Party Games

by Carnegie, Jo

  She examined the barrel. There was a piece of white paper inside with a handwritten message.

  Seeing as you don’t want to see me, I’ve gone through the dogs instead. We need to talk. Dinner at mine. Beau.

  Astonished, she looked round, but he was nowhere to be seen. How the hell had he done this? She glanced down at the note again.

  We need to talk. It sounded ominous. No kiss at the end, either.

  She was setting herself up for another fall, but the desire to see Beau, even just one last time, was overwhelming.

  Racing back inside, she headed for the shower.

  Ridings was lit up like a lighthouse when Fleur drove up thirty minutes later. An unfamiliar Golf was parked round the side. Her heart sank. She couldn’t handle any more of Beau’s stuck-up friends.

  She rang the doorbell and stepped back. Her heartbeat was slow and painful. The dress she’d chosen to wear was an insane choice. She should have worn something smarter.

  After what seemed like an age the door opened and Beau stood before her, taller and more handsome than ever. He was obviously fresh out of the shower, damp blond hair slicked back off the fine planes of his face. He was wearing a simple grey T-shirt and chino shorts, his elegant brown feet bare. Her stomach did a slow somersault.

  ‘Hello, you,’ he said.

  ‘Hi. I brought this.’ She held up the bottle of Blossom Hill.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ He took it off her and kissed her on the cheek. She caught a waft of body heat and citrus aftershave and felt her stomach flip over again.

  He gave her his lovely smile. ‘It’s good to see you, Fleur.’

  He took her straight out to the pool, where the table had been laid for two. She sat down and watched as he went over to the bar to mix her a drink. A beautiful sunset glowed overhead.

  ‘Have we got company?’ she called.

  He came back with two clear cocktails and handed her one. ‘No, why do you ask?’

  ‘I saw a Golf outside.’

  ‘Ah, that’s Sergio’s car. He’s my chef.’

  ‘We’ve got a chef cooking us dinner?’

  He flopped down in the chair opposite. ‘Well, you are a very special guest.’

  She was becoming more confused by the second. Was this meant to be a nice send-off? She took an overly large sip of her drink and started coughing.

  ‘Careful,’ Beau said. ‘I like my martinis strong.’

  She surreptiously wiped her eyes. ‘How did you know I’d come?’

  ‘Of course you were going to come. I told Bess not to take no for an answer.’

  ‘She’s wary of strangers, I’m surprised you got near her.’

  ‘My methods are simple but effective. Fillet steak.’

  Fleur gave an appalled giggle. ‘You fed my dog fillet steak?’

  ‘The very best. Be warned, she’s had a taste of the high life now.’

  ‘You can pay for it when she won’t eat anything else.’

  Beau grinned. ‘Deal.’

  A man in chef’s whites was walking up the side of the pool towards them. Beau sat up. ‘Ah, the first course is served.’

  It was moules marinière, followed by the biggest, fattest langoustines she had ever seen, swimming in garlic butter. Beau produced a bottle of white wine that danced on her tongue, and slipped down her throat like a silken waterfall.

  The food was sublime and the wine even better, but she was still on edge. Why was she here? He had made it clear he wasn’t interested in her, yet here she was being wined and dined. He’s letting me down gently, Fleur thought miserably. Was she really that much of a sympathy case?

  He was telling her about his chef. ‘Sergio’s from the Amalfi Coast. He’s an absolute maestro. I stole him from some friends of mine. They weren’t very happy.’

  ‘Do all rich people have a chef?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Fleur. You tell me.’

  ‘I’m not the one born with a silver spoon in my mouth.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course, Beau Rainford, the spoilt little prince. Never had to want for anything.’

  His answer intrigued her. ‘Aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘You don’t exactly do much to dispel the rumours.’

  He looked momentarily devilish again. ‘Oh, I’ve lived up to most of the others, don’t worry.’

  Why didn’t Beau care if people thought badly of him? ‘Don’t you want people to know who you really are?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really.’ In the fading half-light his eyes were navy. ‘Who do you think I am?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re as bad as you make out,’ she said carefully.

  The night seemed to hold its breath. Even the gentle breeze had stopped blowing. She could hear the sloshing of her heart alongside the gentle slap, slap of water against the pool edge.

  ‘I’m sorry you got upset the other night,’ he told her. ‘I didn’t mean it to end like that.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I mean, I do know how I’d have liked it to have ended. You probably won’t believe me when I say this, but I have too much respect for you.’

  It was the answer she was least expecting. ‘But …’ She trailed off. ‘I thought you just felt sorry for me.’

  ‘God, Fleur,’ he said quietly. ‘Will you stop putting yourself down?’

  He got up and came to sit right beside her. ‘Listen here, OK? I think you’re funny and adorable and brave and prickly.’ He smoothed a strand of hair off her face, holding it between his fingers. ‘And I love this. I love the way you stand up for yourself, yet you still blush a hundred times a minute.’

  ‘I do not!’ she protested, blushing violently.

  ‘Fleur, look at me.’ He tipped her chin up and made her look at him. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you. I admire you. It’s a hell of a task to run that farm. I know how difficult your life is.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she mumbled.

  ‘You keep saying that, sweetheart,’ he said gently. ‘But every time I look at you, I just want to gather you up in my arms and look after you.’

  Unexpected tears sprang into her eyes.

  ‘Oh Christ, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said.

  ‘It’s fine.’ She blinked the tears away. ‘It’s not that often that people get where I’m coming from.’

  ‘I mean it,’ he told her. ‘You’re a hell of a girl.’

  Her hands started to tremble. She put her glass down.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, what are we going to do?’ he said soulfully. ‘All I know is that I want to tell you things I’ve never told anyone before. You have the most extraordinary effect on me. I feel like a schoolboy around you.’

  ‘Take me to bed,’ she whispered.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to pressure you into anything.’

  ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.’

  He leant in and planted the softest kiss on her lips. ‘We can take this as slow as you like. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.’

  She found herself melting into him, insubstantial against Beau’s powerful body. Fleur knew then that he was capable of loving and hurting her in equal measure.

  Beau’s bedroom was white, minimal, an entire wall taken up by one window. The moon had come out, bathing the room in luminous light.

  She stood in the doorway clutching his hand. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he told her.

  He led her over to the bed and laid her down with infinite care. As he lay down beside her and started kissing her, Fleur felt like her whole body had come alive. Their kissing got harder and frantic. He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the bed. She could feel his erection pressing into her body.

  A moment later he pulled away, panting slightly.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Quite the opposite.’ He blinked and shook his head. ‘Let’s try again, shall we?’

  He started kissing her again more slowly. ‘Do you have these freckles everywhere?’ Beau murmured, planting a lin
e of heavenly kisses along Fleur’s collarbone.

  ‘N-not everywhere.’ Her nipples had whipped up into hard peaks, the throbbing now a drumming between her legs.

  When he tried to take her dress off Fleur froze. ‘It’s OK, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,’ he told her.

  ‘It’s not that.’ She looked away miserably.

  Beau pushed himself up so his forearms were either side of her. ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I’m s-shy.’ She stuttered horribly on the last word. ‘A-about my body.’

  ‘Sweetheart, you have nothing to be shy about. You have a fantastic body. In fact, I’m banning you from ever wearing another piece of shapeless clothing again.’

  ‘I hate my boobs,’ she said miserably.

  ‘What?’ He looked down at them. ‘Your boobs are amazing.’

  ‘No they’re not. They’re too big.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’ He started to tug her dress gently over her head.

  ‘This matronly bra isn’t doing them any favours,’ he said, sliding a hand round her back to undo the clasp. He pulled the bra off and her boobs fell out, full and heavy. He pushed them up in his hands, the spare flesh pooling through his fingers. ‘You’re beautiful and they’re beautiful. You have nothing to worry about.’

  He started fingering a rosy pink nipple between long tanned fingers. It grew even stiffer.

  ‘God, you’re gorgeous,’ he said.

  As he sat back to pull off his T-shirt, Fleur had the weirdest sensation: as if she was a spectator looking in, watching it happen to somebody else. Was Beau really straddled above her, body hard and magnificent, beautiful face full of intent?

  Tentatively she reached up and ran a hand across the corrugated-iron stomach. He moved deftly out of his chino shorts, revealing long, muscular thighs. There was a definite swell of penis in the tight white pants. She had a moment of panic. It looked really big.

  He lay back next to her and put a warm hand on her quivering belly.

  ‘Relax, sweetheart.’

  He started to kiss her again, tongue pushing into her mouth, teeth tugging on her lower lip. They kissed and kissed until Fleur wasn’t sure where she started and he ended. She desperately wanted him to touch her. Finally, just as she was about to spontaneously combust, his hand slid down her stomach into her knickers.

  ‘Christ, you’re soaking.’

  ‘Oh!’ she breathed as Beau’s fingers slid down on her clitoris and started to rub gently. It was the most amazing thing she’d ever experienced.

  Next her knickers were pulled off and thrown off into the darkness.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ she panted, when he eventually looked up from between her legs.

  ‘I have no intention of stopping.’ Reaching up to the bedside table, he opened the drawer. Fleur saw the metallic flash of a condom packet. Her stomach rolled over.

  He wriggled out of his pants and his cock sprang out. It was so big Fleur gave an involuntary giggle.

  He raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Is something funny?’

  ‘I-I’m sorry. I always laugh when I’m nervous.’

  He silenced her with his mouth, and she had the disturbingly erotic sensation of tasting herself for the first time. Sweet, yet musky. Like freshly cut hay, she randomly thought.

  His energy had changed into something hungry and expectant. He nudged her legs apart with his knee. ‘Oh, Fleur,’ he said into her ear. ‘You’ve no idea how much I want this.’

  She was pinned under his weight. She couldn’t move. The tip of his penis was pressing into her. Any moment now.

  ‘I’m a virgin,’ she whispered. It was so quiet she didn’t know if he’d heard.

  He sat up like a shot. ‘What?’

  ‘T-this is my first time.’

  ‘Sweetheart, you should have said something.’ He looked stunned.

  ‘I-I didn’t want to put you off,’ she said miserably. ‘All the women you’ve slept with must have been amazing in bed.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve never had a boyfriend?’

  ‘I did sort of, but I never went all the way with him.’ She wanted to cry; she’d ruined everything! ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What the hell are you sorry about?’

  ‘For being a virgin.’

  ‘Oh, Fleur.’ He half laughed. ‘I’m sorry for coming on too strong,’ he told her, stroking her cheek.

  ‘You didn’t!’ She clung on to him. ‘Please, I really want this.’

  He gazed into her eyes for what seemed the longest time. ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘OK. I’ll take it nice and slow.’ Repositioning himself, very slowly, he pushed himself in her. As a sharp pain shot through her, she gave an involuntary gasp.

  He looked worried. ‘Am I hurting you?’

  ‘Yes, but in a nice way.’

  ‘How about if I do this?’ He moved out and in again, super-gently.

  ‘That’s lovely.’ It was still painful, but in the most exquisite way. He started rocking back and forward, getting her used to him.

  It took a few minutes to find their rhythm. He was a patient, tender instructor who took things at her speed. ‘How about that? Is that nice?’ he asked constantly. ‘Wrap your legs round my back, sweetheart, you’ll feel it deeper then. Is that too much? Wow, you feel amazing. This is incredible, angel.’

  ‘It is?’ She couldn’t believe she was having amazing sex!

  ‘You have no idea. Hold on, I want to see you on top.’

  Next moment, she was sitting astride him. He smiled at her; taut and tanned against the white sheets. He took hold of her hips, rocking her back and forth. ‘Does this feel good?’

  ‘Amazing!’ The momentum started to build up again. She started grinding against him, chasing the hot, tight, exciting feeling.

  ‘Don’t stop, sweetheart.’ He gripped her by the hips, driving her on him.

  ‘Oh God!’ Fleur cried, as the most amazing feeling burst through her body. Exhilarated, she flopped down on his chest. The world had changed. She had changed.

  Beau looked delighted. ‘You were spectacular, sweetheart.’

  ‘But you haven’t had yours yet.’

  He kissed her again. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve only just started.’

  Chapter 60

  It had been agreed that it would be best to hold off announcing Catherine’s name until the last minute, giving her much-needed time to prepare. Meanwhile, debate raged about who would run. For the first time ever in that part of England, anti-Tory feeling was at a high. People were fed up with the government, fed up with Jonty, and fed up with the country going to the dogs. Catherine got the feeling that any articles about the Conservative candidate being thrown to the wolves were being skilfully whisked out of her way.

  Charles Knatchbull was still treating her as if she was a member of an alien race, but the worst was Aubrey Taunton-Brown. Anti-modern, anti-change, he was a vile snob of a man who’d made it clear he thought Catherine had no place running in the election. Just as bad was his horrific wife, Viola. A scrawny cordon-bleu chef, she came by the Conservative Association HQ to give Aubrey his vitamin tablets and drop snide comments about how women shouldn’t be Members of Parliament.

  Thank God for Felix. Placatory, diplomatic, stepping in to calm Catherine down when she was on the verge of losing it. The only thing they had disagreed on was the campaign’s official slogan. She wanted something fresh and modern. He had told her she couldn’t run the risk of alienating people. They’d finally decided on the rather unimaginative ‘Vote Connor’, but as he had said, at least it did what it said on the tin.

  As her campaign manager, Felix was the man in charge. He was the one drumming up funds from party donors, deciding which areas she’d be canvassing and the local ‘meet and greets’ she’d go to. He was also in charge of fielding all press enquiries and liaising with the national Conservative Party. If central government announced a new p
olicy, or something controversial like cutting welfare, Catherine would be expected to know which line to take. From being a complete amateur, she was now supposed to be an expert on the political system.

  Aside from Tristan Jago, three other candidates had already been announced. The Lib Dems were putting forward Helen Singh, a rising young star in the party. There were also two independents running: a pagan witch called Esme Santura who was campaigning to get an astrologer appointed in central government, and William ‘Bill’ Fairclough, a retired colonel who had a manic eye twitch and an even more manic desire to bring back capital punishment. It was still widely assumed that Tristan, super-hot on local issues, had it in the bag.

  If Catherine had let herself think about it, she would have died of terror. Instead she threw herself into the job, making Kitty and Clive give her geography tests on every town, village and hamlet in the constituency. She memorized the names of influential farmers, shopkeepers, WI members; people who could win or lose the campaign for her. It was exhausting and overwhelming but she was beginning to feel alive. It was inspiring being part of a team again who wanted to bring about change.

  On the downside, she had barely seen her husband. Away at the crack of dawn, not returning until late, they were like two ships that passed in the night. Dinner, if they had it together, was on laps in front of the television, because all the surfaces were taken up with paperwork as she frantically tried to cram every policy and piece of legislation that had been implemented in the last twenty years.

  They were being civil to each other, but their relationship lacked the intimate familiarity of before. Catherine knew she’d messed up, but her pride wouldn’t let her explain to John that she’d wanted to prove that she could do something by herself. He was clearly still angry she’d gone behind his back. Both were obstinate and strong-willed and neither was willing to back down.

  ‘So what’s he like, then?’

  Catherine looked at her husband across the table. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your new mate the Prime Minister.’