it. ‘
‘All there is between us,’ hissed Tati, ‘is what you stole from me.’
‘And that’s what you’re going to tell your boyfriend, is it? When he sees that?’ Pulling Tati out of the shower, Brett turned her around in front of the bathroom mirror, so she could see the marks on her back and thighs.
Tatiana shrugged. ‘By the time I’ve finished blowing him, I imagine he’ll be too happy to notice,’ she taunted.
Brett could have hit her. The thought of that beautiful, cruel mouth wrapped around another man’s dick made him want to scratch his own eyes out. Did she really feel nothing? Nothing at all?
‘Besides, my boyfriend is my problem. I suggest you worry about your wife.’
Brett felt sick. He did not want to think about Angela. He loved Angela. But what he felt for Tatiana was different. Compulsive. Painful. Unstoppable.
Grabbing a towel, Tatiana dried herself, marched into the bedroom and pulled on her clothes. In less than a minute she was at the door. Watching her, Brett felt a horrendous sense of helplessness. Half an hour ago he’d felt powerful, completely in control. He’d beaten Tatiana in court and he’d finally conquered her in bed. But now she was leaving, walking out of the door and perhaps his life, as if none of it had ever happened.
‘This isn’t over,’ he called after her. ‘You know that as well as I do.’
‘Grow up, Brett,’ Tatiana said witheringly.
She didn’t look back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Autumn turned into winter, then spring, with each new season bringing fresh life and hope to the Swell Valley. Having lost her legal challenge to her father’s will, and all hope of regaining Furlings, Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had considered packing up and leaving Fittlescombe. She could always move in with Marco, get a job in London, resume some toned-down version of her old, carefree life. But she chose not to, partly out of stubbornness and a desire to maintain her independence, modest though it might be; and partly because she refused to give Brett Cranley the satisfaction of thinking he’d run her out of her own village. She did want more from life than a job as a teacher in a rural primary school. She hadn’t given up her dreams, or her ambitions. But this was a time for healing and recuperation, for regaining her strength and picking her next battle wisely. The job helped. Tati was good at it, and the children all liked and respected her. Marco helped too. Their relationship was steadily building, and while Marco wasn’t the most exciting boyfriend she’d ever had, he was attractive and successful and stable, a quality Tatiana had come to value more over the last nine months. Since her one, wild night with Brett Cranley last September, after the court case, she’d also remained faithful to Marco, an astonishing personal best for a girl who hitherto had only known ‘fidelity’ as an investment fund.
; Perhaps wary of screwing things up, she’d kept her relationship and her life in the village wholly separate up till now, only ever visiting Marco in London during the holidays and at weekends. But Marco had been pushing to be allowed into his girlfriend’s secretive country life, and Tati had finally acquiesced. Next weekend was the late May bank holiday and also Jason Cranley’s 21st birthday party at Furlings. Tati was invited – she’d remained in contact with Jason, much to his father’s chagrin. She decided she would bring Marco along. It would be as good a chance as any for them to make their debut as a couple, plus she could use the moral support. Jason’s party would be the first time Tatiana had been back to the house, her house, since the court case. And of course, Brett would be there. She tried hard not to think about Brett.
Dylan Pritchard Jones held up two dinner jackets in front of his wife.
‘Which one?’ he asked, gingerly stepping out of range of his baby daughter Caroline, who was sitting in her high chair armed with a plastic spoon (aka catapult) and a bowl full of some revolting greenish mush.
Maisie Pritchard Jones glanced up from the Mumsnet Rules. ‘I’m not sure it matters, does it? It’s only a twenty-first birthday party. Besides, they both look exactly the same.’
Dylan struggled to keep his temper. ‘They are not exactly the same,’ he said stiffly. ‘The Ralph Lauren clearly has a far wider lapel.’ He waved the jacket on the right at her meaningfully. ‘And it is not just a twenty-first birthday party. Not only will the entire school and village be there, not to mention all the Cranleys’ swanky London friends. But Jane Templeton is confirmed as coming. I’ll never have a better chance to impress her. It wouldn’t kill you to give me a little support.’
Maisie stared at her husband open-mouthed. She’d been up since five with Caroline (Maisie did everything with the baby; if Dylan changed a single nappy he expected a medal), and had somehow found time to pitch for two new design jobs in between pureeing vegetables, ironing a mountain of Dylan’s shirts, playing pat-a-cake with a grizzly, teething infant and making supper. And now Dylan expected her to play fashion consultant? Just how much ‘support’ did one man need?
‘I want this job for both of us, you know,’ said Dylan, sensing that perhaps he’d gone a tad too far. ‘The deputy headship at St Jude’s would be a huge step up.’
Jane Templeton, a local bigwig and chair of the Fittlescombe Conservative Association, also happened to be the chair of governors at St Jude’s, a prestigious prep school in neighbouring Brockhurst village. Having successfully charmed the old battle-axe at the Fittlescombe fete, Dylan was now actively lobbying to be considered for the deputy headship at Jude’s. (Graham Marshall, the last deputy head, had considerately dropped dead of a heart attack last month.)
‘I know that, darling,’ said Maisie, conciliatory now that Dylan was making a token effort. She could see how vain and self-centred her husband could be, but unfortunately she loved him. ‘But you’re not going to win or lose the job based on the size of your lapels, are you?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Dylan, lowering the jackets with a disappointed pout. The truth was he had numerous reasons for wanting to look his best at the Cranley party, not least of them a desire to outshine Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s much-talked-about new boyfriend. Things had calmed down at school since Dylan’s attempt to get rid of Tati, after his failed efforts to get her into bed. The headmaster, Max Bingley, seemed to have forgotten the incident, no doubt distracted by his new romance with Stella Goye, a local potter with whom he was spending more and more of his time. As for Tatiana herself, now an official special needs teacher and an accepted part of the staff room at St Hilda’s, she treated Dylan with the same cool, cordial professionalism that he afforded her. Even so, Tati’s rejection of him sexually, and his inability to outmanoeuvre her politically at work, both still rankled. He still wanted the little tease to know what she was missing.
Looking at Maisie he thought how tired and unattractive she looked, with her baby-food-stained clothes and the shadows under her eyes as dark as bruised plums. As for her body, since having the baby she’d completely lost her washboard tummy and her boobs had been totally destroyed. What had happened to the beauty he’d married? He prayed she was going to at least wash her hair for the party and put on a half-decent dress. It was so hard to make one’s way in the world with a wife who couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. Last month when they’d been invited to a drinks party at Max Bingley’s place, Maisie had actually fallen asleep on the sofa and started snoring loudly, like a beached sea lion.
Please don’t let her embarrass me like that again, thought Dylan.
Two days before Jason’s party, Angela Cranley stood perched on a ladder in Furlings’ hallway, tying balloons to a chandelier. Cross-legged on the floor beneath her, Logan was thoroughly enjoying herself blowing them up with a manual pump like a giant cake-icer.
Before he left for New York on business, Brett had been scathing about Angela’s decorating plans. ‘He’s twenty-one, not four,’ he said sourly over breakfast, just hours before his flight. But the days when Brett’s every word had the power to hurt her, or change her decisions, were behind her now. Angela had merely shrugged and said, ‘Jase likes balloons, and so do I.’
‘And me,’ piped up Logan.
‘Besides, it’s a birthday party, not a bloody corporate meet and greet,’ Angela added. ‘I don’t know why you’ve invited so many business contacts.’
‘To make up the numbers,’ Brett said bluntly. ‘If we only invited Jason’s mates, the house’d be deserted.’
This comment did sting, because it was true. They’d lived in England for a year now, but Jason still seemed very much like a fish out of water. Other than Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, and a couple of acquaintances from the village, drinking buddies from The Fox mostly, he hadn’t made any friends. Work was still an obligation, something to be got through every day, rather than a place where he felt he belonged. Not once had Angela known her son to stay up in London for drinks or dinner with colleagues after work. If he’d made friends with anyone at Brett’s office, he’d never brought any of them home, or mentioned anyone.
Even more worrying than his loneliness, and the way he still drifted through life, was how reliant he seemed to have become emotionally on Tatiana. It wasn’t even as if they saw one another very often. Brett had banned Tati from the house and would stalk out of rooms in a huff if her name was so much as mentioned. Jason and Tati’s ‘friendship’, such as it was, was based around chance meetings in the village or at Logan’s school – nothing more. It was clear to Angela that Tatiana only bothered with Jason at all out of kindness and pity. Equally clear was the fact that Jason had a huge, hopeless and utterly unrequited crush on Tatiana. Ever since he learned she had a boyfriend in London, Jason had sunk into a morass of despair that at times had brought Angela close to panic. She tried to share her concerns with Brett, but he point-blank refused to talk about it. Bizarrely however, in the last month, Jason seemed to have emerged from his self-imposed funk all on his own. Turning twenty-one, and the prospect of a big party, seemed to have miraculously lifted his spirits. And the nearer the party drew, the happier he became. Even when the rumours began flying at school about Tatiana Flint-Hamilton bringing her boyfriend down to Fittlescombe for the event, Jason remained resolutely upbeat. He’d even started playing the piano again, a sure-fire sign that his mood was on an upswing.
‘When’s Dad getting back?’ asked Logan, handing her mother a long, yellow balloon like a giant rubber banana.
‘Hopefully tomorrow,’ said Angela, carefully tying the tip of the balloon with twine and looping it around the chandelier with the others. ‘There’s a chance he might be late though.’
‘He wouldn’t miss the party, would he?’ Logan looked stricken. Brett had only been gone for six days, but she always missed him terribly when he travelled. In the rare moments when Angela imagined life without her husband, one look at Logan’s face banished the thought fro
m her mind utterly.
‘Definitely not,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Dad will be here.’
Brett had spent a small fortune on this party, which had morphed from being about Jason into a showing-off-Furlings event, a chance for Brett to flex his muscles in the local community and establish himself properly as Fittlescombe’s new lord of the manor. No way on earth would he miss it now. For an Aussie boy with humble beginnings, the truth was that Brett could be a terrible snob. Having a court validate and uphold his inheritance was one thing. Being accepted by the local British upper classes was quite another. Angela had long wondered whether her husband’s bizarre, negative fixation with Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had something to do with insecurity on that score. Tatiana may have lost her inheritance to Brett but, poor as a church mouse or not, she was still resolutely, unquestionably ‘top drawer’ socially. Brett Cranley, on the other hand, an Australian entrepreneur, would always be considered a ‘nouve’, unflattering British slang for nouveau riche. Angela couldn’t have cared less. She was proud of her heritage and thought the English obsession with class amusing to the point of ridiculousness. But image meant a lot to Brett.
‘Did you tell Dad about my new dress?’ Logan asked archly.
‘No.’ Angela rolled her eyes.
One of the mums from school had taken Logan shopping last weekend in Chichester, along with her own daughter Tamara. The girls had come back with matching red party dresses from Topshop. Both dresses were a size eight, but whereas on Tamara the hemline hovered demurely above the knee, on Logan it stopped a good three inches higher.
‘It’s only because I’m tall,’ Logan pleaded, when Angela suggested she opt for something less revealing. ‘It’s the same exact dress.’
‘I know that, darling. But I can almost see your knickers! Dad will have a fit if I tell him you’re wearing a minidress to your brother’s party.’
‘Don’t tell him then. He won’t care if he doesn’t know beforehand. Once all the guests get here, he’ll be far too busy to notice what I’m wearing.’
The Inheritance Page 21