In reply, I wrapped my legs back around him and pressed my heels into his beautiful, muscled arse.
‘Right,’ he breathed. ‘Hold tight. Here we go–’
Afterwards, we lay locked together for a sweaty age, until Marcus finally raised his head.
‘Now that,’ he sighed out, ‘was my idea of a good morning.’
Then he tensed. Downstairs, the front door had opened and shut. ‘What the hell?’
‘Builders,’ I said.
‘Building what?’
‘A new kitchen. And, eventually, bathroom. For my pregnant landlady.’
Marcus rolled off me and reached for his watch. ‘It’s barely seven!’
‘Builders start early.’
He flopped down on his back. ‘And put paid to any encore. Oh, well–’ He expelled a long breath and sat up. ‘Bathroom time.’
But as he was about to swing his legs out of bed, I grabbed his arm.
‘Can I just ask you a question – before we reach the point where I simply can’t because it will be too embarrassing?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Right. First – what is your surname?’
‘Reynolds.’
‘Like the painter?’
‘Yes. But no relation.’
‘Are you an Hon?’
‘That’s two questions. But yes, I am. Technically.’ He gave a quick grimace. ‘Look, sorry – I really must go for a pee.’
I still had hold of his arm. I let go and watched him walk naked to the door – and then straight out! Did he not care that there were people in the house? I sighed. What a stupid question.
There was no way I was taking a shower with builders present, so I slid reluctantly out of bed and began to forage for a shirt and jeans. On the floor I found the t-shirt I’d lent Marcus. Two steps further on were his underpants. I picked them up. Armani.
‘Right.’ He was back and had at least closed the door behind him. ‘I’d better get clad.’ He noted what was in my hand. ‘Toss me those, will you, Angel?’
‘You’re going to re-wear them?’
‘Unless you can lend me a fresh pair, I have little choice.’
‘You could go commando.’
‘Not with these trousers,’ he grinned. ‘They’re wool. The chafing would be unbearable.’
He’d finished dressing while I was still buttoning my shirt. I assumed, with a stab of resentment, that getaways from the aforementioned jealous husbands had trained him in the art of the quick change.
As if reading my mind, he came up to me and placed his hands lightly on my upper arms. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been more generous than I deserve.’
Then he bent his head and kissed me, arms reaching around now to pull me close. The kiss deepened. His hand began to run up under my shirt, his fingers warm and tingling on my bare skin. I felt him growing hard against me.
From below us, the screech of a circular saw wound up like a dentist’s drill. Marcus and I broke apart.
‘Christ,’ he winced. ‘The appearance of my dead grandmother would be less of a passion killer.’
‘I’m sorry. But they do go home at five on the dot.’
I hadn’t meant it to be a hint, but as it was, he didn’t take it. He left me, with my shirt still hitched up, and strode off to his jacket, hanging over the back of the bedroom chair. From the inside pocket he drew a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter. It gave me a start; I’d almost forgotten that he smoked.
He saw my surprise and said, a little sheepishly, ‘I’ve managed to cut down to two a day. One before breakfast, one mid-morning.’
I straightened my shirt. ‘Why don’t you give it up altogether?’
‘Because I like it,’ he said. ‘But it’s one of the few things in life that’s definitely best in moderation.’
He turned to the window to check the weather. ‘I’ll smoke outside. See you in five’ – and was gone.
When I came down to the kitchen five minutes later, Anselo was at the far end of the courtyard. He looked up the instant I arrived. I waved in passing and headed to switch on the kettle. I grabbed the bread out of the fridge, shut the door and almost backed right into him.
‘God, this room is tiny,’ I laughed. ‘Good thing we’re not a bunch of fatties.’
Anselo didn’t reply. He was frowning, as if there were something on his mind.
‘I – uh–’ He ground to a halt.
I widened my eyes at him encouragingly, and could almost see him stiffen his sinews. ‘I was wondering–’
The front door banged shut and footsteps clipped down the hallway. Marcus must have gone out more quietly than he’d come back in because Anselo’s head shot up and around in wary alertness, like a deer that’s scented a threat but can’t yet tell how close or how big it might be.
‘Wondering–’ I pressed him.
But Marcus had reached the kitchen. He leaned against the wall, gave Anselo a cool once-over, and then deliberately shifted his gaze to me. It was an entirely unsubtle assertion of male dominance executed with a casual arrogance designed to infuriate. I glanced swiftly at Anselo. He was rigid with anger, but steeling himself not to react. If he did – and we all knew it – he’d lose. By making the first move, Marcus had left him no choice but to walk away and seethe in silence. Yet, I couldn’t avoid introducing them – they were less than a foot apart and it would be doubly insulting to Anselo if I pretended he didn’t exist. Unsure if I were making the wisest decision, I said quickly, ‘Anselo, this is Marcus. Marcus, Anselo.’
Marcus could have offered his hand. But all he did was nod once, in the same coolly offensive manner. Anselo nodded curtly back. Then he scorched me with a look that said, in no uncertain terms, what he thought of us both, turned his back and stalked off to where an oblivious Tyso was hunched over some drawings.
I watched him go. His whole bearing was taut with suppressed rage. I felt for him, but then again – he didn’t have to let it bother him so much. He didn’t have to let Marcus wind him up.
Marcus was still leaning against the wall. But now there was a smirk playing around his mouth.
‘You’, I hissed at him ‘are a rude, competitive pig person.’
He stepped into the kitchen and murmured in my ear. ‘Dogs piss on trees. Men one-up each other. Besides, he was such an easy target, I couldn’t resist. Macho pride is a terrible handicap.’
The circular saw started up again, Anselo at the helm. There was no doubt – this was his way of saying ‘Fuck you’.
‘Come on,’ Marcus sighed. ‘I’ll shout you a ham and cheese croissant at the café.’
I checked my watch. ‘I’m not usually there till eight-thirty.’
‘Well then’, Marcus took a firm hold of my arm ‘this morning you’ll be early, won’t you?’
By twenty past eight, the stream of workers had abated. The chatty woman from the doctor’s had been in for her boss’s custard tarts. The man in the black polo-neck and trendy glasses had been in for his half-decaf trim latte. Marcus conceded that he could be an architect, though felt there was also a strong possibility he ran a gallery. Either way, we both agreed that he owned an original Eames lounge chair.
At twenty-three minutes past eight, Miss Flaky entered. Marcus was scanning the newspaper, so he didn’t see her. She, however, registered his presence immediately. After directing at him a laser beam of pure loathing, she caught my eye. I could feel myself visibly shrivelling under her scorn. If Miss Flaky considered Marcus pond scum, then I was a small dead fish rotting in the mud at the bottom.
As if suddenly aware of the vibrations, Marcus lifted his head. I half expected him to do something childish and irritating, like give her a cheery wave. But instead he slowly folded up the paper, and said, ‘I’d better apologise. Claude will never forgive me if I don’t.’
Vincente was manning the counter this morning. Miss Flaky gave him her order and sat down at her usual table, two away from ours. There were free tables that would have
put more distance between us, but she ignored those. She was clearly not going to let the presence of pond scum deter her from her daily routine.
Marcus stood up. Watching him carefully, I was intrigued to see no trace of sexy charm. This Marcus was toned down, serious – but also, I observed, not overly apologetic. I suddenly realised that he was pitching it perfectly. Miss Flaky would be ruthless with crawlers. I found it a little unsettling. He didn’t seem to have adapted his personality to suit me. Or perhaps I just hadn’t noticed?
Miss Flaky knew full well he was approaching, but she made him stand for a good half minute before she acknowledged his presence. When she did, she didn’t shirk. She looked him right in the eye, with an expression that left no doubt that her preferred fate for Marcus involved a small guillotine and a pack of starving wild dogs. To his credit, Marcus didn’t shirk, either.
‘I was a prat yesterday,’ he said to her, ‘and I’m sorry. But don’t give Claude a hard time because of it. He’s not my keeper.’ He nodded once. ‘Enjoy your morning.’
At our table he paused, stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. It was buzzing. He had it on vibrate, which was the only choice once you thought about it.
‘Damn,’ he told me. ‘I’ll have to take this. I shouldn’t be long.’ He pressed the call button. ‘Hello there–’
I watched him walk out, his conversation fading as he disappeared into the smoking section. With a sigh, I turned back – and found Miss Flaky staring at me. With her lip slightly curled.
‘Are you serious?’ she said to me.
I blinked at her. ‘Serious?’
‘About jerk-off there? Jesus, he’d bang road-kill if it were still a few days fresh.’
I not only gaped like a goldfish, I mouthed like one in mute astonishment.
‘Do yourself a favour,’ she went on. ‘Dump him like the trash he is.’
I could feel my cheeks flaming. I’ve never been good at confrontation. To be fair, I’ve never needed to be. But this was completely uncalled for.
‘Get fucked,’ I told her.
She glared, unmoved, over her teacup. ‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘Good luck with that.’
Then she set down her teacup and picked up her book. I was no longer of interest.
I wanted to slap her. No, I craved slapping her. Smug, rude, know-it-all cow! How dare she be so convinced that her shitty opinion was the only right one? I craved for her to have no friends, and to die lonely, bitter and full of regrets.
Naturally, that was the moment Claude arrived at the table. He saw my face, and took a step backwards.
‘Is – er – is this a bad time?’
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘It’s fine …’
With some hesitation, he sat. His eyes slid to Miss Flaky. She kept her eyes on her book. Part of me admired her self-possession. The rest of me still longed to smack her into next week.
Claude turned back and, for a moment, we stared at each other in silence. I realised that there were quite a few questions I wanted to ask him. But as I watched him compose a polite smile, I realised, too, that I never, ever would.
Vincente arrived with Claude’s coffee. ‘Another for you?’ he beamed at me. ‘And for your young man also? For when he is free from the phone?’
Oh Lord. Under Claude’s sharp glance, I blushed instantly. ‘No thanks,’ I replied, every part of me willing Vincente to go away right now.
He didn’t. ‘Is nice to see, you know,’ he continued, conversationally. ‘This place, I think, is good for people to meet. We even have one marriage!’ He beamed more widely. ‘Maybe is the Italian here. Everything we do is with amore. Food, drink, life – all is richer when we fill with molto amore!’
As he bustled off, I cursed him, his amore, and his evilly acute powers of observation. Claude was ominously quiet. I steeled myself to look at him.
‘I saw Marcus outside.’
He said it lightly, but I wasn’t fooled for a second.
‘You don’t approve, do you?’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t call it the wisest choice, Darrell. But then again,’ he added, ‘I suppose that hardly matters …’
I was about to ask him exactly what he meant by that, when Marcus’ voice at the counter made us both look over. He and Vincente were exchanging banter. Marcus said something that made Vincente shout with laughter. I glanced back at Claude and caught my breath. He was staring at Marcus with an intensity I’d never seen before, and could not accurately interpret. It might have been anger. It might have been grief. I was unable to tell.
Then it was gone. Next moment, Marcus was back at our table. He sat down between Claude and me, and touched his brother briefly on the arm.
‘All well?’
‘Of course.’ Claude’s reply suggested annoyance that Marcus felt a need to ask such an obvious question.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘All is also very well indeed with me, as I’m sure you’re both most eager to know. That sexy little French book is this close to being ours.’
‘Book?’ I had to ask.
‘I’m negotiating to buy the rights,’ he said, as if that actually answered my question. ‘And I will have them!’ He gestured skywards with his coffee cup. ‘Oh yes, she will be mine!’
‘Does this mean you’ll be here for the foreseeable future?’ Claude asked. The pursy nature of his lips suggested that thrilled about this he was not.
‘Don’t panic,’ said Marcus. ‘I’ll be jetting between here and Paris regularly for the next couple of weeks at least. You’ll hardly see me.’ He shrugged. ‘But I can check into a hotel if you’d prefer.’
‘I really don’t care,’ replied his brother. ‘Do as you please. As always.’
Marcus’ face darkened. I could see that it really did hurt him to see evidence of his brother’s low opinion of him.
My mind went back to this mysterious sexy French book. What could it be? A work by the Marquis de Sade? Story of O? I had a small qualm that I had not yet told him what I did for a living. Not specifically, anyway. Over breakfast, I may have said that I wrote, but then again, I might have made it sound more as if I were a freelance copywriter, who produced – well, manuals and stuff. I didn’t actually specify manuals, but I suspected that was the most likely conclusion. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t ’fess up; I wasn’t usually embarrassed to admit I was a romance writer. But with Marcus – I don’t know. Perhaps I didn’t feel it would impress him? If I was Jackie Collins, it might be different. But my books were nowhere near her league. Just as I was nowhere near Marcus’ …
I tuned in to catch the words, ‘Mother’s garden party.’
Marcus was rolling his eyes. ‘Christ, must I?’
‘When did she last see you?’
‘I don’t know why you bother to ask. You know the answer. In any case,’ Marcus added, ‘why the hell now? It’s barely spring, so we’re practically guaranteed torrential rain. It’ll be like Glastonbury with Pimm’s. Can’t she wait until summer?’
‘You know she likes to show off the garden in spring. The magnolias are in peak flower, apparently.’
Marcus turned to me. ‘In that case, why don’t you come?’
‘To?’
‘To the floral-themed hell-on-earth known as our mother’s garden party.’
‘Oh!’
I was plunged into a quandary. On the one hand, it was wonderfully flattering. I mean, dinner at a pub was one thing, but inviting me into his circle was quite another. On the other hand, he was inviting me into his circle. Which would be full of many other posh people. Not to mention his mother. I found the prospect terrifying.
Then I realised all of that was irrelevant. He was asking me on another date. I would see him again. And right now, that was all that mattered.
‘I’d love to,’ I told him.
He grinned at me. ‘Good.’
Then he checked his watch. ‘Shit. I’d better go.’ He stood and said to Claude, ‘Is the key in the usual?’
‘Where else would it be?’ replied his brother.
‘See you, Angel.’ Marcus stooped and kissed me briefly on the mouth.
For the sake of my own dignity – not to mention sanity – I had to play it cool. I couldn’t let on for a second that my insides were a churning mess of desperate questions and need.
But I think he sensed it, because he hesitated. ‘I’ll call,’ he said.
‘You don’t have to.’ I hoped I sounded relaxed. It was hard to tell, what with all that screaming in my head.
‘I want to,’ he replied. ‘So I will.’
He bent and kissed me again, longer this time. But then he smiled and was off, out of the café, and soon, I assumed, down the street.
So that my face wouldn’t betray me, I reached under the table for my bag. When I touched it, I realised my hands were shaking. Goddamnit – this would never do. I could not be this desperate! It would kill me.
A distraction. That’s what I needed. And that’s when the thought of ringing Dr Flynn popped into my churning mind-sea like a welcome lifebuoy.
Claude rose when I did, generations of impeccable breeding making it impossible for him to do otherwise. He had a slight frown on his face.
‘Take care,’ he said, and I believe he genuinely meant it.
‘I will,’ I said. But I wasn’t sure I genuinely meant that.
Coming through my front door, I bumped into Anselo heading out. He paused for a second, then started to walk around me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly, as he passed. ‘Marcus should never have been so rude.’
He met my eye, briefly and coolly. I suppose he’d had all morning to compose himself, but I could still sense the anger underneath.
‘You’re the one going out with him,’ he said.
Then he pushed past and strode off to the van.
Bloody hell. I was starting to think that Tom had been the only man in the world I could rely on. That’s because we were true friends as well as husband and wife. Friends don’t only partially commit. And they don’t hold grudges. Friends are open and loyal and kind …
I went upstairs and lay on the bed, and turned up Kate on my iPod loud enough to block the noise in my head. I lay there for ages, until I realised that if I wanted to ask Dr Flynn for a drink this evening, it’d be a fine idea to do it before evening actually fell.
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 16