‘That’s not our deal.’
‘Your parents worked full-time?’
It’s so like Jack to push on with his line of questioning just because it suits him.
I stare at him. ‘Not really.’
‘Yet you were raised by a nanny?’
‘I had three nannies,’ I say, grabbing a piece of avocado sushi and eating it, then sipping my wine. ‘Nanny Winters oversaw the other two.’
‘Three nannies?’ His voice is bordering on a scoff. ‘So you were a handful even as a child?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Did you not hear my thunderstorm story?’
‘A runaway and a handful?’ He nods with mock seriousness.
‘Yep.’
‘Your parents were rich?’
‘Are rich,’ I agree.
‘Funny... I didn’t have you picked as the daughter of some loaded guy.’
I arch a brow teasingly. ‘Technically I’m the daughter of a loaded guy and a loaded lady. Duchess Arabella Picton, in fact.’
‘No shit? That I did not see coming.’
He laughs then—a sound that relaxes me because it’s so like us to laugh together that I am reminded of the years we’ve spent working together, getting to know one another. Not like this, admittedly, but in a different way.
‘Why not?’ I ask.
He laughs again and my gut clenches.
‘So you slaving away for me is like a vanity job?’
I frown. ‘No!’
‘But you’re going to inherit a fortune?’
I shrug, deciding it’s better not to talk about my trust fund with Jack. I figure he won’t really appreciate the amount that’s sitting in my name in a Swiss bank account.
‘One day.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘Not really.’
He nods, but I can see the wheels of his brain turning. ‘You studied law, right?’
I roll my eyes. ‘I’m your in-house counsel, what do you think?’
He grins and my tummy tilts off-balance. ‘I don’t pay too much attention to what my assistants do at university.’
I shoot him a look of disapproval but bite my tongue. He’s goading me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s been successful. ‘I studied law and economics at Oxford, thank you very much.’
‘Let me guess...you did well?’
My gaze doesn’t falter. ‘Double first.’
He tilts his head back, his laugh a soft caress. ‘Not at all surprising.’
‘How do you not know this about me? You hired me to work for you.’
‘Yeah... Expecting you to last about three seconds.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because that’s how long all my other assistants lasted.’
I grit my teeth. ‘Counsels.’
‘Your job is pretty much unfillable.’
‘Because you’re such a charm to work with,’ I point out.
‘Whatever the reason, no one stays around. So why have you?’
‘Because I like a challenge,’ I say honestly, my chin jutting out, my eyes holding to his. And he is still. Watchful. The air between us thickens.
‘I’m a challenge?’
I laugh. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
He reaches for a piece of sushi. I watch him eat it and my stomach squeezes. How can I want him again already? I am fire and flame, bursting with need.
‘Were you always like this? Or is it just since...Lucy?’
He frowns and doesn’t answer right away. I can practically see the cogs turning in his brain. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, before she...she died, did you have a constantly changing stream of staff?’
He shrugs. ‘No.’
I nod, slowly. So this is a hangover of Lucy’s death. My job, my being here, it all comes back to her. To Lucy.
The emotional strangulation of that is not something I think I’ll easily comprehend, and so I stand up slowly.
‘I’ve had enough for now.’ My eyes meet his and now I am the one issuing a challenge. ‘So show me.’
‘Show you what?’ he asks with a purposeful glint in his eye.
‘Show me what you want.’
Chapter Seven
I’M IN LIMBO.
Not asleep...not awake. I lie in his bed, my body throbbing with pleasures untold, my mind exhausted.
It is late. Somewhere between midnight and dawn. And I am his.
I lift up on one elbow, my eyes hazy as I look down at him. He is beautiful and he is sexy. He is groggy. Almost asleep. But his eyes flick to mine and I see blank speculation in them.
Confusion.
Wariness.
‘How are you?’
I smile—I hope it’s as reassuring as I intend and not maniacal as I suspect. ‘Good.’
He nods tersely, pushing up out of bed, dragging a hand through his hair as he stalks across to his wardrobe. He emerges after a moment, boxer shorts on. At least he’s not showering me away immediately.
But he will soon enough. I know Jack too well to misunderstand his mood now, and it pisses me off as much as it worries me. I don’t want a relationship, but I don’t know how we can go from white-hot sex to awkward silence in the space of minutes.
‘Do you need anything?’ His voice is husky. ‘Drink? Coffee? Shower?’
A flicker of annoyance draws my lips into a frown. ‘No, thanks.’
I stand up, feeling as though I’ve run ten marathons. My body is sore and stiff, but still throbbing with pleasures previously unknown. My dress is—where? Out in the living area?
I walk towards him slowly, and pause just in front of him. What he wants is crystal-clear; my own needs are far more difficult to interpret but I do want to interpret them.
Self-preservation draws me inwards, away from Jack before he can push me away. ‘I’m going to go.’
I see the emotions that flicker on his face and I recognise only one—relief.
‘Are you sure?’
I laugh—a soft sound that covers whatever that heavy pain is in my chest. ‘Come on, Jack. We both know how this works.’
I press a kiss against his cheek and move into the lounge. Our sushi feast is still on the table—a relic of our attempt at a date. Like normal people date. But we’re not normal. Not on our own and definitely not together. We’re misfits, both of us, operating outside the normal realms of this kind of relationship thing.
I scoop up my dress and bra and pull the dress on over my naked body, stuffing the bra into my handbag as I step into my shoes.
My hair I pull over one shoulder, brushing my fingers through its tangled length to neaten it somewhat.
‘Martins will be on roster now,’ he says, looking at the clock over the oven and referring to one of the junior staff drivers.
I shake my head. The last thing I want is for a company driver to see me like this, post-Jack-Grant-ravaging. ‘I’ll get a cab.’ I walk towards him again and press a single kiss to his cheek.
‘I’ll see you Monday.’
‘Monday...’ He nods and there are more emotions in his face, these harder to comprehend. ‘Right. It’s the weekend.’
I swallow past a lump in my throat. ‘And then Australia,’ I remind him—probably unnecessarily.
‘Yeah.’
His eyes probe mine. I feel like I’m escaping prison and one of those enormous floodlights has landed on me, full beam.
‘You’re okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I reassure him.
We’ve just had pretty much the best sex in the world—I doubt it has ever been better for anyone than it is for us. But I know I need to go. It’s important. My self-preservation instincts are blaring loudly, demanding I put some space between us.
He nods, and it’s only then that I realise he’s got a glass of Scotch in his hand.
It hurts. There’s something about seeing him with a drink that reminds me of what he does—how often he does it and how he reacts afterwards. And I don’t want that to b
e the case with us.
Those self-preservation instincts join forces with my brain and they pull the strings to make me smile brightly.
‘Thanks for tonight. I had fun. See you soon.’
And I turn and walk slowly towards the door, my heart thudding, my mind foggy.
* * *
I watch her leave with a certainty that I’m messing up my life in a monumental way. What the hell am I doing? Sleeping with Gemma once was a disastrous cock-up. But again and again? Showing her all my dark spaces and hauntings?
No one needs to know the demons that lash me.
I am in control. That’s me. It’s the persona I’ve built and I don’t like the idea of someone knowing that it’s not completely true. Lucy knew, of course. And I guess Amber does; she’s seen me in a pretty fucked-up state, right after Lucy died. But Gemma? Now?
Her eyes, big and intelligent, are assessing, always understanding. And the way her face scrunches when she’s about to come... The way her body trembles beneath mine... Jesus. I want her now—again—more.
I turn to the door. If I chased her what would she say? God, would she think it means I want more than sex? Ironic, given that I just want sex. With Gemma.
An obsession is building inside me. Bit by bit it is closing me in. But Gemma Picton is hardly going to let me turn her into my own personal sex slave. Although I think she’s about as caught up in all of this as I am...
All the more reason for me to fight harder, to control it.
I grip the crystal tumbler in my hands, feeling my anger and determination surge, and I pitch the glass hard against the wall. It breaks with satisfying immediacy, shattering into thousands of tiny pieces that mix with the slosh of amber liquid running fast down the wall before landing with a thud against the tiles. I drag my hand through my hair and stare at the destruction with a sense of satisfaction.
I’m good at ruining things. At breaking them.
That’s what I need to stick to.
* * *
I don’t think I’ll ever eat again. Grandma has no such qualms. She reaches for another oyster—it must be her tenth—and swirls it inside lips she’s painted bright red for the occasion.
‘What’s in Australia?’
I stare out at the little street, watching a small black car reverse—badly—into a narrow parking space. ‘Work.’
‘Always work...’ She sighs.
I nod absently.
Jack will be there, too. After not going to Tokyo, I don’t suppose there’s the smallest hope I can get out of it.
‘I promise I’ll do something fun. Just for you.’
My insides quiver as I imagine what that could be. Jack. Doing Jack would be fun.
But even as my pulse is stirring and my heart is beginning to race my brain is demonstratively reminding me of Jack’s particular brand of cold fishery. His ability to walk away from me right after we’ve shared mind-blowing, simultaneous orgasms is as offensive as it is unique.
Am I crazy to be letting this happen?
Yes, hisses my brain. He’s told you he’s using you. He still loves his dead wife. Jesus. You’re a fool.
‘Grandma...’ I pause, my lips tight as I dismiss whatever the heck I’d been about to say.
She swallows the oyster—Grandma is the only person I know who actually chews the slimy little devils first...shudder...like phlegmatic explosions...ugh. Her gaze is cool and direct.
At eighty, Grandma is every bit as beautiful as she was in her youth. Lined, ephemeral and pale now, but with a glimmer in her eyes, a wave to her silver shoulder-length hair and a smile that is punctuated by straight white teeth—all her own. Her nose is straight, her eyes wide-set, her figure as svelte as ever. And she dresses in a fashion which somehow straddles the latest in trends without coming across as an attempt to be youthful.
‘Something’s on your mind.’
I shake my head and reach for my bread roll. Only I’ve already fingered it anxiously, reducing it to a pile of wheaten crumbs and ash.
‘When Grandpa died, did you think about finding someone else?’
She snorts. ‘There is no one else.’
The words make me smile, yet they are also sounding the death knell for the hope I hadn’t realised I’ve been carrying.
‘No one?’ I tease.
‘No one.’ She expels a sigh. ‘Your grandfather was... What we shared is impossible to explain.’ She sips her champagne, her eyes growing even more intensely watchful, if that’s possible. ‘Have I ever told you about how we met?’
I shake my head, even though I know the story backwards.
‘Liar!’ She chuckles.
We’re interrupted by a waiter, but Grandma dispenses with him quickly, placing an order for another bottle of champagne and then fixing me with that steady grey gaze of hers.
‘He was sitting on the lawns at Huntington, his knees bent, his chin resting on them. His face was resolutely turned away from me, but as I approached his eyes shifted, locking to my face. It was as if he was telling me all his secrets and begging me to help him in that one single second. He looked at me as if he knew that I was the only person on earth who would be able to dig through his shit and find the kernel of the boy he’d once been.’
Grandma is looking over my shoulder now. The story is one she’s told so many times that it comes out word for word as I remember it. Still, I lean forward, the invisible threads of magic and history curling around me.
‘That enormous oak tree was just to his side—far enough away to prevent shade from darkening him, but close enough to dwarf him. He was a big man, your grandfather. Tall and strong—built for battle.’ Her lips twist with undisguised disgust. ‘But not strong in spirit. His spirit had been broken and the tree made that obvious to me.’
Her eyes flick back to mine and I feel it, too. Just like she did. The weight of silent communication and understanding.
‘I loved him instantly.’
My heart does a weird little palpitation in my chest. ‘I can’t imagine that.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s just unfathomable to me.’
‘That’s because you haven’t met someone worth loving yet,’ she says with a shrug of her elegant shoulders. ‘One day you’ll know just what I mean.’
I quirk my lips, hoping my smile seems dismissive. My pulse has speeded up. I try to quell it.
‘I don’t think it always works like that.’
‘Perhaps not. Your grandfather was special.’
‘What you shared was special,’ I murmur, reaching across and squeezing her hand.
Grandma’s eyes flicker, her lips tighten and she nods, as if to dismiss the conversation. The waiter appears, brandishing a bottle of champagne, and begins to unfurl the foil top. Grandma stares resolutely at the view as the waiter performs his ministrations, and doesn’t smile when he pours two fresh glasses.
She is very much the Duchess in instances like this: a woman who has become so used to service and being served that it isn’t even an act she needs to be grateful for.
I smile my thanks as he leaves.
Grandma waits until we are alone again. ‘You will never meet anyone—no lover, no special friend, no one—if you are behind your desk all day.’
Out of nowhere I picture Jack. I picture the way he drapes himself against the doorframe, the way his body is so languid and sensual, and my stomach flops.
‘Have I told you the foundation is almost ready to launch?’
Grandma tilts her head to one side. ‘I admire your commitment to that...’ she says, clearly trying to frame whatever she’s thinking carefully. ‘But you have money. If philanthropy is your aim, why not set up your own charity?’
‘Perhaps I will—one day. But my job is more than just one thing... You know that.’ I expel a sigh, frustration gnawing at me. ‘You’ve always championed my work.’
‘You’re very clever. And I know you’re brilliant at what you do. But you’re sacrificing too much now. I champion
ed your work because I hoped you would find a way to pursue your career and still live your life. You, more than anyone I’ve ever known, have the ability to keep multiple balls in the air at once. So why aren’t you doing it?’
I drop my head, my eyes not meeting hers. There is so much truth in what she’s saying, but the criticism hurts.
‘I...I am.’ It’s a lie. We both know that. But reality is not something I want to face.
‘All of you is focussed on that job. On that man. I’m worried you’re going to wake up one day and realise what you’ve sacrificed. And all for him.’
My heart bumps against my ribs, banging them with its frantic racing. ‘He’s brilliant.’
‘And a bastard, by all reports.’
Yes. A beautiful, arrogant, brilliant, sex-obsessed bastard.
Was it only yesterday he was inside me? It feels like forever ago. I am at a fever pitch of want—want only he can answer. My insides clench instantly, remembering him, needing him, craving his touch, smell and taste...
‘He’s not that bad.’ The words are hoarse, punctured by breath and memory.
‘With him and that job in your life you’re never going to be truly happy.’
Her pronouncement is spoken in a way that is almost prophetic. A shiver dances down my spine, spiralling coldness across my flesh like a breath from the North Pole.
‘Travelling and living off the family trust would be better?’ I arch a brow. ‘You know me better than that. I live for what I do. I love it. Maybe that’s the love of my life.’
Silence prickles between us. Silence that is suffocating and unwelcome.
‘Very well,’ she clips, dismissing this conversation, as well. ‘I don’t like the way they’ve trimmed those hedges. It’s so severe.’
I breathe again, but my heart is still twisting and thumping. The truth sits heavily in my mind but I step away from it.
There is no ulterior motive to my working so hard for Jack. There’s no mystery as to why I don’t feel like I’ve sacrificed a damn thing for him. It doesn’t mean anything that I am fulfilled and alive, energised every time I speak to him, see him, do his bidding. But my stomach drops. Because actually I think there probably is a meaning—just one I don’t want to appreciate.
Fuck.
* * *
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