The Honeymoon Prize

by Jessica Hart

  ‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you. Dan will only want to kiss it all off,’ said Lucy, but Freya was already escaping to the bathroom.

  It was all right for Lucy and Pel. They had a confidence that Freya had never acquired. They knew how to flirt, how to read the signals they claimed were so glaringly obvious, but which Freya herself always seemed to miss entirely. And as Pel unfailingly pointed out, they had both had a great time before settling into happy relationships, while any prospective lovers that swam into Freya’s orbit invariably ended up going out with one of her friends.

  ‘You just don’t try,’ they would sigh.

  Well, now she was going to try, Freya reminded herself in the bathroom mirror. Lucy was right. She was missing out on life, but now all that was going to change. She was tired of being just good friends, the one you could always rely on to be in on a Friday night if you had nothing else to do. Wouldn’t she rather be having a wild, passionate affair with an incredibly sexy man than slobbing out on the sofa in front of E.R.?

  Of course she would, Freya told her reflection sternly, appalled at that telltale moment of hesitation.

  Right, then. There was an incredibly sexy man leaning against her sofa—well, Max’s sofa—in the next room, and according to Lucy and Pel all she had to do was walk over and get him. Freya didn’t believe that seducing a man like Dan Freer could be quite that easy, but the fact remained that he was the first man in a long time to get the old hormones stirring, so she might as well have a go.

  Tugging her dress into place, she regarded her reflection dubiously. The bright red made her feel a bit like a post box, and it was much shorter than she usually wore, but there was no doubt that the heels drew attention to her legs, which were her best feature, and away from the tightness around her hips, which definitely weren’t.

  ‘You look pretty damn hot.’ She tried to psyche herself up. ‘Now, go get him!’

  The noise hit her as she went back into the big living room that stretched the entire width of the apartment. An extraordinary number of people had turned up. Freya had worried about how they were all going to get on, but the most bizarre combination of people seemed to be getting on like a house on fire.

  She didn’t know what Pel and Marco were putting in the cocktails, but it was lethal, whatever it was. She had lost count of how many she had had herself to bolster her confidence and it was getting quite tricky to balance on her heels.

  Freya’s vision of an elegant gathering that would disperse come eight o’clock as she had said on the invitations had never been realised. It was almost eleven already, and there was clearly no chance of impressing Dan with her sophistication now. She had put on a Glenn Miller CD to set the mood when everyone arrived, but long before Dan turned up someone had replaced it with something a bit more upbeat, and several people who obviously didn’t know that cocktail parties were about standing around and making polite chit-chat were actually dancing at the other end of the room.

  Wondering how much longer the drink would hold out, Freya looked around for Pel, only to start guiltily as she encountered Lucy’s disapproving gaze. Scowling awfully, her friend jerked her head in Dan’s direction and mouthed, ‘Get over there!’

  There seemed nothing for it but to do as she was told. Helping herself to another martini, Freya tossed it back in one, straightened her spine and set off, woman on a mission.

  God, he was gorgeous, she thought involuntarily, as she headed towards the group by the sofa. Those brown bedroom eyes, the warm curving mouth, that hunky body, the sharp intelligence and the devastating charm…Freya faltered, realising all at once how absurd she had been to even think about attracting the notice of a man like Dan.

  She was about to turn away when Dan spotted her and beckoned, reeling her in effortlessly with his smile. ‘Hey, great party!’ he greeted her, moving back with flattering alacrity to let Freya into the group.

  ‘Yes, great,’ the girls echoed, their welcome considerably less enthusiastic.

  ‘Thanks. I’m glad you could make it,’ she said stiffly, miserably conscious of how polite she sounded. Her mother would be proud of her.

  ‘Not as glad as I am.’ The warm brown eyes roved in lazy appreciation up Freya’s legs. ‘I hardly recognised you when I saw you tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’ She smiled a little nervously.

  Way to go, Freya. Not much chance of dazzling him with your wit and personality at this rate!

  ‘When I said I was looking forward to seeing you, I didn’t realise quite how much of you I’d be seeing!’ Dan had one of those slow, American drawls that always made Freya think he was about to tip his hat and start calling her ma’am. ‘Great legs,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘Oh, these old things? I’ve had them for ages.’

  Dan laughed. ‘You shouldn’t keep them hidden away. You always look so demure sitting at the newsdesk,’ he went on, lowering his voice and gazing deep into her eyes. The effect was rather like sinking into a vat of melted chocolate. ‘I had you down as a good girl, but you sure don’t look like a good girl tonight. You look…naughty.’

  Crikey, thought Freya, as his smile broadened suggestively. How was one supposed to respond to a comment like that? Clearly bursting into laughter would be out of order. Should she smirk? Try to simper? Or smoulder?

  Unsure how to do any of them, she compromised by attempting all three at once, although judging by the looks on her guests’ faces, it came out as a leer instead.

  As if in response to some unspoken dismissal from Dan, the simpering girls were turning disconsolately away. Not wanting to look as if she were monopolising him, Freya made to back away too, but Dan caught hold of her hand.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all evening.’

  Freya swallowed hard and tried to look as if holding hands with the likes of Dan Freer was all in a day’s work for her. Another evening, another gorgeous guy unable to keep his hands off her, that was the attitude.

  Did the Julia Robertses of this world get bored by this kind of thing? Freya wondered wildly. Did they ever wish they were the girl making laborious small-talk with an accountant instead of having every woman’s fantasy draped possessively around her?

  Dan’s fingers were warm around hers. What was she supposed to do now? Squeezing his hand might seem a bit too forward, but if she just left hers sitting there like a wet fish, he might think that she wasn’t interested. God, there was so much to think about. Wouldn’t it be easier in the long run just to stick to the sofa and fantasies about George Clooney?

  ‘Let’s dance,’ he murmured.

  ‘Er…all right.’

  Freya didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed when Dan ignored the lively beat and pulled her against him in readiness for a good old-fashioned smooch. ‘This is my lucky day,’ he told her, smiling.

  ‘Really?’ Freya managed to croak, distracted by the feel of his hand playing up and down her spine. It was bad enough concentrating on staying upright on her heels as it was, without having to make conversation as well.

  ‘I think so,’ said Dan smugly. ‘A new job and a new you all in one day. It feels pretty lucky to me.’

  Freya wasn’t sure how to respond to that. ‘New job?’ she echoed, opting to ignore his comment about the ‘new you’.

  ‘You, Freya, are snuggling up to News Live Network’s new Africa correspondent!’

  ‘Africa?’

  ‘A whole continent all to myself!’ he said complacently, unable to keep the grin from his voice.

  ‘Won’t you have to share it with one or two Africans as well?’ she said without thinking.

  There was a tiny pause, while, too late, Freya heard the tartness in her voice.

  Bad, Freya, very bad, she thought gloomily. According to Lucy, who was an expert on relationships, men didn’t like criticism or snippy comments or the faintest suggestion that you thought they were anything less than a hundred per cent perfect.

  ‘I thought you
were going for a job here in London,’ she added hastily.

  Dan, who had stiffened imperceptibly, relaxed. ‘I thought so, too, but then this job came up unexpectedly. I’ve always wanted to be a foreign correspondent, and I’ll be able to cover stories all over Africa.’

  ‘It sounds great,’ said Freya dutifully. ‘Where are you going to live?’

  ‘Usutu. The capital of Mbanazere,’ he added when she didn’t answer immediately.

  Memory stirred queerly inside her. Usutu was where Max had been based before Lucy’s wedding. He had told her about the Arab forts and the markets and the smell of cloves and coconuts.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘Of course you do. I keep forgetting you’re the foreign newsdesk secretary.’ Dan obviously felt that he had erred in some way. ‘Well, anyway, it’s a good base for East Africa, and it’s easy to get to the southern and central countries as well. And of course it’s an incredibly volatile region. They’ve been trying to build up tourism, but it’s more likely to be the next flashpoint. That’s what I’m banking on, anyway. I should be filing lots of stories.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Freya, wondering how the people of Mbanazere would feel about having their lives disrupted in order to provide good disaster stories to keep Dan on television.

  Dan didn’t seem to find anything amiss in her answer. He was talking on, telling her about the political situation and the difficulties of reporting, which she only listened to with half an ear. She knew how reporters liked to make out that their assignments were more dangerous than they actually were.

  ‘It sounds like you’re raring to go,’ she said when she judged it time to contribute to the conversation, trying not to sound too resentful. She could have spared herself the expense of a party if she had known that Dan would barely have time to knock back a martini before buggering off to Africa. What was the point in planning a wild affair with someone who wasn’t going to be around?

  Freya sighed to herself. This was typical of her. All that effort bringing herself to point where she was actually prepared to do something about the fact that she found a man attractive, and he promptly left the country. It served her right for picking on someone who was obviously right out of her league.

  ‘The funny thing is that right this minute I’m not anxious to go,’ said Dan, his mouth against her ear, his breath warm on her throat, and in spite of herself she shivered.

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Not for another month,’ he murmured. ‘And a lot can happen in a month, can’t it, Freya?’

  It was true, thought Freya. Maybe she didn’t have to abandon her plan as a lost cause before it began after all. Here Dan was, his arms around her, murmuring suggestively in her ear. How much more encouragement did she need?

  It wasn’t as if she wanted a long-term relationship. No, excitement was what she wanted, the headiness of a wild, passionate affair, not the nitty-gritty of compromising over squeezing toothpaste and whose turn it was to stack the dishwasher.

  If she was being honest, a month on the emotional roller-coaster of getting involved with a man like Dan would be more than enough for her. She could wave him off to Africa and go back to her sofa with her honour, not to mention her libido, satisfied, and whenever Pel and Lucy started going on about getting a life, she would be able to remind them that she had had a fling with no less than Dan Freer.

  So, get on with it, Freya told herself. Dan was making all the right moves, and with his tongue practically in her ear there was never going to be a better time to indicate that she was ready to have that fling.

  Putting her arms around his neck, she smiled at him in what she hoped was a seductive way. ‘It can,’ she agreed, ‘if you want it to happen.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think that I do,’ said Dan. ‘You know, you’re quite a surprise.’

  ‘A nice surprise, I hope?’ Freya winced at the corniness of her response, but Dan didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Very nice, and very intriguing. In fact, so intriguing that I think I’m going to have to do some undercover investigation to find the real Freya King. Could be an exclusive…’

  It was actually happening. She, Freya King, was flirting with Dan Freer!

  Over Dan’s shoulder, Freya could see Lucy grinning broadly and sticking her thumbs up, but still she couldn’t quite believe it. She could feel Dan’s hand pressing against her spine, pulling her into the hardness of his body; she could smell his aftershave, hear his voice, deep and warm, as his lips drifted from her earlobe down her throat. She should be thrilled, but all she could feel was vaguely detached.

  It was all too pat. Dan might have been reading a script. Any minute now he’d be suggesting they go and find somewhere they could be alone.

  ‘Let’s go,’ whispered Dan. ‘Let’s find somewhere we can be on our own.’

  Relax, Freya told herself sternly. This was it. She was on the verge of a passionate affair with an incredibly attractive man. It would be wild and exciting, and when it was over, she would be able to say that she had lived dangerously. Thirty years from now, when her hair was grey and she didn’t need to worry about her weight any more, she would be able to hint darkly at a broken heart and—

  God, what was she doing fantasising about being fifty when Dan’s hands were on her bottom and his mouth was hot on her skin?

  ‘It’s my party. I can’t just walk out on everyone,’ she demurred, wishing she could stop feeling as if she were acting a part—and not very well, at that.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll all go home soon.’

  Privately, Freya thought it was unlikely, knowing her friends, but it seemed safe to say that she hoped so. She made herself relax into Dan, and was rewarded by an un-curling warmth in her stomach as he began kissing his way along her jaw.

  At last! This was what it was supposed to feel like. Just go with the flow. Tightening her arms around his neck, she turned her face towards Dan’s, but just as their lips were about to meet, someone tugged insistently at her sleeve.

  ‘Freya!’

  ‘Not now, Lucy,’ she muttered out of the side of her mouth.

  ‘It’s important.’

  Reluctantly, Freya disengaged herself from Dan, who was looking understandably irritable at the interruption. ‘Somebody better be dead,’ she scowled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think the party might be over,’ said Lucy with a grimace, and turned towards the door.

  Following her gaze, Freya saw a man in khaki trousers and a creased shirt with a battered bag at his feet. He had a stern, shuttered face, with thick flyaway brows that right then were drawn together in an intimidating frown. He looked very tired.

  And very cross.

  Freya’s heart did a sickening somersault as his peculiarly penetrating eyes found hers through the crowd, and she leapt away from Dan as if she had been jabbed with a cattle prod.

  ‘Max,’ she said in a hollow voice.

  Hanging onto the kitchen door frame, Freya squinted through her hair at the man who was standing by the kettle. ‘It is you,’ she said in a voice of deep foreboding. ‘I thought it was all just a horrible dream.’

  ‘Good morning, Freya,’ said Max. ‘It’s lovely to see you, too.’

  Freya groped her way over to the table and collapsed into a chair. ‘I think I’m going to die,’ she said simply.

  ‘Here.’ He put a glass of water and some paracetamol on the table beside her. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

  She screwed up her face as she took the tablets, and then, exhausted by the effort, pillowed her head in her arms so that her newly blonde hair spilled over the table. It felt as if a hammer was being swung around inside her skull.

  ‘I see you still haven’t learnt to drink in moderation,’ said Max, leaning against the kitchen counter and regarding her with disapproval.

  ‘I usually do,’ muttered Freya without lifting her poor head. It was true. Ever since the night of Lucy’s twenty-first, she had been careful not to risk another humilia
tion, but she was in no fit state to introduce that particular subject of conversation. ‘I was nervous last night,’ she said instead. ‘I think I must have drunk more than I realised.’

  ‘What were you nervous about?’

  Very, very carefully, Freya lifted her head to rest her forehead in her palms. There was no way she could explain Dan to Max. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. The noise of the kettle boiling made her wince. ‘It was just something silly,’ she went on feebly, ‘and obviously it wasn’t what I should have been nervous about, which was you turning up without warning! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home?’

  ‘It all happened so quickly I didn’t have chance before I left,’ said Max. ‘I rang when I eventually got to Heathrow, but there was no answer, so I assumed you were out. I didn’t know that the only reason no one answered was because nobody could hear the phone ringing over all the noise that was going on here.

  ‘I’d been travelling for three days by then, and all I wanted was to sleep, so I thought I would just let myself in and leave you a note. I wasn’t best pleased to arrive and find the apartment heaving with strangers and my neighbours all ringing the council to complain about noise pollution,’ he finished sardonically.

  ‘I can’t remember very much about last night,’ Freya had to confess. ‘I mean, I remember you arriving, of course.’ She could still feel the way her heart had lurched at the sight of him. ‘I remember Lucy arguing, too, and something about sheets…did I make up a bed for you?’ she asked, puzzled in spite of herself.

  ‘You tried,’ said Max. ‘I have to say that you weren’t much help, what with stumbling on your heels and dropping pillowcases and falling onto the duvet.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of making my own bed,’ he added dryly, ‘but you seemed to have gone into hostess overdrive to make up for your evident horror at seeing me. I’d have been quite happy if you’d handed over a towel and pointed me in the right direction, but no! You insisted on coming into the room with me, although you appeared to find the whole business a lot more embarrassing than I did. You kept tugging down your skirt and apologising for the mess.’