by Cathy Kelly
There was an evil glint in Felix’s dark eyes. ‘Can’t you?’ he said.
He’d been lounging back in his chair, regarding her possessively as he ran his long fingers around the rim of his glass. Now he pulled his chair forward. She jumped slightly as she felt one of his hands on her thighs under the table, sliding and pushing her long dress up her legs.
Even in her intoxicated state, Hannah tried to stop him. There were other people around, someone might see.
‘Someone might see you,’ she said, scandalized.
‘So what?’ he enquired, one eyebrow raised sardonically. ‘Let them watch.’
Hannah looked shocked.
‘They can’t see,’ he assured her. ‘There’s a tablecloth hiding us.’
His hand finally pushed her dress up and with one long arm straining, his fingers moved up the silky skin of her thigh covered only by sheer tights. Hannah quivered as his fingers stroked her skin, only half-way up her thigh and yet, if his fingers slid even a centimetre further up, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from crying out. She couldn’t control the erotic feeling that rushed through her. It was like being hooked up to a machine with electrodes delivering unimaginable pleasure to her erogenous zones. His hand crept further up.
‘Next time we go out, you’ll have to wear stockings,’ Felix murmured. She gasped out loud and then, just as suddenly, his hand was gone. ‘Let’s go,’ he said roughly.
He kissed her in the taxi home, nothing more. Just luscious kisses which melted her insides as his tongue explored hers. Hannah could feel her heart beating like a metronome as she led him up the stairs to her front door. She fumbled with her bunch of keys and giggled quietly at her own stupidity. Felix didn’t giggle. Finally, she managed to insert the correct key in the door and pushed.
‘It’s not Buckingham Palace…’ she began to say as she dropped her handbag on the hall table. She never got any further with her comments.
The front door closed and suddenly Felix was wrapped around her, arms clinging to her, hands probing and trying to pull off her coat. Their mouths were meshed together, lips hard against lips, tongues entwining and twisting in passion. Felix managed to rip her coat off and he began to slide her dress up her thighs. In return, she’d dragged off his jacket and was pulling at his shirt, not caring that buttons were pinging as she pulled, rattling against the floor like hailstones as they fell.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he purred, golden head moving down towards her breasts, fingers burrowing under her dress. Like exquisitely practised Riverdancers, they moved apart long enough to pull off her dress and his trousers. Suddenly remembering that she was wearing that male bugbear – tights – Hannah wrenched them off and thanked some deity she was wearing decent silky black knickers even if her bra was a boring old white cotton one. What a pity she wasn’t dressed to thrill in her coral see-through net rig-out. So she ripped off the cotton bra and looked up to find Felix, clad only in striped boxer shorts, watching her. His body was glorious: lean, rangy, golden and perfectly proportioned. She could see the outline of his erection straining against the fabric of his shorts. In one swift move, he’d grabbed her, lifted her up and carried her to the couch. Then he lay down on top of her, grinding his body into hers in triumph, running his hands over her torso, fingers kneading her erect nipples roughly, burying his mouth passionately in her hair.
‘You’re so beautiful, so sexy, I knew that the moment I saw you,’ he said hoarsely.
If he was turned on to some unbelievable level, he’d met his match in Hannah. The sexuality she’d kept under wraps for so much of her life exploded from her, like a bored tiger that had been in captivity suddenly released into a jungle throbbing with life. Their lovemaking was frantic and fierce, not the gentle, sweet lovemaking Hannah had remembered with Harry. That had been placid and comforting: this was fierce, primal and wild. Felix jammed his mouth against hers, plundering her mouth, desperate to taste every part of her. In turn, she dug her nails into his back when he jammed himself inside her, shrieking with relief at finally having his body become a part of hers. Joined together, they moaned and panted, frantic for release and just as frantic for this incredible lovemaking not to end. A sheen of perspiration coating her naked body, Hannah clung to Felix, pulling him deeper with her arms and legs, wrapping her long legs around his waist until she exploded in a firecracker of orgasm that was savage, primitive and utterly blissful.
As if he’d been waiting for her, Felix groaned, his body stiffened and he came, moaning her name over and over again until he fell on to the couch beside her, dank with sweat and exhausted.
They lay coiled together like puppies and breathed deeply. Hannah felt as if every muscle had been stretched to its limit. Her body was suffused with the glorious afterglow of orgasm and yet she felt at peace, as if this wild thing was what she was born for. Or maybe, she thought, with a pang of sheer adoration, it was Felix she was born for.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. ‘You’re wonderful,’ he said.
‘Look who’s talking,’ joked Hannah. ‘I’m so exhausted, Felix. I’m going to fall asleep here.’
‘Bed,’ he announced, getting to his feet gracefully and holding a hand out to her.
The birds were singing some exultant song when Hannah woke the next morning with a dull throbbing in her head from too much champagne. She shifted in the bed and her arm touched Felix’s warm body. It hadn’t been a dream; she beamed with sheer joy. What was a hangover to this feeling of happiness?
Moving quietly so she wouldn’t wake him, Hannah padded naked and barefoot into the kitchen and swallowed two headache tablets with a glass of water. After another glass to slake her hangover thirst, she crept into the bathroom. Her hair was a wild bush around her head, tangled curls in all directions. Her make-up, which naturally hadn’t seen cotton wool or cleanser the night before, was in patchy scales under her eyes. Her mouth was bruised from a combination of fierce kissing and from Felix’s late-night stubble. All in all, the sort of face to normally make Hannah groan. Only, today, something shone out from behind the tiredness, the redness and the panda eyes: something delirious and fulfilled. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth refused to stop smiling. She was happy, in love! She beamed at her reflection. Love, love, love.
After restoring herself to some of her former glory and brushing her teeth until her gums hurt in case she had bad breath, Hannah slid back under the duvet and wriggled over until she was half-lying on top of him. He didn’t appear to wake up, yet one hand moved gently to cup her breast, idly caressing the nipple expertly until Hannah sighed loudly. Felix opened one eye.
‘Are you a morning sex person?’ he asked, his voice hoarse. ‘I’d have thought from last night’s performance that you were a night owl.’
In response, Hannah wriggled until she was lying completely on top of him, exulting in the amazing sensation of her cool naked body against his sleep-warmed one. ‘I think I’m an every moment of the day sort of person,’ she said.
‘Good,’ he replied, pulling her head down to meet his.
Low-angled autumn sun lit up the front of Dwyer, Dwyer & James as Hannah walked towards it, swinging her handbag happily. The office was pretty now that it had been repainted in the firm’s trademark crocus yellow and white. Hannah grinned. Everything felt pretty to her today. The dour-faced traffic warden who lingered at the bottom of the road was practically good-looking today, even though he’d given Hannah a parking ticket the week before. Being in love was a wonderful thing, she decided. Better than rose-coloured spectacles any day.
‘Morning, Hannah,’ said David James, climbing out of his silver Jag.
‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ beamed Hannah.
David eyed her curiously. ‘Are you on happy pills or something?’ he teased.
‘No,’ she said, letting him open the door for her. ‘Just naturally happy, that’s all. You’ll never guess who I met last night,’ she added, knowing she shouldn’t say anything bu
t unable to resist saying his name. ‘Felix Andretti.’
David’s brow furrowed. ‘Where?’ he asked.
‘At the theatre,’ she replied airily. ‘He seems like a nice man,’ she added, hoping for some titbit of information to drop from David’s lips.
‘He does?’ One eyebrow was raised sarcastically. ‘That doesn’t sound like the Felix I know and love,’ he remarked. ‘More of a professional playboy, I would have thought. Nice isn’t the sort of word people use about Felix. They either love him or hate him. Women love him until he dumps them, and men sometimes hate him because he’s so bloody successful with the opposite sex.’
‘Really?’ Hannah said idly, shocked but trying to hide it. ‘I thought he was nice, anyhow.’ She was longing to ask more but daren’t.
‘Was he with anyone?’ David asked, standing at Hannah’s desk.
‘No,’ she said, wide-eyed with innocence.
David grinned and turned towards his office door. ‘He must be losing his touch,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘I’ve never seen him without a string of beautiful girls glued to him.’
Hannah had all morning to chew this over. Felix and a string of beautiful girls. She was too jealous to be flattered by the obvious fact that she, too, was beautiful if the godlike Mr Andretti considered her worthy of him. Instead, she mulled over the notion that the man she’d slept with on the first date was something of a lady-killer and always had a few women in tow, women he’d dump whenever the mood took him.
What had she expected, she thought jealously. Felix was thirty-seven, he must have had scores of girlfriends before this. What if he’d gone out with her to try and bed her and, once that had been accomplished, he’d no longer be interested? Perhaps that was why women hated him. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Hannah felt her heart skip a beat with shock. How stupid could she be to sleep with him on their first date. What sort of woman would he think she was?
She cast her mind frantically back to his departure that morning.
All he’d said when he left was, ‘Adios, bebe,’ giving her a passionate kiss on the doorstep and the promise that he’d phone. Well, not so much of a promise, more of an: ‘I’ll call.’
Feeling like a woman whose lottery numbers have just come up but who forgot, for once, to buy a ticket, Hannah sat gloomily at her desk all morning. What sort of an imbecile are you? she was mentally asking herself for about the hundredth time when a messenger boy appeared at her desk, hidden by a huge bouquet of the palest pink roses.
‘Oh!’ gasped Hannah. ‘For me?’
‘If you’re Hannah Campbell, then yes,’ said the messenger. ‘Sign here.’
She buried her nose in the flowers, trying to breathe in the fragrance but finding them curiously scent-free. Still, they were beautiful.
‘Who are they from?’ demanded the rest of the staff.
Hannah opened the card. ‘To Hannah, my beautiful, ripe peach. See you tonight. I’ll pick you up at home at eight.’
Happiness saturated every pore of her body. He didn’t think she was a stupid slut; he wanted to see her tonight after all. Bliss.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Leonie stared into the cage at the heavily drugged cat. He lay like a soft marmalade cushion, belly curled up and fat paws lifeless on the post-operative sheepskin blanket. Poor Freddie. Removing the elastic bands he’d swallowed had been touch and go, and Angie had been understandably nervous about operating on such an elderly cat.
‘He’s fourteen, he might die under the anaesthetic,’ she’d said worriedly to Leonie.
But there’d really been no option once Mrs Erskine was told what Freddie’s chances were. She’d broken into sobs as she held her beloved cat in her arms, saying he was her only comfort in life since her husband had died. ‘Please operate. I know he’s old, but so am I, and I’d be lost without him.’
Leonie had a lump in her throat as Angie patted the old lady on the arm, firmly helping her from the surgery into the waiting room, while Leonie held on to the distressed cat. But Freddie had come through the operation with flying colours, his intestine yielding five small elastic bands which would have certainly killed him if they hadn’t been removed.
She reached into the cage and patted his soft fur gently. ‘You’re a fighter, aren’t you, Freddie?’ she said softly, watching his body rise and fall with deep breaths. Louise, the other practice nurse, had a few phone calls to make to other anxious owners and she’d volunteered to phone Mrs Erskine to tell her the good news. The old lady would be so happy. But Freddie wouldn’t be going home for a few hours until he’d slept off the anaesthetic.
Leonie checked the cages next door. Freddie’s neighbours were two female cats who’d been spayed that afternoon. Both were still knocked out. But three cages down, the inhabitant was wide awake. He was a black tom who’d been enjoying life as a feline Don Juan in his neighbourhood for many years, fathering countless litters. The knife had finally fallen on Tommy, who’d just been neutered as part of Angie’s Wednesday afternoon surgery. Hissing from the back of his cage, he glared at Leonie fiercely, as if he knew exactly what had been done to him and was determined to wreak revenge for the loss of his tomhood.
‘Is tonight the night for romance?’ enquired Angie, coming out of the cramped surgery toilet having changed into her going-home clothes.
‘Be quiet,’ whispered Leonie in horror. ‘Somebody might hear you. No one else knows – and yes, tonight is the night.’
Leonie was already regretting everything about her blind date. She regretted having put the personal advert in the paper in the first place, and she regretted telling anyone about it. So far, the only people who knew were Hannah, Emma and Angie. But they were quite enough. The girls had been sweet about the whole idea, while Angie kept mentioning it with increasing excitement, as if Leonie would be announcing her engagement any day. If it hadn’t been for Hannah’s calm and sensible encouragement, Leonie might well have thrown all the replies in the bin.
Her ‘statuesque blonde divorcée’ advert had warranted ten replies, two of which were from men who obviously assumed she was a hooker offering a bit of French polishing under the guise of respectability. One respondent had sent a note in splotchy Biro, telling her ‘a mother of children should be ashamed to be throwing herself at men like a brazen hussy’. She considered framing it for posterity but decided against it on grounds of decency. The other seven sounded reasonably normal. Well, semi-normal. But then, as Leonie had spent a month deliberating, what exactly was ‘normal’?
Was the man who said he liked golf going to be the type who talked of nothing else but handicaps and would refuse to spend any summertime daylight hours with her when he could be out on the course? Or would the ‘good-humoured professional, loves the theatre and literature’ turn out to be a card-carrying snob who’d spit at the sight of the copy of Hello! on Leonie’s kitchen table and insist on reading Kafka in bed?
Hannah had been thrilled at the number of replies Leonie had received. ‘I told you there were scores of lonely single men out there who just want to meet someone,’ she said proudly when Leonie had phoned with her exciting news. ‘Which ones are you going to contact?’
‘I thought just the best one,’ Leonie answered, still hung up on the idea that she’d only need to meet one and that would be it.
Hannah said nothing to that but asked Leonie to read out a couple of them. They both agreed that Bob – ‘tall, forty-something, losing hair but not my sense of humour’ sounded the best.
‘Hold on to the rest of the replies,’ Hannah advised sensibly. ‘And if Bob turns out to be a complete nutter, then you can phone up the others.’
Leonie agreed but secretly thought that Bob sounded as though he might very well be the man of her dreams. His answer to her advert had been everything she’d ever fantasized about: ‘I’ve never done anything like this before. Help! I’m forty-something and my last relationship broke up a year ago. I don’t have a clue how to get into this dating thing �
� it’s all changed since I was young. I love children, animals, hill-climbing and the cinema. This is the first advert I’ve ever answered and I hope that it’s fate that we should both meet the first time we try this. So should we actually meet?’
The second-last sentence had sealed things for Leonie. She lived for the idea of fate, kismet and destiny; the idea of lovers who lived worlds apart but met by chance, purely because they were destined for each other in the great cosmos of love…
‘Where are you meeting Mr Wonderful, then?’ Angie asked, putting on lipstick.
‘The China Lamp,’ Leonie said. He’d said he’d be sitting on the left-hand side, wearing jeans and a tweed jacket. He’d had a lovely voice on the phone too: soft and cultured. She’d thought that the Chinese restaurant in Shankhill was far enough away from Greystones for her not to meet anyone she knew, but she might. To do so would be terminally embarrassing.
‘OhmiGod, am I mad to be doing this?’ she said out loud. ‘I mean, I’m forty-two years old and I’m going on a blind date. This is insane, isn’t it?’
‘No it’s not. It’s perfectly normal, modern stuff,’ Angie said, unperturbed.
‘What if he’s some weirdo? Maybe I should cancel, or simply not turn up.’ Panic was beginning to set in. This was the final step, much more final than sending off an advert or answering letters sent to an anonymous post office box. That was practically child’s play. Nobody knew you, nobody could contact you unless you wanted them to. This was something else.
‘Relax, will you. He’s probably telling all his pals he’s scared out of his mind in case he’s going to meet this sex-starved woman who links up with unsuspecting men via the personals for wild rampant sex.’
Leonie shuddered as she changed out of her nurse’s blue tunic. ‘I’m beginning to feel like that. Normal people don’t have to meet up like this, do they?’
‘They do if all their friends are living in married or co-habiting bliss and the only offers they get are from bored husbands who think they’re game for an uncomplicated quickie,’ Angie retorted. ‘You haven’t told anyone else about this, I assume?’