By the time they’d reached the top floor and the door of the apartment had been kicked shut, every nerve ending was tingling. Her breasts were hard peaks that not even the bra built into her dress could disguise. They demanded to be touched, kissed, pinched. Her body was a melting inferno and she took no more than three paces into the apartment before she turned and let the heavy cloak fall at her feet.
Hal discarded his jacket, took a step towards her, let his hands rest momentarily on her shoulders, his thumbs stroking her neck as his eyes ate her up. She anticipated a fierce hunger, wanted it, was practically screaming for it, but his kiss was the antithesis of that moment on the footpath when his mouth had first punished her, then aroused her, then stolen her wits.
His mouth descended with tormenting slowness as if he wanted to savour every moment, his lips barely brushing hers, here, there, parting softly in an erotic tango that became darker and deeper as he pulled at her lower lip. He slid his tongue along it, sucked it into his mouth setting up a chain reaction of responses that left her weak, trembling with longing.
Eyes closed, she found his tie, pulled it loose with shaking hands, blindly unfastening studs, scattering them in her desperation to touch his skin, feeling its warmth beneath her hands, against her own.
‘Look at me, Claire…’
She opened her eyes and he let his hands slide slowly over her shoulders, brushing aside the straps.
‘Look at me…’
His breath was soft against her cheek, his mouth trailed moist kisses down her throat, in the hollow of her shoulder as he slowly lowered the zip.
‘Say my name…’
As her dress slithered over her body, pooled around her ankles, Claire let her head fall back in invitation, wanting his mouth on her breasts, wanting it everywhere…
‘Dance with me, Hal North,’ she murmured, putting her arms around his neck. ‘Dance with me.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HAL opened his eyes to the familiar panorama of the Thames, pink in the predawn glow. There were still lights twinkling along the water’s edge but scarcely any movement on the river itself.
Beside him, Claire was sleeping, his arm holding her against his chest, his hand cradling a breast. Utterly vulnerable. Completely his. Soon, very soon, she would wake and the perfect moment would be broken in her panic to get home, to be there for Alice, but for now he could watch her sleeping.
‘Don’t move,’ he said as she stirred.
‘I don’t want to.’
Her body was responding to his own. All he had to do was move his thumb, tease a nipple that was hardening beneath his palm and she’d forget everything, be totally his for another half an hour maybe.
He resisted the temptation, kissed her shoulder. ‘I’ll make some coffee while you take a shower.’
He rolled away quickly, while he had the strength to let her go, unhooked a gown from behind a door and turned to toss it to her. She had clutched the sheet to her breast, already slipping away from him.
He put the kettle on, bread in the toaster, went to find her something to wear.
‘Shirt, sweater, jeans, socks and a new pair of boxers,’ he called, dropping them on the bed. ‘They’ll be a bit on the big side, but they’re clean. Shame we didn’t bid on that bra…’
His mouth dried as she walked back into the bedroom, bringing with her the scented steam of the shower.
‘No problem. It would have been too big for me, anyway.’
‘I’m afraid these will be, too, but you’ll need them on the bike.’
‘Bike?’ she said, picking up the pack containing a pair of soft jersey shorts.
‘Relax, I don’t expect you to cycle home, but by the time a car gets here we can be halfway home.’
‘You’ve got a motorbike?’ she asked, a little breathlessly. He hadn’t lost her quite yet…
‘I’m the local bad boy, remember? Of course I’ve got a bike.’
She looked up at him. ‘You’re not bad, Hal…’
‘No?’
Her skin was damp, her hair dripping. She smelled of his body wash, his shampoo, she was his and taking a hank of hair, wrapping it round his hand he back her against the wall and proceeded to demonstrate just how bad he could be…
She didn’t object as he leaned into her, kissed her, pulled loose the belt of the robe she tied around her so carefully.
Didn’t object as he stroked his hand over the length of her body from her neck to the warm, melting apex of her thighs. Holding her with nothing more than his gaze, he stroked her to a juddering climax then wiped his hand across his chest, anointing himself with her essence.
‘Not bad…’ She had that soft, dreamy smile of a woman completely satisfied. ‘Very, very good…’
‘Coffee, toast in the kitchen,’ he said abruptly before he forgot himself completely. She did that to him. Made him forget who he was, who she was…
*
Claire roused herself, pulled on the clothes he’d brought her. The too big boxers, a soft woollen shirt that came down practically to her knees. She rolled up the legs of his jeans, cinched in the belt to hold everything together.
There had been a moment, in the middle of the night, when they’d raided the fridge for smoked salmon, champagne, but it took a moment to find the way. Or maybe she wanted the excuse to wander through Hal’s lovely apartment, feel the fine Persian rugs beneath her bare feet, touch his things.
A Knole sofa. A Sheraton sofa table with a wonderful bronze of a horse. A Hockney on the wall.
‘Had a good look round?’ he asked as he handed her a big breakfast cup filled with richly scented coffee.
‘You have a beautiful home, Hal. You’ve come a long way from Primrose Cottage.’ Then, when he didn’t answer, she said, ‘I’ve never been on the back of a bike.’
‘You’ve never sneaked back into the house at dawn, either. Shame about the leather skirt.’
‘You can’t have everything.’
‘No. There are always sacrifices.’ He patted a stool. ‘Hop up.’ He took the socks she’d been carrying.
‘My sandals won’t go over them,’ she said. ‘I thought I might put them over my sandals.’
‘No need. I’ve got an old pair of boots you can have.’
She looked at the pair of biker’s boots on the floor beside the central island. ‘Those? They’re going to be a mile too big.’
‘I’ve stuffed some spare socks in the toes.’ He took the socks she was carrying and slipped them on over her feet. Buckled the boots in place. Helped her into a thick, padded jacket, fastening the zip up to the neck.
‘I feel like the Michelin man,’ she said.
‘Do you?’ He leaned forward and kissed her. ‘Make that a Michelin woman. Come on, it’s time to go.’
*
The drive back to Maybridge was fast, thrilling and Claire clung to Hal like a teenager, her arms wrapped tightly around his middle, leaning into the curves, practically screaming with excitement.
It was madness. She was a mother. She was supposed to be responsible; not flying home at dawn, ripping up the quiet of the village, tearing across the estate, scattering deer, rabbits before Hal finally brought the bike to a swinging, giddy halt by her fence.
He pulled off his helmet.
‘Don’t move,’ he said as she attempted to dismount. For a moment they looked at one another, both remembering when he’d said that before. How his hand had been gently curled around her breast, what she’d wanted…
He slid from the bike, unfastened her helmet, then removed it. Her hair was crushed to her scalp and she pulled off an oversized gauntlet, tried to lift her hand to loosen it. Her arm was stiff, her legs were stiff, too and he lifted her clear of the bike and deposited on the far side of the fence.
‘Okay?’ he asked, holding her for a moment, then, when he was sure she could support herself, he used one hand to casually vault it, found the spare key, opened the door. And suddenly she didn’t know what to say.
‘Easy. You strip off and I take the evidence away with me.’ He grinned. ‘Want to try it?’
And be caught wearing his underwear by her daughter galloping home at the crack of dawn? ‘I’m good, thanks.’
‘Sensible answer.’
Yes, well, that was her. Good old sensible Claire.
Except for last night when she’d lost her mind, lost her reason, lost herself.
‘Here you go, Cinders,’ he said, taking a bag from inside his jacket. Her clothes, her handbag, her shoes.
‘Hal…’
He waited.
‘See you tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’
Today, now, anytime…
‘It’s the Wish List photo-shoot,’ she said. ‘Me in the tutu with my magic wand…’ She broke off, feeling stupid. ‘I thought you might enjoy your big moment.’
‘I’ve had my big moment, Claire,’ he said, touching her cheek, briefly. ‘Right now I have to get back to London.’
‘Oh, but…’
‘I’ve been neglecting things.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Take care.’
She watched him walk away, vault over the fence, fire up the bike, her invitation to stay, have breakfast, left unspoken.
It was just as well. It wouldn’t do for her daughter, her neighbour to come walking in on them sharing breakfast.
Sensible Claire would never let that happen.
She swallowed, turned away. Whatever happened now, she would never be the same. Never be that carefully focussed woman who had always only ever had one goal in life.
To pass her exams and be the daughter her mother wanted her to be. To protect her child and be the mother she had always wanted to be. To be good at her job, make a name for herself…
It was like shattering glass.
She’d put herself back together the first time it had broken. When she’d abandoned the strict rules laid down by her mother and her world had fallen apart. Her father had died, her mother had abandoned her.
She’d carefully sealed up the cracks. Learned to focus again. On her baby, her home, her career. Starting at the bottom.
This time was different.
The glass had not just broken, it had fragmented, been blown to the four corners of the wind and in a sudden panic she opened her evening bag, dug out her phone.
There were no missed calls, no messages.
No. She had done the unthinkable and hadn’t been struck down by lightning. Yet.
It would be a while before Penny brought Alice home, she could take a nap, catch up on her sleep, but if she went to bed she would think about Hal, dream about Hal.
Instead she changed into jeans that fit, a T-shirt, a pair of Wellington boots, pulled on Hal’s woollen shirt over them, rolling up the sleeves. She’d wash it in the morning, but for now she wanted to keep him close.
Look…
Taking her camera, she went for a walk, crossing a footbridge over the Cran, walking along the far bank until she saw exactly why Hal had closed the footpath.
She took photographs using her phone, attached a text to Hal— I looked.
A sort of apology for doubting him.
She told Alice about her evening—some of it—making her laugh about her bidding for a rugby shirt. She gave her the chocolates—hers and Hal’s—that she’d saved for her. Then, since there was no response from Hal, she decided to write up a piece for Monday’s newspaper about the footpath being undermined by the winter rains.
She thought better of it. She wasn’t on the news desk and Hal was right. Nobody actually cared.
‘Who are these people?’ Alice asked, rooting around in her father’s box, picking out one of the photographs.
She glanced at it. ‘Some of the men who used to work on the estate when your granddad was alive.’
‘And this?’
She glanced at it. It was a picture of a small boy on a pony with a man holding the leading reins. She couldn’t think why it was in the box. It was too old to be one of her father’s pictures.
‘I think the boy is Sir Robert,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he look sweet?’
‘And who is the man?’
His clothes were that of a country gentleman rather than a groom and the posture had a careless arrogance.
‘His father, I should think. Sir Harry Cranbrook.’
‘Are you sure?’ Alice examined it closely. ‘He looks an awful lot like Hal.’
Hal?
‘It’s an old picture, Alice,’ she said. ‘It can’t be Hal.’
‘But he has the same hair!’
‘Lot’s of people have dark hair,’ she said, taking it for a closer look. Lots of people had dark hair, but not dark hair that grew in just that way, that slid over the forehead just so. Or a mouth that lifted at the corner…
‘And he’s the same shape,’ Alice insisted.
What?
‘Can I keep it?’ she asked.
‘No.’ She took the photograph from her. ‘It belongs in granddad’s archives.’ With his journals. She’d started reading them, but they had just contained weather reports, details of maintenance, hiring and firing of staff, shoot records…
Look…
The phone rang and she snatched it up. Not Hal but Jessie Michaels asking if Alice could go with them to the safari park.
It was all the distraction Alice needed, and forgetting all about the photograph, she rushed off to get changed. She took another look at the photograph.
The same shape?
The same wide shoulders. That way of holding his head. Sir Robert did that, too, but he hadn’t had the striking colouring, the strength of features. He’d clearly favoured his mother, although she’d never seen a picture of Sir Harry before.
She’d once asked Sir Robert if there was one but he’d said it had fallen, been damaged beyond repair.
Looking at this photograph, an entirely different explanation leapt to mind. That the genes had skipped a generation. That the likeness had been too obvious to ignore and he’d removed it.
Was that why Lady Cranbrook had left him? Because he’d had an affair with his cook? She’d always thought of Hal’s mother as old, but heading downhill towards thirty herself she had a different view of age.
Looking back it was obvious that she’d been something of a head-turner with her dark, Gypsy looks. Far too much woman for a man like Jack North to handle…
She finally found the entry she was looking for written not in the daily log, but in the back of her father’s journal for the year Hal had been banished from the estate.
I did a despicable thing today. I told young Hal North that if he didn’t leave the estate Sir Robert would demolish his mother’s house. Leave both her and Jack North without a job.
Clearly something had to be done after he rode his bike into the house, parked it in front of the portrait of the man who is, undeniably, his grandfather.
I never liked the boy, he’s arrogant, full of himself and helps himself to my game at will, no matter what traps the gamekeepers set, but this was a dreadful thing to do to him. If I had somewhere else to go, I’d leave tomorrow, but the house goes with the job and Sir Robert pays Claire’s school fees. Laura would never forgive me for giving all that up on a matter of principle.
One thing I didn’t do—destroy Sir Harry’s portrait. I’ve hidden it in the rafters of the hayloft. It’s not much, but I’ve told his mother where it is and, maybe, one day young North will have justice and I will be able to rest easy.
She closed the book, held it close, remembering horrible days when her father hadn’t talked to anyone. When her mother had been more demanding. It had passed, but her father had never been quite the same again. She’d always assumed that it was the beginning of the cancer that eventually killed him. But there were other things that ate you up from the inside…
&nb
sp; ‘Mum, where’s my…’ Alice erupted into the room then came to an abrupt halt. ‘Why are you crying?’
She shook her head. ‘No reason. I was just remembering your granddad, Alice. I wish you’d known him. He’d have loved you so much.’
‘Sav’s got six grandparents,’ she said. ‘One set got a divorce and married again. She’s got loads of aunts and uncles.’ She flopped down on a chair. ‘Why don’t we have any family?’
‘Your grandparents were both only children. And grandma… She thought I let her down.’ But family was important and they had so little of it. A few distant cousins. Maybe it was time to build bridges… ‘I’ll call her later.’
But first she had to call Hal. She wanted him to see this. There were no excuses, but she wanted him to know that her father had loathed himself for what he’d done. That the picture was still there, somewhere.
There was no reply from the house and she hung up when the answering machine cut in; this wasn’t something for anyone else to hear.
His mobile phone went straight to voicemail and she left a message asking him to call her back.
*
Hair done, nails done, make-up done…
Being a fairy wasn’t all downside, Claire decided. And, in deference to her advanced age, she’d been allowed to choose a ballerina-length dress. Lots of tulle in the skirt and a soft gold bodice with minimal flesh on display. Very family friendly…
Brian was skimming through the photographs on his computer. ‘That one, I think.’
‘I can live with that.’
He nodded. ‘Good, good… We’ll need you in full fig at the Mayoral parlour tomorrow morning. His worship wants to gather a little of the glory for himself.’
‘Will expenses run to a taxi? I don’t fancy travelling on the bus.’
‘I’ll pick you up if you like.’
‘Thanks…’ He seemed oddly distracted, seemed unable to look her in the eye. ‘Brian, is there something you’re not telling me? I do still have a job?’
‘What? Oh, yes… You’re our star investigative reporter,’ he said, attempting a laugh. It wasn’t convincing.
‘But…’ she persisted.
‘I shouldn’t tell you…’
The Last Woman He'd Ever Date (Mills & Boon Modern Tempted) Page 16