by Ruthie Knox
They were incredible together. He couldn’t begin to understand it. She didn’t look like the women he usually went for, didn’t act like them, either, but something about her sent him straight round the bend. She was so responsive, so alive. So there.
He hadn’t been with a woman in months, not since Grace. She’d put him off, with her manicured fingernails and her theatrical moans. Sex for Grace was a performance, which made it something very near a chore for him.
But not with Cath. Learning what she liked, what made her thrash and moan and mumble obscenities, he’d lost all sense of time, of where the boundaries were or ought to be between them. Her first orgasm had elated him, the second nearly killed him, and his own erased him from the face of the earth for a few long, ecstatic seconds.
He already wanted to do it again.
Cath rose up on one elbow, studying him. Her skin was pink, her hair mussed. She looked elfin, lovely. “You’re kinkier than I expected,” she said. “I figured you’d be strictly a missionary position kind of guy.”
He’d very much like her to list all the things she thought about him so he could prove her wrong, one item at a time. Strictly missionary position. What a bloody depressing thing to say.
“You were hoping I’d tell you to close your eyes and think of England?”
“Not hoping. Possibly fearing.”
Her smart mouth made him smile. “I reckoned I’d better branch out. I didn’t want to disappoint you, Mary Catherine. I understand you Catholic schoolgirls are quite sexually adventurous.” He rolled onto his side so he could cup her breast, running a thumb over her nipple. She had gorgeous breasts, small but perfect, with nipples that sat up and begged to be sucked. Never the sort of man to turn away a beggar, he obliged this one, and she rewarded him with a soft gasp, her eyelids falling to half-mast.
“I didn’t last long as a Catholic schoolgirl,” she said after a while. “Got kicked out.”
“Imagine that. Whatever for?” He brought his tongue to her other nipple, drawing it into his mouth. She flopped onto her back.
“Stealing. And drinking the communion wine.”
He’d liked to have seen her at fifteen. He could imagine her spoiled and reckless, lacking good sense but with vitality to spare. Stealing and drinking—she’d have been hell on her mother. The thought pleased him.
Nev dropped his hand between her legs, enjoying the way she squirmed closer. “You shouldn’t drink, love. It doesn’t agree with you.”
“Shut up. I only had three glasses of wine last night. And some kind of tequila thing with Red Bull.”
“See, you’ve proved my point. You’re a very poor lush.”
She stuck her tongue out, but he rather liked her tongue, so he kissed her, encouraging her to put it in his mouth.
They didn’t talk for a while.
Later, she lay on her stomach, and he stretched out beside her with one hand on her arse, studying the figures on her lower back. “Tell me about your tattoos. What do the numbers mean?”
There turned out to be four tattoos, each with its own small Copperplate numeral. The songbird came first, then a lit match, a book, and the intricate tangle on her stomach. All four images were interconnected with a matrix of lines and swirls.
“They’re my mistakes,” she said. “Each tattoo represents one of my worst mistakes. So I won’t forget.”
He traced the shape of the bird, wondering what she could have done to merit writing herself a memo on her body. “It’s a very permanent sort of reminder.”
She raised herself up slightly, catching his gaze and holding it. “They were really bad mistakes.”
She didn’t say Back off, but she told him all the same.
He tried a slightly different tack, wondering how far he could push her before she turned as fierce as she looked when she ran in the park. “What about the phoenix?” He slid one hand to her shoulder, picturing the tattoo beneath her collarbone. “It doesn’t have a number.”
Apparently this was a permissible question, as she relaxed slightly. “That one’s from when I decided to start over. You know, clean slate. No more mistakes. Phoenix rising from the ashes.” She gave him a small smile. “I was doing pretty well there for a while.”
Nev frowned, unhappy with the implication. “I’m a mistake then?”
“I don’t know yet. You have to admit, we didn’t meet under the most auspicious circumstances.”
“True.”
He did have to admit it. He didn’t have to like it. And it didn’t have to matter how they’d met. She was here, wasn’t she?
Cath didn’t feel like a mistake to him. She felt like a beginning. A clean canvas, ready to be painted. A gorgeous new idea.
She lowered her face to the pillow. “I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Want me to distract you again?”
“Yeah.”
He turned her over, kissed his way down her soft stomach, and spread her legs wide with his shoulders. No doubt he’d been someone’s mistake in the past. Perhaps more than one person’s, at that. But he wasn’t hers.
He’d simply have to prove it to her.
Chapter Six
Cath was dozing on Nev’s chest, his fingers tangled in her hair, when a loud knock at the front door startled her awake. He tensed beneath her.
“Expecting someone?”
“No.” He slid her onto the mattress and sat up, reaching for his jeans. “Stay here a moment, I’ll get your things.”
Half dressed, he disappeared down the hallway and returned with her shirt, skirt, and shoes, placing them beside her on the bed. Then he leaned down and kissed her quickly, her face cupped in his hand. “I’ll just go see who it is.”
Cath sighed and sat up, dismayed to find herself plunged so suddenly back into reality. She’d been perfectly happy, lying there with Nev. Maybe it had been a false happiness, a soap bubble headed toward the floor, but it still sucked to have it punctured, because now all the thoughts she’d pushed firmly to the back of her mental space were crowding around the barriers, ready to break loose. None of them was going to make her as blissful as ignoring them had.
She pulled on her clothes. They were stiff from air-drying, but at least they were clean. There wasn’t much she could do about the wrinkles—or about the rest of her. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing down the worst of the bed head.
At the door, Nev was speaking in a low voice to another man. She heard them move into the hall. Whoever it was, he didn’t seem to be leaving, so Cath shoved her feet into her heels and opened the door. Though she had no idea how the visitor would react to her presence, she wasn’t going to cower in the bedroom like a dirty little secret.
They didn’t notice her right away, giving her a chance to check out the other guy. He was attractive, nearly as tall as Nev but noticeably older, his neatly combed dark hair going gray at the temples. Dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, he had a casual polish that made a stark contrast to Nev, whose bare chest and mussed hair gave him a feral aspect. The bite mark on his shoulder didn’t help.
The visitor caught sight of her and stiffened. His eyes raked over her slowly, his mouth—a less friendly version of Nev’s—set in a disapproving frown. This guy had to be a relative, maybe Nev’s older brother. And he was looking at her like something he’d found on the bottom of his expensive loafers.
Nev turned to look at her, too, his eyes cool and his expression unreadable. Suddenly he was a stranger again, not the man who’d kissed her moments earlier. He was City waiting impassively for the train.
There was an awkward silence as Cath realized he wasn’t going to introduce her.
She’d been called a lot of things, but no one had ever accused her of being slow on the uptake. He wanted her gone. Whatever had been happening between the two of them, this man’s arrival had brought it to a close, and now it was time for her to hit the road.
And that was fine. That was what she would have expected, if she’d bothered
to form expectations. It still surprised her, which was probably why her eyes were watering and her chest felt sort of squeezed and smooshed, like a big dog was sitting on it. But tears and moderate physical discomfort were no big deal. Symptoms like this were bound to strike on a day like today, when she was already off-balance from the whole waking-up-in-a-strange-place thing. Plus the drunken-night-on-the-town thing. The incredible-sex-with-Nev thing.
Not a problem. She knew how to leave. She practically had a degree in it.
Spying her purse near the door, she slid past the two men, her heels clattering on the parquet floor. “I’m off, then. Thanks again for everything. I’ll, uh, see you around.” She snagged her purse, wrenched the door open, and escaped, refusing to look back.
As she made her way down the stairs to the street, she reminded herself it was probably for the best. She and Nev didn’t make sense together. And if the thought of never kissing him again made the squeezing sensation in her chest worse and the tears spill over, well, that’s what she deserved for getting herself into this mess to begin with. After a two-year hiatus, she’d let Bad Cath out to play, and Bad Cath had royally screwed everything up, same as she always did.
But hey, the good thing about living in a big city like London was you could start over as many times as you wanted. She didn’t have to see Nev again. She could run a different route through the park, take a different train, and he’d disappear altogether. She’d show up for work on Monday as New Cath, and sooner or later this whole episode would become a blip. It might take a few years to blippify it completely, but she’d manage.
It wasn’t as though sleeping with him had been a huge mistake. The guy didn’t even come close to meriting a tattoo.
Until the door closed behind her, Nev hadn’t understood Cath meant to leave. A bit slow on the uptake, perhaps, but his worlds were colliding, and he could do with a few moments to adjust.
Unfortunately, he didn’t get them, and now he’d bollixed up the situation irretrievably. He should have introduced Cath to his brother, found out what Winston wanted, and eased him out of the flat. He’d been thinking of making her dinner later on, perhaps talking her into staying over the rest of the weekend.
But when she’d stepped out of his room, Nev had seen her for a moment through Winston’s eyes—a rumpled waif in a short skirt, with messy hair and whisker burn on her jaw—and it had startled him to know what this must look like to his brother: a one-night stand between too obviously mismatched people.
It hadn’t felt like that at all.
Or maybe it had to Cath. Dressed in her own clothes, chin up, she’d been formidably distant, and she’d barely paused to say good-bye on her way out the door. She hadn’t left him her phone number, which meant she didn’t mean to see him again.
Thanks for everything? It bothered him to think she could dismiss him so easily, without a backward glance. It hurt, in fact.
How had that happened? How had she acquired the power to hurt him in the space of a few hours?
“Who was that?”
Nev turned to see his brother sneering at him, and the intrusion—the presumption—transformed his pain into sharp irritation. What the hell was Winston playing at anyway, coming around the flat for the first time on a Saturday without even phoning ahead? He and their mother had both made a point of never visiting Greenwich, having deemed it beneath them. Beneath Nev, too, but he’d put his foot down and moved here anyway, ignoring Mother when she insisted that if he wanted to live in the city, he ought to occupy the family flat in Kensington. Kensington being a more suitable neighborhood for a Chamberlain.
Suitable wasn’t at all what Nev had been looking for. He’d wanted a space of his own, an escape from the stifling influence of his family. After scouting locations with an estate agent, he’d settled on Greenwich, a modest suburb with the feel of a small village that was nonetheless a manageable distance from his office. Here, he could be an ordinary person with an ordinary life. He could go to work, do his own shopping, make his own meals, paint, and play rugby on the common on weekends. In comparison with being housed within range of his mother, it was idyllic.
“It’s none of your concern who that was. What do you want?”
Winston laughed. “Where are your manners, little brother? I want to be invited to sit down, and I’d like a cup of tea. Then we’re going to have a chat.” He strolled toward the kitchen, apparently having decided to dispense with the invitation. “And put a shirt on, for goodness’ sake. You look like a savage.”
Nev joined him in the kitchen and put the kettle on, but he left his shirt off. Why bother making Winston feel comfortable? No doubt he was only here to meddle.
Once he had his tea in hand, Winston announced casually, “You’re to be promoted at the bank. You’ll be second-in-command.” He took a delicate sip, and Nev marveled at his ability to drink and curl his upper lip at the same time. Nev had made the tea in the mug by pouring boiling water directly over the tea bag, knowing Winston would consider the absence of loose leaves and a warmed teapot an abomination. Knowing, too, that the lack of a proper cup and saucer would wind him up.
Nev took pleasure in doing what he could to make his enemy uncomfortable.
“How unusual,” he remarked, referring to the promotion. He wouldn’t allow himself to feel triumph or even satisfaction. Winston had just moved the first pawn in what would no doubt be a long, difficult game of chess. The promotion ought to have been Nev’s long ago, but his brother had withheld it, preferring to dangle it over his head as a way of making him do various unpleasant or difficult tasks. Nine years older, Winston had spent much of Nev’s life alternately tormenting and ignoring him. The prerogative of an older brother, Nev supposed.
If Winston had changed his mind, it wouldn’t be because he was impressed by the fact Nev had been killing himself at the office. It would be because he wanted something. “Aren’t offers of promotion normally made by the board?”
“This isn’t a formal offer, naturally. Consider this visit more of an … advisory. I’ve spoken to the board members, and they’re uncomfortable with your situation. They feel if you’re to be put in a position of such responsibility, you ought to be settled, with a wife who can help you entertain important clients.”
Nev snorted at the absurdity of this, seeing his mother’s hand at work. “And did the board propose anyone in particular to be my wife, or am I meant to choose my own?”
“Don’t be daft, of course you can choose. So long as you select someone … appropriate.” He glanced toward the hallway, his message clear. So long as you don’t choose someone like that.
Nev narrowed his eyes, daring Winston to say it. One word about Cath, and Nev would throw him out. Simple as that. It was an advantage of flat-ownership he hadn’t previously appreciated.
Winston didn’t take the bait, forcing Nev to deal with the matter at hand—marriage. Not just marriage, but suitable marriage, to an appropriate woman. A woman like Winston’s wife, presumably. Rosemary was perfectly lovely. She always wore attractive clothes, and when she spoke, she said only correct things. Nev had learned over the years to avoid her at family gatherings, because whenever he conversed with Rosemary, he found himself trying out one gambit after another in an attempt to force her to offer an opinion—any sort of opinion, on anything at all. And every time, she succeeded in being the blandest woman alive.
She’d given Winston a daughter, Beatrice, thirteen years ago, and when no further children had arrived, Mother had begun waiting for Nev to bring his own Rosemary home to meet her.
He’d made the matter worse by introducing her to Grace at the bank one day when he and Grace had been on their way out for a lunch date. The two women had shaken hands, all business—his mother was on the board, Grace in Human Resources—but he’d seen the triumph on his mother’s face. This one! her expression had said. Marry this one!
When he told her they’d broken it off after dating only a few weeks, Mother hadn’t taken it we
ll. Since then, she’d hinted several times he needed to put himself on the market again.
Now, clearly, she’d decided to take the matter into her own hands.
“And what if I don’t want to marry?” Nev didn’t particularly look forward to the answer to this question, but given the likelihood that Winston and his mother were both involved in the scheme, there would be multiple layers of blackmail involved. His mother was the sort who liked to poison and stab her victims, just to be certain she’d done the job properly.
“The board has determined that another candidate is better suited to your current position. If you don’t wish to move up, I’m sure we can arrange a transfer to one of the branch offices.”
Ah. So he had to come up with a bride or suffer banishment. That sounded like Mother.
It also sounded illegal.
“You can’t be serious. No place of business can blackmail its employees into marrying. For the board even to have discussed this is a serious breach of ethics.”
Winston leaned back in his chair, smirking. “The conversations were all quite informal, I assure you. I think you’ll find, if you care to investigate, that our position is perfectly legal and completely secure.”
Translation: try to bring a lawsuit, and you’ll lose. In the networks his family belonged to, influence and convention mattered a great deal more than the law. The law could be bought, and cheaply at that.
Nev crossed his arms over his chest. “It may not be necessary for you to send me off to Swansea. I’ve been thinking of leaving the bank behind to pursue other options.”
This wasn’t strictly true, unless daydreaming about finding a gallery for his paintings counted, but he needn’t tell his brother that.
Winston merely smiled. “What are you going to do, paint? You’re too old to play at being an artist.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“I suppose it is. But I should tell you, if you leave the bank, you’ll be on your own. Mother will cut you off without a cent.”
Nev relaxed, relieved to hear the other shoe hit the floor. If he didn’t marry, he’d be demoted. If he left the bank, he’d become a pauper. Mother was fond of marking out her approved course of action by making all the alternatives as unattractive as possible. She didn’t have a high opinion of his intelligence.