Unquestionably, Flora Fitzwilliam was the best person for the job.
On the other hand, Flora was not able to do the things to his dick that Guillermo was about to.
Decisions, decisions …
Running his hands through the boy’s hair, Graydon murmured, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Then he pulled Guillermo’s head down into his lap, groaning with satisfaction as his young lover got to work.
Mason Parker looked up from his Mac when he heard the key in the lock.
‘Flora? Sweetheart? Is that you?’
‘No. It’s an axe murderer.’ Flora dropped her suitcase in the hallway with a loud thud and walked into the bedroom.
Sprawled on top of the bed in his immaculate bachelor pad on Broadway and Bleecker, wearing a pair of Ralph Lauren boxer shorts and a faded James Perse T-shirt, and with his blond hair still slick from the shower, Mason looked as preppily handsome as ever. He did, however, close his computer hurriedly when Flora walked in.
Flora grinned. ‘Was that a porn slam?’
‘Of course not.’ Mason blushed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You won’t mind if I take a look then,’ Flora said archly.
Before Mason could stop her she’d reached across the bed and grabbed his MacBook Air, flipping it open to reveal a screenshot of some very boring-looking graphs. ‘Bloomberg? Really? Wow. I guess it’s true what they say: While the cat’s away, the mouse will check out bond yield curves.’
‘You sound disappointed.’ Mason looked hurt. ‘Would you rather I were watching porn?’
‘Of course not. I’m only teasing.’
Wrapping her arms around his neck, Flora kissed him on the mouth. He tasted of toothpaste and his skin smelled of soap, the same Roger & Gallet variety he always used.
The truth was, Flora sometimes wished that Mason would watch porn. Or lose his temper, or wear the wrong kind of shirt to an event, or forget to clean his teeth. Something, anything, to make him more normal, more fallible – more like her. Other Wall Street bankers spent their days manipulating the Libor rate or insider trading. Why did Mason always have to be so good?
But of course she was being silly. Flora loved Mason, and she knew how lucky she was to have him. He was smart, handsome and kind, not to mention loaded. Manhattan’s pretty, blonde, gold-digging socialites had always been drawn to him like moths to a flame. But he chose me, Flora reminded herself. The girl with no money, no family, no connections. He loves me.
Mason’s family, the Parkers, were old East Coast money, with estates in Westchester County and an impressive portfolio of real estate in the city. OK, so Mason wasn’t wild and rebellious and unpredictable, like Flora’s beloved father Edmund had been. But Edmund Fitzwilliam had wound up in jail at forty and dead at forty-six. Hardly an example Flora wanted her future husband to emulate.
‘I wasn’t expecting you back till next weekend,’ Mason said, extracting himself from Flora’s embrace and climbing into bed, pulling back the covers for her to slide in next to him. ‘What happened to the Wicked Witch of Nantucket?’
‘Oh, she’s still there. Probably sending out her flying monkeys as we speak,’ said Flora, stripping off her clothes and leaving them all in a pile on the floor, earning herself a disapproving look from Mason, although he quickly cheered up when she climbed naked into bed, coiling her slender legs around him like a snake and pressing her magnificent, soft breasts against his chest.
‘Actually, Lisa’s all right,’ Flora said, while Mason pulled his T-shirt over his head, revealing a taut, athlete’s body. ‘She saw sense on the pool in the end, and she let me go early because there’s really nothing for me to do on site right now, other than keep her company.’
‘Hmmm,’ Mason murmured, burying his face in Flora’s ample cleavage. He’d missed having her around these last few weeks, and he really didn’t care about her Nantucket client, or anything other than getting inside her.
This time next year they would be husband and wife, and Flora would be too busy with babies and running a household to worry about her so-called ‘career’. Fannying about with cushions and paint swatches was all very well as a hobby, but Mason struggled to take Flora’s ambitions as an interior designer seriously. If she wanted an outlet for her artistic, feminine side, she could redecorate their Hamptons beach house to her heart’s content.
‘The poor woman’s terribly lonely,’ Flora went on. ‘Her husband did such a number on her. I think she’s lost all her confidence since the divorce. It’s sad.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Mason murmured, slipping an eager hand between Flora’s thighs. ‘She knew what she was getting into. No one marries a guy like Steve Kent for love.’
This was probably true, but it still made Flora wince to hear Mason say it.
‘That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it?’
Mason looked up from her breasts. ‘Flora?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please stop talking.’
Swinging his leg across Flora’s tiny body, Mason positioned himself above her, propped up on his elbows. Then, with no further foreplay, he eased himself inside her, closing his eyes and thrusting his hips in the familiar rhythm. Flora closed her eyes too and tried to return his excitement. Mason wasn’t a bad lover. And she had missed him, a lot. But for some reason she was finding it hard to get into the mood. Probably because Graydon had called earlier and left her a cryptic message. Something about ‘shifting priorities’. Flora couldn’t say why, exactly, but his voicemail had left her with a sinking feeling. Despite her position as Graydon James’s protégée, insecurity dogged her constantly, gnawing away at her happiness like a persistent rat chewing its way through an elevator cable. One day, Flora feared, the rat would triumph, the cable would break, and she would fall from the dizzy heights of her present position and plummet back into utter oblivion. Where you belong, a voice in her head added spitefully.
‘You OK, honey?’ Mason murmured, flushed from a climax that Flora hadn’t even noticed.
‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.’ She kissed him. ‘Wonderful.’
She would be tough with Graydon this time. She wasn’t going to let him dick her around. After dumping her on Nantucket for the last month, he damn well owed her, and he knew it, ‘shifting priorities’ or not.
‘No way, Graydon. No fucking way!’
Graydon watched Flora Fitzwilliam pace in front of his desk like a caged lion, her oversized breasts heaving up and down with indignation as she stalked back and forth. With her elegantly coiffed blonde hair, bright red lipstick and killer heels, Flora had made an effort to look businesslike this morning. She’s trying to project confidence, Graydon thought, almost pityingly. To appear in control. It was a touching effort, but quite doomed, and deep down they both knew it. There would only ever be one captain of this ship, and it wasn’t Flora.
‘You promised me Hanborough Castle,’ she seethed. ‘You promised.’
‘I know I did, my dear,’ Graydon conceded. ‘But this is a business. And in business one must be pragmatic. Lisa Kent simply adores your work. She’s hinted at multiple future commissions, but only if you’re at the helm.’
‘I’ll talk to Lisa,’ Flora protested. ‘She’ll be fine.’
Graydon’s face hardened. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. For heaven’s sake, Flora, you should be flattered.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ Flora hissed. ‘I’m not flattered and I’m not stupid either, Graydon. This is a total stitch-up. It has nothing to do with business.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’
‘Who’s doing the Hanborough job?’ Flora demanded accusingly.
‘I don’t see what that’s—’
‘Who have you given it to, behind my back?’
‘I’ll be working on Hanborough myself,’ Graydon muttered. ‘At least to start with.’
‘Oh! To start with. And after that?’
Graydon James glanced out of the window at the New York skyline. He did at least have the de
cency to look sheepish when he answered Flora’s question.
‘After that Guillermo’s going to be keeping an eye on things.’
Flora looked as if her head might be about to fly off her body.
‘Guillermo? That would be Guillermo with no experience, not to mention no bloody talent, would it? Guillermo who you just happen to be sleeping with?’
‘That’s enough, Flora.’ Graydon’s voice was like ice. ‘My private life is not your concern. I’m prepared to make a lot of allowances for a talent like yours. But you needn’t start thinking you’re indispensable.’
Flora turned away from him. She was shaking, but now it was as much from fear as from anger. This was unfair. This was so unfair. Graydon’s private life shouldn’t be her concern. But he made it her concern when he stole jobs from under her nose and handed them on a plate to one of his toy boys.
On the other hand, this was his company, his brand. He could sack her in an instant if he wanted to. She knew she’d gone too far.
‘I’m sorry.’ When she turned back around there were tears in her eyes. ‘You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that. But Hanborough Castle … It’s the project of a lifetime.’
‘A lifetime is a long time. There’ll be other Hanboroughs, my dear,’ Graydon said, handing her a tissue, sympathetic and avuncular again now that Flora had been suitably brought to heel. ‘It might not seem that way now, but there will.’
Flora looked at him, stricken. ‘No, there won’t,’ she said quietly. ‘Other projects, maybe even other castles. But not like this.’
Graydon James said nothing.
Flora was right. Hanborough Castle was the most romantic, most stunning house he had ever come across in his long and illustrious career. Restoring it truly was a once-in-a-lifetime commission.
If only it were in New York, he’d have done it himself.
Flora left the room, and Graydon did his best to stop the nagging doubts from creeping in.
That intoxicating little slut Guillermo had better be worth it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Eva Gunnarson stood by the drawing-room window at Hanborough, watching Henry stride across the lawn, followed by the two Americans.
It was hard not to laugh looking at the three of them: Henry, so masculine and handsome and English in his dark green corduroys and brushed cotton shirt, leading the way, while Graydon James and his pretty-boy sidekick, Guillermo, scurried along behind him like two gaudily dressed puppies.
Working as a model, Eva spent much of her professional life around gay men. But it was a long time since she’d met anybody quite as camp as Graydon. He’d arrived last night, wearing what could only be described as a rhinestone boiler suit and shoes with a little heel, like a flamenco dancer’s. He was only staying a week – after that the younger designer would be overseeing things for a month or two – but had nonetheless arrived with eight matching suitcases in hand-stitched leather, his initials stamped on to each one in solid gold.
‘Have you ever seen such a flamer?’ Henry asked Eva in bed last night, in a distinctly horrified tone. Henry was very old-school when it came to things like that. Time was when men were men, and pansies things that grew in the field …
‘What did you expect?’ Eva smiled. ‘This is Graydon James. Everyone knows he makes Elton John look macho.’
‘Do you think he’s … you know? With that other chap?’
Eva laughed loudly. Henry’s face was hilarious. As if he’d just seen a particularly revolting spider crawl out from under the covers.
‘I have no idea. But try not to think about it, darling. Just remember why you hired them. Graydon James is the best in the world.’
This was true. It was Brett Cranley who’d recommended Graydon for the Hanborough Castle job, but Henry had known Graydon by reputation long before that. The whole world knew Graydon James. Just having his name attached to your project gave a property a cachet that translated into millions of dollars of added value.
Graydon was the best, and Henry Saxton Brae only ever worked with the best.
Watching Henry now, pointing out some architectural feature or other to the great designer, Eva felt a surge of love for him. It had been a difficult week. She’d been so cross with him for bailing on the village fete that they’d ended up giving one another the cold shoulder for days.
Work was Henry’s excuse for everything. As he was the one who’d moved them all the way out here, Eva felt that the least he could do was to help her in her efforts to fit in.
‘You embarrassed me!’ she told him.
Henry just shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t be so easily embarrassed. It was only a stupid raffle.’
‘Stupid to you, maybe. But you made a commitment, Henry.’
‘Seb was there, wasn’t he? He was happy to do it. No one cares except you, Eva.’
In the end, as usual, it had been Eva who’d cracked first, even though Henry was in the wrong. He could keep up the silent treatment indefinitely, but Eva needed affection and companionship the way a plant needed sunlight and water. She’d reached over and touched his arm in bed one night, and of course then he’d pounced on her like a cat on a mouse and proceeded to have sex with her with the sort of crazed intensity only Henry was capable of. Over the two years they’d been together, Eva had learned to draw immense comfort from the desperation of Henry’s lovemaking. He approached her body every time like a man who’d just come out of prison. There was a profound neediness there, which was reassuring given how arrogant and aloof Henry could be in other ways.
He’s a complicated person, Eva told herself. But he loves me. And I love him.
I understand him.
In Eva’s opinion, it was Henry’s childhood that was responsible for what some people might see as his character flaws. Growing up as the second, neglected son of a great old family had left him with a burning impetus to succeed, to make his own way. All those years training to make it as a tennis star had taught him iron discipline, but they’d also taught him to be selfish, to trample down the competition whatever it took. Eva blamed his being sent away to boarding school at seven for his emotional coldness, and his parents’ divorce for his manipulative side.
‘Give it a rest, Sigmund,’ Henry would say, whenever she brought these theories up. Henry wasn’t a big believer in psychoanalysis, especially not when practised by his own girlfriend. He’d fallen for Eva because she was stunning, and because she loved him unconditionally. But if she needed something to fix, she should take up charity work. Or buy a model aeroplane kit. Henry used to love those at school.
A buzzing on the side table made Eva jump.
Henry’s mobile.
She picked it up without thinking and touched the new WhatsApp message. Instantly she felt her chest tighten and a lump rise up in her throat. The thumbnail picture was of a busty, dark-haired girl Eva had never seen before. Marie J. The message read:
‘Where r u handsome? Missed u this week. Again. When u back in London? M’, followed by a whole string of emoji winks and hearts, the sort of thing a schoolgirl would send.
Don’t jump to conclusions, Eva told herself. But it was hard. Especially after that ‘again’. She started scrolling back through Marie J’s chat history. There were far too many ‘handsomes’ for her liking, but nothing a hundred per cent conclusive of an affair. Yet—
‘What are you doing?’
Eva spun around guiltily. She hadn’t heard Henry come inside, but suddenly there he was, standing right behind her.
‘I might ask you the same question,’ she shot back, unable to help herself. ‘Who’s Marie?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that, sweetheart,’ Henry drawled. ‘May I have my phone, please?’
‘No!’ Eva was shaking now, her eyes welling with tears. She was leaving for a modelling assignment tomorrow morning and the last thing she wanted to do was fight with Henry. Not until she had an explanation. ‘I want to know who Marie J is. And why she’s missing yo
u and asking when you’re going to be back in London. I can’t go back to this, Henry. I just can’t!’
‘Eva,’ Henry’s voice softened. ‘For God’s sake. Marie J is a stupid little girl who works at the wine bar on Ebury Street. I’m one of her regulars.’
‘Regular whats?!’ Eva blurted hysterically.
‘Regular customers. At the bar. You’ve met her.’
‘No, I haven’t! I’ve never seen her before in my life!’
‘Yes, you have,’ Henry insisted patiently. ‘You’ve just forgotten. Because she’s instantly forgettable. Eva, I am not shagging the girl behind the bar at Ebury’s. Give me some credit.’
Eva hesitated. She wanted to believe him. She did believe him. Mostly. But with Henry’s past it was difficult to rebuild trust.
‘How does she have your number?’
‘She asked me for it and I gave it to her.’ A note of exasperation was creeping into Henry’s voice.
‘Why?’
‘Why not? Christ, if I went through your address book right now, how many blokes’ names do you think I’d find on there? D’you think I’d know all of them? Of course I bloody wouldn’t.’
This, Eva supposed, was true.
‘You want to know about paranoia, try dating a supermodel,’ Henry quipped. Taking the phone gently out of Eva’s hand, he slipped it into his pocket. Then he wrapped his arms around her tightly. ‘I love you,’ he whispered in her ear.
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