Of course, the second time they’d seen one another had been disastrous. When she thought back to her seventeen year old self – still searching for her identity, her place in the world – she couldn’t help but blush. How had she honestly thought a man like Gael would be interested in her? She almost moaned as she remembered what she’d looked like then; all curvy girlhood. Breasts – new and rounded had been a strange addition, and Carrie had not known how to use them. She’d worn bras that were ill-fitting, because she’d been too embarrassed to ask an attendant for help and had simply grabbed whatever she liked the look of. She’d eaten like a horse and never exercised, and her hair was the same mousey brown she’d been cursed with from birth.
As if to reject everything she’d been then, Carrie leaned forward, aware that her blouse scooped lower over her cleavage.
“I’d be happy to show it to you, if you’re interested in seeing it.” The invitation was impossible to miss, and she saw Gael’s expression tighten in response.
“I am interested, believe me. But another time.”
Her disappointment was sharp and all-consuming.
Gael understood, and his laugh was soft. “I have a meeting straight after this. Come to my apartment. I’ll cook you dinner.”
“More food,” she responded with a roll of her eyes, to disguise the way her mood lifted instantly at his invitation.
His eyes were heavy as they rested on her beautiful, fragile face. “More of everything,” he promised seriously, reaching across and running his finger over her hand. His eyes were loaded with promise, and Carrie felt herself tumbling down a steep, slippery slope.
She nodded, her face poised in an expression of happiness. So happy that for a flash of a moment, Gael thought he glimpsed her. Teenage Carrie. Bathed in moonlight, innocent lips parted with sweet expectation, cheeks and décolletage flushed by hope.
He blinked.
It was an unwelcome image; an intrusion from the past into what they now were. She’s been so different then. So different that he could barely reconcile that image to the woman sitting across from him. It explained why he hadn’t known who she was, the night they’d slept together. Why he’d thought her only to be a beautiful, sexy stranger, rather than the slightly awkward, mousey girl he’d been obliged to think of as a step-sister. Her hair had been so soft, swept prettily back from her face, it had reminded him of the wings of a Lammergeier. It was the only thing about Carrie Beauchamp, as she’d been then, that could possibly have reminded him of a bird of prey.
She had been the prey.
His prey.
His eyes roamed her face freely, processing each difference as he noted them. Her hair now was the same shade of sunshine on bark, pale and shimmering. Her eyes, enormous and blue. Yes, they’d always been blue, but they’d been uncomplicated by life when he’d first met her. They’d contained hope and trust; now they were shaded by an edgy cynicism. A boredom, even. Her body too had been transformed. He supposed that was natural – the last vestiges of puppy fat had clung to her, lending her figure a pleasing roundness. There was nothing round about her now. Even her breasts were pert and slender.
“When did you colour your hair?” He asked, focussing on the sleek style.
She resisted the urge to lift her fingers to it. That would betray self-consciousness. Instead, she turned her hand upwards, capturing his fingers. She returned his gentle stroke, hoping that her touch sent the same shivers dancing along his spine that she was feeling.
“Oh, forever ago,” her answer showed practiced nonchalance. It had been a week after his rejection. She’d grown sick of the sight of herself. Every time she’d been compelled to see her face in the mirror, staring back at her, she’d winced. How could she ever have thought Gael would want to kiss her? She’d been disgusting. A fat, pale blob with yucky hair and no idea about men or the world.
“Forever ago?” He leaned forward, his lips twitching in a slightly mocking response to the vague answer. “As in a year? Two years?”
“What does it matter?” She shrugged.
“Three? Six?” He persisted, his eyebrows lifted meaningfully. She was mortified by the idea that he might be connecting the hair change with any of what had passed between them; that he might be assigning some kind of personal significance to the beginning of her transformation.
She waved a slender hand through the air. “Umm, around the time I started university.”
“I see.”
Did he? God, she hoped not. For some reason, every fibre of her being railed against him knowing just how deeply his rejection had affected her.
The waiter reappeared, holding an enormous tray loaded with food. It smelled amazing. Carrie banked down on the instant flash of hunger out of habit. There were six plates in total, each of them a glazed pottery in a different colour. One had green vegetables, one had something rice like, one was filled with crumbed olives, another had fish and tomato, the next had something bready, and the last plate had a sausage, chopped into several round slices. Carrie took in the offerings with a small shake of her head.
“Pass me your plate,” Gael said, holding his hand out in an expectant gesture.
Carrie lifted it silently, and watched as he placed an assortment of food on it for her. It was enormous. A mountain of a meal that she knew she’d never get through. “Thank you,” she murmured politely, taking the plate and putting it down before her. She didn’t attempt bringing her cutlery to it. Instead, she leaned back in her seat, wine glass in hand, and watched as he piled an even greater quantity onto his own dish.
“Your parents divorced when you were young,” Carrie said, a little distracted from conversation by the way he continued to shovel food onto his dish.
His dark brows winged upwards. “Yes. Is this something you would like to discuss?”
The restaurant, despite the fact it was mid-afternoon, was becoming busier by the minute. Carrie had to lean closer to hear him. She eyed off the food and hid her smile. “Well, we have enough to feed an army. We need to talk about something.”
He lifted a piece of broccoli into his mouth and chewed, then sipped his wine. “My parents divorced when I was ten years old.”
Carrie nodded. She couldn’t admit it to herself, but every detail he offered fleshed out her biographical profile of him, and that pleased her. “You stayed with your dad?”
His lips were a grim line. He had never discussed his parents with anyone. The habit of silence was one he discovered died very, very hard. “Yes.”
Curiosity sparked in her chest. “By choice?”
He speared a piece of chicken but didn’t eat it. He stared at the fork long and hard, and finally, expelled a pent-up breath. “My father…” He shook his head, struggling with the fact that he was about to reveal so much to another person. “My father painted my mother in a very bad light. He was wealthy. She was not. He took custody of me.”
Carrie shifted her head to her side. It was a mannerism she’d adopted as a child, and one which she only employed when lost in deep analysis. “He must have loved you a great deal.”
Gael swore in Spanish. She could tell by his inflection that he was scathing. “He hated her a great deal. I was irrelevant.”
“Why?”
His lips twisted angrily. “Because she loved me,” he hissed finally. “She loved me in a way that changed how she had once loved him. He resented me for it, and he sought to take me from her. It was the one thing he could do that would hurt her as much as she had hurt him.”
Carrie’s mouth dropped; she was appalled. “I can’t believe it. That’s callous, and your father is not callous.”
“Do you not think?” He scoffed, lifting the chicken to his lips and eating it without tasting.
“No, I don’t think. Diego has been …”
“A frail old man, riddled with cancer and grateful for every extra day on earth he is granted.”
That was true. But he was also sweet and kind. The very fact that Alexandra had remaine
d married to him had shown Carrie that Diego was a man of exceptional merit. Not because Alexandra had stood by him during his period of illness, but because he had stood by Alexandra – a far from perfect woman.
“He told me about the books.”
Carrie’s brow quirked and her pulse thrummed through her. “The books?” She stammered, her voice high pitched.
“Hmmm,” he agreed, fixing her with a mysterious gaze. “Yes. The books you read to him every week. He looks forward to it.”
Carrie’s cheeks flushed pink and she dropped her bright blue eyes to the white cloth of the table. Diego was supposed to keep it secret. Even Alexandra was not meant to know about the time they spent together.
“Why do you do it, Carrie?”
Her cheeks flushed hotter, turning from a shade of gentle pink to beetroot red before his eyes.
“You do not strike me as a woman who would forsake hours of her life to please an old, dying man. What do you do it for?”
She sighed heavily. “Why do you think I do it, Gael?”
It had troubled him greatly, since learning of it the day before. Why did Carrie go into the countryside and read novels to his long-suffering father? Why every week? It didn’t add up. From the moment he’d renewed his acquaintance with her, she’d gone out of her way to prove her devotion to the fast paced, party hard lifestyle of London’s successful professional youth. Spending hours couped up with a cripple didn’t fit.
“I can’t imagine …” he drawled finally.
Carrie changed tact. It was none of his business, anyway. “Did your mother ever remarry?”
His eyes darkened. He ate a little more, and Carrie watched him intently. Despite the hum of afternoon noise it felt, in that moment, to be just the two of them there. “No.”
“No?” She would have laughed at his brevity if she weren’t feeling so strangely entangled by him.
“No. She loved my father. Losing him was a wrench from which she never recovered.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” Carrie said earnestly. Something ancient was stirring in her chest.
He shifted uncomfortably. “You needn’t apologise. Your mother was not the woman who tempted him to break his marriage vows. You are not personally at fault.”
Carrie nodded. “I only meant that I’m sorry for her loss.”
“I know what you meant.” His tone was gruff. He softened it with a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Carrie bit down on her lower lip. “You’re angry.”
With visible effort, Gael calmed his temper. “I make it a rule to not speak of my parents. Their behaviour – on both sides – saddens me. It is better to let sleeping dogs die. The past is done. Dealt with. No good can come from reliving it. Wouldn’t you agree, Carrie?”
She did, fervently. “I’m pleased at least that you’ve forgiven your father…”
“Forgiven him?” Gael queried.
Carrie nodded.
“I don’t forgive. Only idiotas forgive.” He’d almost finished his meal, and Carrie hadn’t realised. She hadn’t even tasted hers; she’d been so entranced in conversation. “I accept. I understand. Frailty is part of the human condition. But forgiveness breeds contempt; forgiveness invites repeat offence.”
“That’s … not necessarily true.”
His laugh was rich with condescension. “Because all those bus-side advertisements tell you forgiveness is divine? That you should forgive anyone anything?” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to an insistent whisper. “It’s a lie, Carrie. If someone hurts you, you should hold onto that hurt. Keep it close to your chest as a chain in your armour. The more you are hurt, the more you will be defended, and the better off you will be eventually.”
Finally, she lifted some of her lunch to her lips and chewed it. It was delicious, but she wasn’t hungry. She rested her fork down beside her plate thoughtfully. “People change. I don’t think your father is the same man he was then.”
Gael’s eyes flashed with that same burst of annoyance. “You know him as a man weakened by disease and a life lived poorly. Do not kid yourself, Carrie. If he spent a day in my body, he would enjoy seducing every pretty woman who crossed his path.”
“And you despise him for that?” She pushed, fascinated.
He shrugged, but his chest felt oddly compressed. “Si.”
Carrie shook her head, and fingered the long, tapered stem of her wine glass. “But you’re just the same, Gael.”
He lifted his brows. When he spoke, his tone should have been a warning. It was laced with the kind of fury that was all the worse for the appearance of containment. “In what way am I the same as my padre infiel?”
Carrie didn’t meet his eyes. Perhaps if she had, she would have seen the alarm signs she hadn’t heeded in his voice. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, wondering why she felt as though she was fighting back tears. “You have sex with woman after woman. The night we met, it took me less than ten minutes to get you in bed. You knew nothing about me. If your father was the same in his youth, what is the harm?”
“The harm?” His tone was silky smooth, but his morals were repulsed. “He was married. That’s the harm. First my mother, and countless women after her, suffered because of his taste for as many women as he could screw.”
He was right. Why had Carrie not seen it that way? She bit down on her lip and nodded in a silent acquiescence to his stand, but Gael was past being placated.
“I am nothing like him. I would never marry. I would never make a promise that I couldn’t keep.”
Carrie felt like a stone was dropping through her body, starting at the top of her head and falling through her chest cavity, to the pit of her stomach.
“If we are to discuss children who morph into their parents, let us discuss your stunning transformation into your mother.” That metallic distaste passed through his mouth.
“Surprised?” Carrie asked, for something to say. Her mind was reeling. She and Alexandra were polar opposites. Age had shown her that her mother, despite being the only true family she had left, was not a kind person. She’d given up trying to gain her approval many years earlier. Now, she just tried to avoid Alexandra’s attention altogether.
“Mmm.” He stood, and her eyes clung to him with concern. Concern that he might be leaving. But he was simply shifting into the seat beside her. He reached over and lifted an olive. He placed it on her lips, and waited with searing eyes until her mouth opened, and then he pushed it inside. Carrie, her blue eyes haunted as they stared at him, chewed. It was nice. Flavoured with saffron, and coated in crispy crumbs.
Beneath the table, his spare hand lifted the hem of her skirt, so that he could pad his fingers against the flimsy silk of her underwear. Carrie’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t stop him. The tablecloth would ensure no one else could see what Gael was doing. She bit down on her lower lip, her eyes wide, her cheeks pink.
Her body was catching fire, as it always did when he touched her. She tried to focus her mind. “How well do you know her?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “She is my father’s wife.”
Carrie moaned softly, as he pushed aside the fabric and touched her flesh. “That’s not an answer,” she responded breathily. It was becoming difficult not to visibly react to his sweet nearness.
He had one hand on the table, he used it now to place another olive on her sweet pink lips. Carrie’s eyes widened; but she bit it between her teeth and then took it in her mouth. Conflicting emotions were tearing through him. Anger, desire, lust, need, fury, pity, worry. He didn’t understand half of them.
He held onto his anger, for it served him best with Carrie. “Ask a real question then.”
Her blue eyes showed her own pain and confusion, and briefly he regretted speaking to her so harshly.
“I …” she shook her head, unable now to form the words.
“You want to know if your mother and I fucked?” He leaned his head forward, on the pretence of whispering
in her ear. He used the cover to slide a finger deep inside of her, and held her body steady when she would otherwise have arched her back instinctively. “You want to know if I took her breasts in my mouth, as I love to do with yours? If I took her to the room beside my father’s and held my hand over her mouth, so that her moans wouldn’t wake the sleeping old man?”
He moved further inside of her and she made an involuntary sound of pleasure.
“No, Carrie, your mother and I never slept together. I would not touch a married woman; particularly not one married to my own father.”
Carrie felt a sob in her chest. She wouldn’t give into it. Her body was soaked with pleasure, but her mind was dancing on hot coals. If Gael had taught her anything, it was to obey her mind. To listen to her head’s commands over all the silly wishes of her heart. Beneath the table, she reached for his tanned forearm and squeezed into it with her nails, until he released his slow, sweet invasion of her. He lifted his head away, and saw the gentle pain in her expression had morphed into an ice-cold contempt.
She lifted her napkin and wiped her mouth, then stood. Her skirt was high on her legs. She pushed it down without taking her eyes off him. She noticed, in a small recess of her mind, that she’d surprised him. And she was glad.
There was no need for words.
What could she say that would communicate her feelings better than her silence and absence? She lifted her bag and scooped it over her shoulder.
“Carrie,” he said, when she turned to leave. She didn’t stop. She was terrified that if she did, she might cry. And she wouldn’t let him see her cry.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Spanish sky was strangely blue and sun-filled. Strange only because her mood was so bleak. She weaved away from the restaurant quickly, grateful for the afternoon crowds. The group of people moved as one, absorbing her willingly into their multi-coloured fabric. She walked without destination, simply needing to get away from Gael Vivas.
Seducing the Spaniard: She wanted revenge any way she could get it Page 9