by Fiona Walker
Chapter 80
With paparazzi buzzing around his St Croix villa like mosquitoes, Dillon had been left with no choice but to phone his father and ask if he could use his private Caribbean retreat, the jewel-like Golden Hinde Island, one of the smallest and prettiest of the British Virgin Islands (a fact that always amused Pete who called the island Goldie and liked to boast that he had taken many British virgins there, but never brought one back). Dillon felt rather like a goofy teenager asking his dad if he could borrow the car to go on a date, but Pete had been surprisingly easygoing about it: ‘No worries, son – it’ll keep the staff on their toes. Just take care of her.’
‘I’m alone,’ he said, not very convincingly.
‘I was talking about Goldie. Don’t forget to put the cat out, yeah?’
‘I really appreciate this. I’ll return the favour some time.’
‘You already have, son,’ Pete cackled. ‘You already have!’
Dillon had no idea what his father meant, but was wholly relieved when they set off by helicopter later that day for the half-hour hop from St Croix to Golden Hind Island. He had increasingly cold feet about the press getting their hands on this story, or at least on Faith’s identity, fearing that exposure of that magnitude could make her life hell for a very long time. She was his friend and she might talk tough and punch low, but she was still very young and innocent.
Faith was restless. She had read all her books, and the additional two that Dillon had bought her on the day he went out shopping and brought her back a complete wardrobe of parrot-bright sarongs, bikinis, flip-flops and pretty bangles (‘You’re in the Caribbean, what more do you need?’ he’d pointed out, to which she’d replied ‘An umbrella?’ when a tropical storm broke overhead).
It was the hurricane season, but none were forecast for their stay, just the occasional refreshing cloudburst which she needed to cool her excess energy and hot head from time to time.
Accustomed to working twelve-hour days, with six of those spent in the saddle, to the thrills of competing and the spills of being shouted at by Gus Moncrieff, Faith found the pace of the tropics as stifling as the temperatures. Dillon hadn’t even allowed her out of the gated villa on St Croix. At least here she was allowed to explore an entire island, although he told her not to go near the beaches, cliffs or coastline because the paps were still bobbing around at a distance, the canniest old hands knowing full well that he was trying to close their apertures to one of the biggest picture stories since a Texan sucked the Duchess of York’s toes.
But when Faith went for a run inland, fighting her way along an overgrown path that ran up the spine of the old volcano at the island’s centre, she found the mosquitoes and heat too oppressive, started feeling unpleasantly like a character in Lost running from the black smoke, and so returned to pace around the opulent main house, a ridiculous surfeit of luxury that obviously embarrassed Dillon, who kept apologising for it, from the twelve bedroom suites as big as penthouse flats to the full recording studio, cinema complex, gym and no less than four swimming pools.
‘Dad likes to take a dip in to cool water between dipping in to hot women,’ he had explained, scuffing around awkwardly, hands deep in his pockets and thoughts deep in his head.
Faith knew most girls would die to be in a place like this. Carly would probably never speak to her again if she knew where her friend was, but that was no great change because they hadn’t spoken properly for months as it was, the friendship waning yet again in the light of a new boyfriend called Ryan who she claimed was as good as signed to the Premier League.
But Faith was going stir-crazy and longed to know what Rory was up to. She checked the internet constantly for updates from Gatcombe, where he was competing in the British Open Championships on Humpty. He was fifth after dressage overnight, which was reassuring and even gave her cause for a small celebratory drink with Dillon while they lounged on plantation chairs beside the infinity pool, watching the setting sun turn the sea from bright blue to gold like a cooling flame, and waiting while a lavish seafood banquet was whipped up by the team of three chefs.
He was on orange juice as usual, but she decided to counter her edginess with one of the rum cocktails that the butler Orlando was always boasting were the best in the Caribbean.
She chose a piña colada, thinking that, because she had heard of it, it must be safe. It was far from safe. Faith had no head for alcohol, and was steaming after just half a glass.
‘I don’t think Rory will ever love me,’ she sighed.
Dillon, who felt like he had taken Rory from every angle in the past few days and could take no more, closed one eye and tilted his head at her, trying out a line his father would have been proud of. ‘Do you know how beautiful you look tonight?’
‘What?’ She flared a nostril and curled her lip, which admittedly didn’t add a great deal to the overall look, but it wasn’t Faith’s face Dillon was referring to. Her features had always been handsome and unique, like a Modigliani, although veneers had modernised the classical façade. Her body, however, had taken to the Caribbean like a ripening papaya and transformed spectacularly. She might claim to be a fish out of water, or a muddy pike thrown into a tropical tank, but her scales were glistening. With a real sun-kissed glow to her foxglove skin, her hair sun-bleached blonde and heavy with oils that turned the customary frizz to Pre-Raphaelite corkscrews, and her lean, fit body softened by five-star cooking, she was utterly stunning.
Like Faith, Dillon wished Rory was there to appreciate it. But she would have to make do with him, which was no bad thing given her lack of guile.
‘You are a beautiful woman,’ he assured her.
‘Getoutahere.’ She threw the straw from her piña colada at him and turned to look at the sun again as it winked its last red rays over the horizon.
‘You know the key to sexual awareness is self love,’ he said lazily.
She curled her lips. ‘You sound like Beccy reciting her chakra crap.’
‘D’you ever touch yourself?’
‘Now you’re getting creepy.’ She reached for her drink and took a big gulp. Not a great move. It was like shooting the high grade rum into a vein.
‘Okay. What I’m asking is, how well you know what you actually want?’
‘I want Rory.’
‘Let’s take that as a given. What do you want Rory to do?’
‘Kiss me.’
‘And then?’
‘We’d kiss for a long time.’
‘Okay. You kiss for a long time. Then?’
‘Make love, of course.’ She went pink beneath her tan, her blushes mercifully spared by the arrival of a troop of waiters laying out their seafood on a nearby table, lighting candles and braziers and then melting away again as efficiently and quickly as scene-changing staff in a theatre.
‘So you make love.’ Dillon settled at the table, opposite her, and cracked open a lobster tail. ‘What do you do?’
Faith picked up a fat prawn, dipped it in spicy mayo and looked at it. Then she looked at him, prawn aloft like the grim reaper’s scythe. She narrowed her eyes. ‘You tell me.’
‘How can I say?’ He popped a sliver of sea urchin in his mouth. ‘I’ve never made love to Rory.’
‘Nor have I.’
‘But you love him, which gives you a head start in the fantasy stakes.’
Faith thrust out her chin rebelliously, but it was just to dart out a very pink tongue on which she landed her fat prawn, like a mahimahi on a jetty, sucking it back in and looking at him quizzically.
Somebody had filled up a champagne glass beside her. She politely took advantage of it to wash down the delicious mouthful, her mind rather disturbingly awash with Rory.
‘You need to shave off your beard,’ she told Dillon.
He laughed. ‘You can shave it off if you like.’
‘I will.’ She reached for a conch fritter.
‘Do you like shaving?’ He was teasing her now, eyes crinkling at the corners with amu
sement.
‘Now you’re getting creepy again.’ She spoke with her mouth full. ‘I like clipping horses, although it can be a bit itchy when the cuttings get down the back of your neck. But I hate shaving my legs. So boring.’
‘I can tell.’
Faith reached for her glass, amazingly refilled once more. ‘You look at my legs?’
‘I look at all of you, Faith. I’m a man.’
She started digging into a crab. ‘You’re just sex-starved.’
‘Quite probably.’ He delicately fingered a mussel, loosening it from its shell before slipping it into his mouth.
‘I’m not sex-starved.’ She had another swig of champagne. ‘One has to assume a degree of satiation before starvation, after all.’
‘Say again?’
She looked at him over her glass. ‘My entire sexual experience amounts to a drunken snog with Flipper Cottrell and one de-cherrying with a gay friend.’
He raised his eyebrow.
She tilted her head from left to right as she weighed up this sum total. ‘To be honest, the snog was sexier, but I can hardly remember how to do it now.’
‘Didn’t your gay friend oblige?’
‘He doesn’t like kissing much.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘I don’t think he really likes having sex with women either, so I didn’t pick up a lot of expert tips.’ She let out a wistful sigh of breath. ‘All of which makes my Rory kissing plan a bit hit and miss, I know – let alone the making love bit.’
‘It could be tricky,’ Dillon agreed, chewing spicy-mayo-drenched crabmeat.
‘And he is so experienced, it terrifies me.’ She reached for the champagne glass again, wondering how it kept refilling when she couldn’t see a bottle or indeed any staff around. ‘You know this MC he’s been shagging?’
‘Rory’s been shagging an emcee?’
‘No, Marie-Clair Tucson – they call her MC Hummer on the circuit because she’s tough, off-road and driven by big dicks.’
Dillon laughed.
Faith didn’t. ‘Rory told me that she has taught him so much about sex that he, I quote “now knows how to pleasure women every which way but up”.’
‘Twat.’ Dillon laughed then, seeing her thunderous face, held up his hands. ‘Sorry. Knowledgeable twat. Knowledgeable of twat. Go on …’
‘I have no idea how to pleasure a man.’ Faith laced her fingers together and pressed her hands to her mouth, clever, drunken eyes on his, questioning and anxious.
Very slowly, Dillon laid down the langouste he was holding and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘We’re very simple.’
Faith dared herself, double dared herself and triple dared herself before she lifted her hands from her mouth for a second and blurted, ‘Will you show me?’
‘You’re very drunk.’
She lowered her hands carefully to her lap and leaned back in her chair. ‘If I can walk in a straight line along a given trajectory, will you do it?’
He grimaced. ‘I’m not so hot myself, Faith.’
‘You’ve had hundreds of lovers!’
‘Drop a zero from that.’
‘Still ten times more than me.’
He blew out through his lips, shaking his head. ‘I thought I was pretty hot until I met Sylva Frost, but she had me beat.’ He laughed in amazement that he had admitted it out loud. ‘She scared the balls off me.’ He looked up at Faith. ‘The woman knows more about sex than I know about cheese. And I thought I was an aficionado of love and cheese.’
‘You are. Nobody sings about love as cheesily as you.’
‘Thanks for that.’
Faith propped a flip-flopped foot on the table edge and tilted her chair back. ‘Rory says that MC feels it’s her duty, as an amazing lover, to pass on tips to every man she beds so that the greater female populace benefits from her experience.’
‘Very noble.’ Dillon made a mental note to Google MC Hummer later and commit her face to memory for self-protection.
‘I think you should feel the same duty,’ Faith challenged him.
It was gradually dawning on Dillon that he was being propositioned although, being Faith, she was issuing it as a challenge.
‘Darling Faith.’ He laid down his fork and looked at her seriously. ‘At one point in my life nothing would have given me greater pleasure, believe me. But I am older and wiser and know what it’s like to live with the consequences of these things.’
‘I’m cool with the consequences.’
‘Well I’m not. I absolutely adore you, but I am much too old.’
‘You’re not much older than Rory.’
‘I have an old soul, unlike Rory, or indeed my dad. The Rockfather might think groupie-shagging in the Virgin Islands rejuvenates the spirit, but this son begs to differ.’
‘I’m no groupie!’ she pointed out hotly, her chair tipping forwards again. ‘I’m your friend. I don’t particularly like your music.’
‘A contradiction I’m now familiar with.’
‘And I’m glad you’re not like your dad,’ she went on furiously. ‘I wouldn’t shag Pete Rafferty in a million years, even if he’s much better at it than you.’
To Dillon, this was a come-on beyond any coy flirtation, but he refused to take the bait. ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad …’
‘Meaning?’ Faith tipped her chair back again and he clearly saw her neat, sculpted inner thighs, curving enticingly towards a picturesque hollow through which her bikini flew its triangular bright turquoise sail. Matching turquoise eyes watched him keenly from between her knees.
‘Just Larkin about.’
‘My mum’s Danish.’ She swapped feet on the table edge as her chair rocked back and forth. ‘She thinks fucking is a very good thing. Healthy, like saunas and massage.’
‘And your dad?’
‘I don’t know my real dad.’
‘Perhaps it’s time you did.’
The chair swung forwards eagerly. ‘D’you think that’s the key to Rory?’
‘No, I think that’s the key to you. Sex is cheating, like picking the lock.’
‘In that case, I want to cheat.’ Faith regarded him between her tanned knees, turquoise sail tacking left then right as both flip-flops paced against the table edge, rocking her chair to its absolute apex. ‘I want to cheat with you.’ With a wide, sexy smile she lost balance and tipped back into a potted palm, feet in the air.
Dillon stood up and, in gentlemanly fashion, set her upright again before dropping a kiss on her head and whispering, ‘If you still want this when sober in the morning, we’ll talk again. For now, sleep.’
Then he went to his suite for a very cold shower.
The next morning, there was a knock at his door just after seven.
Thinking it was his breakfast, Dillon groggily called them in.
‘Aggh!’ he screamed like a girl when Faith straddled him with a razor and a can of shaving foam.
His morning glory, however, rose in a manly salute to lift her off her feet.
‘Ohmygod.’ She looked down in delight. ‘Either Lem was really, really small, or you’re really, really huge.’ She started to explore hitherto unchartered territory with her fingertips.
How could a man resist? She wanted to learn and, like the ambitious young rider she was, she insisted on learning from the best.
‘When you touch a man’s balls,’ he gasped as her hands slid everywhere, ‘you must be gentle.’
‘Sorry.’ She paused in her exploration.
‘Don’t stop. Actually, stop!’ He lifted himself up on to his elbows to look at her. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Absolutely.’ She nodded excitedly. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all night and you’re right, I do love Rory, which means making love with him should be easy. But I don’t know how to make out, so I think you’re the best person to teach me because you’re my friend and you’re handsome and talented and you’ve shagged hundreds – sorry, tens – of women, and you’re rea
dy.’ She looked down. ‘Or is that an illusion?’
He looked down too. ‘It’s not an illusion.’
‘It’s so big,’ Faith gasped, wondering how all that would fit into her.
Dillon found it growing all the bigger for that. She was the perfect antidote to Sylva, he realised.
‘Milujem t’a.’ He rolled her over to start on some basics.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Slovak for “trust me”.’ He bent his head to start kissing his way around her body.
She sucked her lip guiltily. ‘Did Sylva teach you that?’
‘No – but she did teach me this …’
‘Ohmygodstopit!’ she shrieked, wriggling away. ‘If you are going to do that then I’m definitely shaving your beard first …’
Chapter 81
Pascal arrived in Maccombe to find the weather as wet as Alexandra had predicted it to be, Haydown House and its downland setting as ridiculously beautiful as he remembered them, and to find Hugo stretched to the limit.
He’d just returned empty-handed from the British Open Championships, where gossip was rife and some spectators had even booed at him as he galloped past. Chinese whispers about the end of his marriage, and the reasons for it, had spread through the sport like swine flu. Infidelity had become sexual assault and then had become rape in just a few short, shocked exchanges at the ringside. His reputation and career were in peril. Several owners had already called to say they were taking horses away, and a key sponsor had that day announced they were pulling out of supporting the Haydown team, without explaining their reasons.
At Gatcombe a great many close friends had vouched for Hugo and supported him, yet an equal number of enemies had cold-shouldered and damned him. He was at a very low ebb and felt like jacking in the rest of the season and going back to America to teach.
Still, he welcomed his French father-in-law with typical good manners, digging out cognac and fresh coffee, sharing cigarettes and asking after the shipping business in his polite, upper-crust way.
‘Dead in ze water, as you say, mon brave.’ Pascal sighed with regret, realising as he watched him that Hugo was nowhere near as together as he made out.