“Flint?” Ryker asked.
“Yesss.”
“Howyoo ding?”
“Good. Need…need.”
“Whapal?”
“Shhh…pane.” Fuck. “Cham…cham—”
“Jam?”
Don’t fucking guess. Just listen. “Drink.”
“Champagne?” Ryker asked.
“Yessss. Yes. Yes. Now.”
“Now?”
Flint squeezed his phone so hard his knuckles turned white. “Now. Please.”
“Beat?”
“No. You.”
“You want me to get champagne right now?”
Flint was so amazed he’d understood what Ryker had said, he didn’t speak.
“Flint?”
“Yes. Please. Now.”
“Okay.”
Flint ended the call and slumped on the bed. How could talking be so fucking exhausting?
He stripped and headed for the shower. Warm water poured over his head and he gave a heavy sigh. He wanted tonight… Actually, he didn’t know what he wanted for tonight. Lysander to forgive him? Kiss him? Talk dirty to him? Fuck him? With Mollie in the middle? He stiffened at the thought—all of him. Flint looked down at his swelling cock and gulped. This was what had gotten him into such trouble last time. Not entirely his cock’s fault, but despite what Lysander had told him, Flint had hoped when he went to speak to Elke that she might share him, that Flint didn’t have to step entirely out of Lysander’s life, that she might even welcome Flint into her bed. He’d thought he might grow to like her and he could pretend until he did.
When he remembered the way she’d reacted, the hysterics, his cock deflated. Lysander had told him he’d confessed to her that he was bisexual, but Elke had clearly expected that to stop once they were married. Flint had known he was married when they’d met in the gallery. He’d known he needed to walk away. But he hadn’t. He’d also known what they had couldn’t last no matter how much they both wanted it. When Lysander had told him if he spoke to Elke they were over, Flint had called his bluff because they were over anyway. He couldn’t have carried on as they had been.
So he’d gone to plead with Elke, one last chance to see if there could be any future, and he’d as good as strung the rope around her neck. When he’d found out she’d been pregnant, he’d wanted to die. Instead, he’d thrown all of his energy into his work and been the bad boy everyone expected him to be. Part of him had wanted people to despise him because it was what he deserved, but it hadn’t worked. His fans liked his bad boy image and Ryker thought it made him even more bankable. The only person who loathed him apart from himself was Lysander, and how could Flint blame him?
Maybe this meal wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe a better idea would be to go abroad for a while, someplace remote like Antarctica or the Atacama Desert. If things were going to happen between Lysander and Mollie, they could do so without him around. It was the price he had to pay for wrecking Lysander’s life.
Except…shit…he knew Lysander was lost to him but he didn’t want to give Mollie up. He needed her. She made him happy. He wanted to make her happy and that was kind of unusual for him. He actually cared about her. She was…different. Real.
But he couldn’t deny that he wanted Lysander as well. This wasn’t the same as last time. He hadn’t wanted to fuck Elke. He’d found it difficult to see what Lysander liked about her. She was beautiful but hard work. The situation was different now. Flint didn’t just want to share Lysander, he wanted to share Mollie. Could they be together, the three of them?
There was only one way to find out. Assuming they survived his cooking.
Chapter Seventeen
Lysander sat on the stairs in the hall waiting for Mollie, a bottle of red wine by his side along with a small brown bag and a wrapped painting. Nikki had begged to stay another week and he’d given in. If she had overheard any of the conversation in the garden, he needed her grateful, not vengeful. He was still trying to get his head around everything that had happened, but one sentence ran on a repeating loop. “I want both of you to fuck me.”
He stood as Mollie emerged from her room. She was wearing a sexy figure-hugging red dress with wide shoulder straps that crossed at the back and black flats that weren’t sexy at all and he thought that was her exactly, not trying too hard, just being herself. She had a plate of cookies covered in cling film in her hand.
“When did you make those?” he asked.
“An hour ago. Jean-Paul stole four of them. He doesn’t know I counted.”
“It might be the only thing we can eat. Flint’s not a good cook.”
They left the house and headed down the drive.
“He might have changed,” she said.
That was true. “You look very nice.” Apart from the shoes.
“I am very nice.”
Lysander laughed.
“Is that a painting of Flint?” she asked.
“Yes. You were right about giving Elke’s parents one of her. I’m arranging for it to be shipped, though they’re not going to forgive me.”
“That’s up to them. And their problem, not yours.”
When they reached the middle of the dam, Lysander stopped walking. He looked out over the water, which was calm, not a ripple marring the glassy surface.
“I can’t forgive her,” he whispered. “Why should they forgive me?”
Mollie put the plate on the wall and wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her head on his back.
“Didn’t she even think about what she was doing?” He took a deep breath. “I’d given him up. What more was I supposed to do? A baby? Fuck it. Our baby?” He shuddered.
“She wasn’t thinking straight. I guess all those who commit suicide feel they’ve thought everything through and only found one solution. Suicide’s rarely done on the spur of the moment. She probably thought so hard about her life that she ended up in a mental cul-de-sac and couldn’t find a way out.”
He stiffened. “It was so fucking selfish.”
“No, don’t say that. She was depressed. She might have imagined she was doing you a favor, getting out of your life so you and Flint could be together. I doubt she was thinking—well, I’ll kill myself so that Lysander blames Flint and they’re both unhappy for the rest of their lives. More likely it was—I can’t see a way to be happy, to make everyone happy. But who knows? No matter what she said in her note, you’ll never know exactly why she did it. She probably didn’t even know herself. She might even have lied. And I don’t think she’s right that love can’t be shared.”
“She… She hurt me so much.”
“I know.” Mollie pressed her chin into his back. “But you’re holding onto the wrong memory. Remember her when she was happy, when you were happy with her, when she made you smile, when you painted that picture of her.”
She picked up the biscuits.
He turned to face her. “Are you happy?”
“Happier than I was, yes.”
They set off again.
“Did he beat you a lot?”
She stared at her feet. “Only once.”
“You didn’t want to forgive him and offer him another chance?”
“No. And it’s not the same as what’s happened between you and Flint. Lew—he attacked me, kicked me, handcuffed me to the bed. I can forgive him, but he doesn’t get another chance because I can’t trust him anymore.”
“Why did he hit you? Well, I know there’s no reason, but what did he say?”
“That I was flirting with his brother, but it was just an excuse. It was a whole load of things bubbling up that finally spilled over. He wanted me to be the woman he imagined me to be. He made me everything in his world and I was flattered when I should have been worried. Oh look, think that’s a takeaway being delivered?”
A van had pulled out of the gates and was heading up the road on the far side of the reservoir.
“I hope so.” Lysander took the hint to change the subject. “Flint is
easily distracted. I can’t think of anything he cooked that he didn’t burn.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t know you lived the other side of the dam.”
“He knew my other house was in Yorkshire but I’d never have brought him here. It was Elke’s place.”
“Flint probably doesn’t even know he’s in Yorkshire. He’s only just started to read again.” She sighed. “I’m not one for signs, but it’s interesting, isn’t it, that you’ve both ended up so close to each other?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you been in this house before?”
“A few times. A meal once. Drinks, I think, on three occasions.”
“Who lived there then?”
“A guy who owned a helicopter company and his wife. She worked for a big accountancy firm in Leeds.”
Mollie pressed the buzzer on the gates.
“Yesss,” Flint said over the intercom.
“Your guests have arrived,” Mollie said.
The side gate clicked open and they went through. A Japanese guy was walking toward a car and when he saw them he stopped and stared, his eyes widening. Lysander didn’t recall seeing him before but the guy acted as if his face was familiar. Although his art was well known, his face wasn’t, not outside the art world.
The guy approached them. “Sorry about wife.”
Lysander stiffened and nodded. “Thank you.”
“Did you know her?” Mollie asked.
“Came often here. Talk in garden. She like plants. I give plants.” The man backed away and got into his car.
“Why are you frowning?” Mollie asked.
“We didn’t come often. Three or four times isn’t often.”
“Maybe Elke came without you if you were in London. She might have been friendly with the wife.”
He didn’t recall Elke ever telling him that.
Flint pushed open the door as they approached and Lysander’s heart dropped onto his stomach. Why did the guy have to look so sexy? He was barefoot and wearing gray pants and a white shirt. The mark Lysander had made on his face was red and slightly swollen but it didn’t mar his beauty. His eyes were amazing, Air Force blue rimmed with dark circles. It had taken him ages to get them exactly right on canvas.
As Flint moved aside to let them in, Lysander stepped past a container holding four chilled bottles of champagne. Mollie kissed Flint on the cheek, well, more on the mouth because Flint moved his head. Deliberately?
“Chocolate chip cookies.” Mollie held out the plate.
Flint smiled. “Drink?” He pointed to Lysander’s wine then the champagne.
“Champagne, please,” she said.
Flint picked up the container and they followed him.
Not much had changed since Lysander had last been here, but everywhere he turned there were pieces of card saying—table, wall, painting, carpet, et cetera. It brought home to him what a massive task Flint had. He put the bottle of wine and the bag on the counter and propped the painting in front of him. Strips of plain cards and a pen were within reach and he wrote ‘wine’ on one and leaned it against the bottle. When he looked up, he saw Flint watching him.
“P…p…plonk,” Flint said and laughed.
It wasn’t plonk. It was thirty quid a bottle. Lysander wrote ‘just in case’ on another piece of card and handed it to Flint along with the bag. Flint glanced inside and laughed.
“What’s in there?” Mollie asked.
“Something for us all to share,” Lysander said. “Like your cookies.”
Flint opened the champagne, poured it and handed them glasses.
“Future,” Flint said.
“To now.” Mollie smiled and chinked her glass against theirs.
“To Mollie,” Lysander said and drank, thinking about the last time he’d been in this house and beginning to wonder.
The day he and Elke had moved in, Marcie and Dirk Steward had walked across the dam to introduce themselves. They brought chilled champagne and didn’t overstay their welcome, but Lysander had taken a dislike to both of them. Something brittle about the over-made up Marcie, something overeager about the dashing Dirk and his fleet of helicopters. The last time Lysander and Elke had seen them, drinks for Dirk’s birthday, Dirk had been in a foul mood and Elke had been upset. Now he thought about it, Lysander had been surprised the pair had moved without telling him, though it was no great loss.
“For me?” Flint pointed to the rectangular package.
Lysander nodded. Flint carefully ripped off the brown paper to reveal an unframed work in acrylics showing Flint on a balcony, London falling away at his feet. He had the broadest grin on his face, his eyes wide and bright, his hair flopping onto his forehead. Flint hadn’t seen this before. Lysander had done the sketches, taken the photos, then they’d split up. He watched Flint carefully.
“Wow,” Mollie said. “Is that an actual building in London?”
“Yes.” It was in that room Lysander had told Flint they couldn’t see each other again. With a few words he’d destroyed Flint’s joy and his own. But Lysander had been incapable of walking away, and he realized now that Flint had seen that. Flint’d had to do it for them, then Elke had died, and Mollie was right, he’d punished himself for what had happened, punished himself for what he’d already seen happening.
“Happy.” Flint reached out as though he was going to touch the smiling face on canvas before he let his hand drop. “Th…th…thank you.”
That had been the last time Lysander had seen him truly happy and he knew Flint remembered.
“Eat?” Flint asked.
“I’m starving.” Mollie slipped her fingers into his, and when Flint’s face lit up as though she was his world, Lysander wondered why he’d ever thought he stood a chance with her.
But then she let Flint go, took Lysander’s hand and kissed his fingers. “If I was teaching up here, I’d drag you into school to show my kids what a brilliant artist you are. Such clever hands.”
He hoped he’d get the chance to show her how versatile they were.
“Bring.” Flint lifted his glass and the champagne bottle.
They followed him into the orangery, which was where Marcie and Dirk had done their entertaining. He recalled again the poisonous atmosphere that night. Something stirred uneasily in his stomach, a feeling there was something he’d missed.
“Sit,” Flint said.
“It looks fantastic,” Mollie said. “I love salad.”
Flint pulled out the chair at the head of the table. “Moll…ee.”
It did look fantastic. A large bowl contained three or four different types of lettuce with chopped tomatoes, peppers, eggs, sprinkled with slivers of roasted almonds and decorated with pansies.
“Ten minutes.” Flint went back into the kitchen.
“Think I ought to give him a hand?” Mollie asked.
“No. He’ll blame you when he cocks up. Talking of food, I think you should cook for the house tomorrow.”
She groaned. “Now I’m going to spend the evening fretting about that. Chips okay?”
“Heston Blumenthal’s triple cooked ones?”
“Oh. I was thinking of the ones that come in a bag and you bake them in the oven.”
He shuddered and she laughed.
“Heston wasn’t the first person to do that,” Mollie said. “My—”
She snapped her lips together so fast Lysander started. He couldn’t let that go. “Your who?”
“My friend used to cook a big batch of chips on Friday morning and then cook them again when her kids came home, and those that were left over she cooked again for her husband.”
“Are your parents alive?” he asked.
“No. What do you want with the chips? Sausages or eggs? Though I’ve yet to crack an egg without breaking the yolk.”
“What about fish?”
“Okay. Fish fingers it is.”
Lysander grinned. “Mushy peas?”
“And mint sauce?”
“I can�
�t wait.”
Mollie chewed her lip. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You can ask.”
“Did you tell Jean-Paul the sort of person he had to bring back to share the house?”
“You mean, did I say—find someone in their mid-twenties with short brown-red hair, huge eyes, legs to her armpits and a variety of bruises? I actually suggested he choose a guy. That was all I said. You were a nice surprise.”
“Thank you for adding the word nice.”
“You’re welcome.”
He was so tempted to reveal how attracted he was to her, how even though friends had told him the same thing as she had about his behavior, it was her saying it that had finally made it sink in, that it was time to move on, sell the house, start living.
“Do you think you and Flint can…?”
“Can what?” Though he knew what she meant.
“Be friends again? Be more than friends?”
If you were between us, but not parting us, joining us, helping us interlock like a jigsaw puzzle. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to say that yet.
“You still fancy him, right?” she whispered.
And I fancy you. He nodded.
“I really like him,” she said quietly.
What about me? He was annoyed at his neediness.
“I don’t want him to get hurt.” Mollie fixed him with her gaze.
What about me?
“I don’t want the pair of you to fight. You’ve been hurting long enough.” She gave him a little smile and his pulse jumped.
“Bad, bad, bad,” Flint repeated as he came into the room with a large plate. He put it on the table and sighed. “Mess Beat.”
Lysander glanced at Mollie.
Talking Trouble Page 20