“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” he said. “So, The Plough, then. How will I know you? I take it you won’t be wearing your stockings and corset.”
“You will have to wait and see,” I purred. Oh, Lord, I was good at this. “But I shall definitely wear a long raincoat, beige, like a secret detective.”
“Uh, right…”
“Until then, David.” My mouth had gone suddenly dry. My wine was wailing for me to pick it up and drink it. The bottle, not that little bit in the glass.
“Until then, Chantal.”
Chapter Two
I stood outside The Plough so I could nose through the window. You know, get a good look at him before he could do the same to me. An unfair advantage, maybe, but I was already late—a woman’s prerogative—and another couple of minutes wouldn’t hurt.
It was an old-fashioned place built with sandy-coloured stone, windows twelve panes apiece. Like a cottage, it was still stuck back in the day where horse brasses adorned the black wooden mantel and a fire roared in the grate—real, not one of those TV screen type efforts with a looped video of flames. I imagined I could hear it crackling and likened it to the sound my nerves might make if they were audible. Although I was Chantal Rossi, a little bit of Jane Smith remained. I’d have to fix that, make sure JS stayed firmly in the background each time I donned my super-sexy outfit. I’d kept the stockings on, and the heels, and had slid on a knee-length skirt and a short black jacket. The PVC corset looked like a top those younger ladies wore these days. Okay, I’d wondered if I was mutton dressed up as lamb, but had soon got over it once the raincoat covered the ensemble. I was seriously groovy, no doubt about it, up with the trends.
A few men sat on high stools at the bar, gas-bagging—probably about the farm on the outskirts of Stanton if their clothes were anything to go by. Mud-encrusted green wellingtons, dirt-spattered jeans and checked shirts that were more suited to American cowboys than British farmers. Still, they weren’t my concern. I was looking for a man in a black suit with a tie like a tongue, and unless he’d gone to visit the toilet, he wasn’t there. All the tables were empty.
I frowned. Had he even bothered to turn up, or was he one of those men who enjoyed women ringing him, but didn’t have the slightest intention of actually meeting those who’d called? I supposed I had a lot to learn playing this game. I’d be let down more often than not in the near future and couldn’t expect to meet Mr Right on my first jaunt out.
“Ah, the raincoat.”
I spun round at the unexpected sound of his voice, my focus immediately drawn to the bottom end of that red tie, then up the torso that filled the suit jacket and white shirt, to stare at his face. Oh, balls. He was absolutely delicious—something I hadn’t expected—and JS flung herself back into my body with tremendous force.
He’s not going to be interested in you, Miss Plain Jane.
“Oh,” I said, forgetting to be French. “It’s you.”
“Yes. And you’re you.”
He stared at me while I took him in, but not at any part of me except my face. I’d give him extra points for that. Dark-haired, his unruly mop very similar to mine but much shorter, he appeared, despite his snappy, well-pressed suit, to have just tumbled out of bed. His eyes—dreamy and light blue—were partially closed, as though he were assessing me and needed to concentrate. Or perhaps he was frowning, asking himself what the heck he was doing here with a cracked-up French woman who’d spoken of secret detectives and wearing anything he fancied?
I blushed at the reminder of my earlier behaviour and resisted flapping my hand in front of my face to cool it down. That wouldn’t be very elegant or sultry, and that wasn’t the kind of thing he’d be expecting off the back of our phone conversation. A lady in control, who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to get it.
Reminding myself that I was meant to be from the land of frogs’ legs, onions joined together by string, and black-and-white-striped T-shirts, I said, “Shall we go inside?”
He nodded, some of his curls bouncing, and treated me to a brief smile that all but sent me boneless.
“That would be the idea.” He smiled again, walking to the pub door, then pushed it open, holding it there so I could go in first.
I slid past him—I say slid, because that’s what it had felt like—and waited in the centre of a well-worn red Oriental rug for him to join me. He closed the door, came abreast of me, and I caught a whiff of his aftershave. Well, that was a nice smell, one that went straight to my saucy area. I quietly cleared my throat and willed Chantal Rossi to come back to the fore. However, this was hardly the place for two people dressed as though they should really be in a trendy wine bar, and we stood out like two white cotton puffs in an otherwise grey-bellied cloudy sky.
At the bar, I pressed my side into him, just enough to let him know I meant business but that the movement could be brushed off as an accident if it seemed he didn’t like it. He didn’t step away or appear to mind, and stared down at me with an expression of amusement. I hoped he wasn’t taking the piss out of me inside his head. Would I think me odd if I wasn’t me? Well, I wasn’t, not really, and decided that no, I quite liked the new person I had become.
“What would you like to drink, Chantal?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows in such an endearing way that I had the urge to reach up and smooth my fingertip across one of them.
That was far too intimate a gesture, but should I act on instinct anyway? Damn it, yes. I lifted my hand and stroked his eyebrow, gaining another amused look. Was he humouring me, or did he find me so different from the norm that it was making him happy?
“Such soft eyebrows,” I said quietly, totally French and slutty. “I love a man with eyebrows that are nice and tidy. None of those wayward hairs or those ones that meet in the middle as though they cannot bear to be apart.”
“A monobrow,” he supplied.
“Yes, a monobrow. Shockingly disturbing to me, those one-liners across the forehead. Yes, I am pleased you do not have one.”
I was making a prat of myself, I was sure of it, but I couldn’t seem to get my brain to let me know what I was going to say before I said it. I told myself to smile seductively, lick my bottom lip the same as a character in a romance novel would, and hoped for the best.
“I’m pleased I don’t have one too,” he said. “So, drink?”
“Oh, yes, how very rude of me not to have answered about that.” I lowered my hand and clasped both together in front of me. “Wine would be good, no?”
He nodded. “Wine it is, then.”
An elderly barman ambled over, polishing a pint glass with a rather grubby-looking tea towel, which made me glad I wasn’t one of those ladettes who liked to swill lager.
“What’ll it be, then?” he asked, placing the glass down with the towel squashed inside it.
“Wine, please,” David said, then to me, “Red or white?”
“Red, thank you,” I said, which had come out as redzankoo.
The barman looked at me oddly, and I had to take a minute to think whether I’d been here before as my English self. I hadn’t, I was sure of it, but it might be prudent to keep my mouth shut until he left us alone again. He busied himself uncorking a bottle, and with absolutely nothing to say, I watched him, all the while imagining that David would drink quickly, leave early and never ask to see me again.
I had to make sure that didn’t happen. He’d obviously been attracted to my forwardness on the phone, so I ought to continue in that vein in order to ensnare him and secure another date.
Wine and glasses put before us on the bar, the drinks paid for by David, the barman left us to it. I breathed a sigh of relief and waited for David to pour us both a hefty measure. He appeared in no hurry—he obviously let it breathe for longer than I did. I didn’t feel it would be appropriate for me to pour it myself, even though I could just do with grabbing the bottle and supping from it directly. I needed the Dutch courage. Instead, I took off my raincoat then draped
it over my arm. Balancing my elbow on the bar so my jacket fronts just happened to part, revealing the PVC corset with the laces accidentally on purpose not done up tight enough, I didn’t glance down to see if the desired amount of boob was visible. I smiled at David, acting oblivious.
“Oh, well now…” He cleared his throat and leant forward so his mouth was beside my ear. “Your, umm, your breast… Your nipple… It’s trapped between two strands of those laces. Looks rather painful.”
I’d wondered what that pinching feeling was. With him still close, I reached up and cupped one side of his face. “Why don’t you fix that, then?”
He coughed and eased back, looking me straight in the eye. “What, in here?”
“Why not? The order of the day is to live dangerously, no? Be alive and vigorous in our dealings with one another. You said that I am forward, and I think that you secretly like it. Could I not be more forward than that?” I paused and offered him a wink and a half-smile. “Fix my clamped bud. Free it from its confines and give me relief. Or”—I tugged at his tie—“pull the laces tighter and make me howl.”
He appeared alarmed, his non-monobrow raising high. “Good Lord, are you all right? I mean, do you have a condition where you can’t help what you’re saying?”
“The only condition I have is that you suck my bud, too. I dare you to do it.”
I had no idea what on earth had happened to me since taking off my raincoat and could only put it down to the fact that my sexy clothing was on show, which, in turn, had brought out my sexy self.
He glanced towards the men on the stools behind me, then to the barman. “I… They’ll see us.”
“Drop something so it makes a loud noise and then they’ll think you are bending down to pick it up. On the way, you can lick my nipple, if you please.”
He released air through his mouth, cheeks puffing out, but nevertheless reached into his jacket pocket to produce a set of keys. He looked about nervously then dropped them, their clank on the floor loud. Swiftly, he bent over and licked my boob, missing my nipple completely. No matter—that he’d been prepared to be as daring as I’d been so far meant he had potential to become quite interesting date material.
“There,” I said as he snatched up his keys and stood upright again, safe from my reach by moving back a step. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Um, no, but… Listen, do you want to get out of here?”
“Not particularly. A good bottle of red should not go to waste.”
In truth, I was afraid to leave at that moment as I wasn’t in control of myself. Chantal had well and truly taken over and I couldn’t trust her alone with this man.
“Yes, quite.” He smiled, a pretty deep pink blush on his cheeks, and set about pouring us those hefty measures I’d longed for a few minutes ago. “There you are.” He slid one glass towards me, avoiding eye contact.
“Thank you,” I said, lifting the glass then sipping daintily, staring at him over the rim.
He gulped back a large mouthful, albeit in a controlled manner, then closed his eyes for a second or two. Once he opened them again, he seemed more with it but a tad preoccupied. I had an idea I’d frightened him. He’d said on the phone that he wasn’t used to forward women, so I reckoned he was feeling out of his depth, unsure where to go next.
“Shall we take a booth?” I asked, gesturing with my head to one in the far corner, where we’d be shielded quite nicely from everyone else.
“Oh, I’m… Is that wise?”
“Of course it is,” I said, running my fingertips down the top of his arm. “How else will we get to know one another unless we spend quality time alone?”
“It’s the alone I’m a little afraid of,” he said, ending with a chuckle. “I’m not… You’re—”
“I’m what, David?”
“Extremely sexy,” he said, lowering his voice. “I don’t think I can trust myself with the likes of you. In private. Things might happen that perhaps shouldn’t on a first date.” He inhaled deeply. “I… You’re…”
“Yes, I am sexy, no? Be yourself, David. Be the man you’ve always wanted to be. Come. We will sit over here.”
I walked away, sashaying so he’d be under no illusion what the back of my skirt disguised. He’d already copped an eyeful of a section of my naked flesh, so maybe it was time for him to see some more. I entered the booth and sat with my back to the other customers, hidden by a well-placed pillar littered with shiny horse brasses. I wondered, as I waited for him to join me and freed my nipple from its confines, if he was a leg man and me revealing the top of my thigh above the stocking band would do the trick to loosen him up. Perhaps an exposed tit in public wasn’t his thing.
Relief gusted through me when he sat beside me. He leant forward to place the bottle of wine on the table along with his glass. I still clutched mine, a lifeline of false bravado in the form of dark berries infused with what I thought might be cinnamon. While he got himself comfortable, elbow lightly jabbing into the side of my breast, I idly had a thought that my teeth might have gone that hideous lilac they sometimes went after drinking certain reds.
I nudged him so he looked at me, then gave him a beaming smile, showing as many of my teeth as possible. If he reared back in disgust, I’d know it would look like I’d eaten the biggest beetroot on the planet and the answer to my musings would be clear.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” he asked, showing no signs of distress.
“Yes, but nice is so boring, do you not think? Naughty is so much better.”
“Um, yeah. I could do with some naughty.”
I felt that had been a bit of a struggle for him to say, as though he was trying very hard to keep up with me and my runaway mouth.
“Ah, I am so glad you expressed that,” I said, thickening my accent. “Because I do naughty so very well. Would you like to find out how well, David Thompson?”
Chapter Three
“We need to leave,” he said, reaching out for his wine and necking the lot in five seconds flat. He dumped the glass back down with a thud, and it teetered, at one point appearing as if it might fall over. “It’s not safe to stay here.”
“Safe?” I asked, glancing around in mock horror. “You forget I am a secret detective. Nothing frightens me.”
He laughed, a little unsteadily I thought, and the nugget of JS still sitting inside me felt sorry for him. Chantal was bold as brass, insane even, possibly terrifying to a man like him. Hell, she was scaring me with how well she’d made herself at home.
“Don’t be daft,” he said, smiling. “I mean it isn’t safe in here for you in a sense that I want to touch you, but don’t want an audience.”
I swivelled, leaning back to peer around the pillar, the laces strangling my nipples. “They are all discussing their lambs and things. Cowpats and suchlike. They are not interested in a couple enjoying a bottle of wine after a long hard day. Are you hard, David?”
“Christ. I will be if you keep on,” he said, twisting the wine bottle as though he was contemplating whether or not to pour himself another glass. “You’re so…different from other women I know. Is it because you’re French?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Perhaps it is just who I am. I will not deny that I find you attractive and I want to touch you too—what is the point in refuting that? We are here to see if I am the key to slide into your lock. Do you think I might be?”
“I’d say there’s a bloody good chance. Blimey.” He shook his head. “Many men dream about women like you, did you know that? I never thought… Jesus.”
“He will not help you, but the devil might, if only you would allow him to.”
He stood abruptly, left the table and walked away. For a moment I thought he’d changed his mind about the feelings I’d inspired in him and just had the urge to remove himself from the vicinity in order to calm down. He spoke to the barman, who produced the wine cork, nodding in that way men had of silently saying, “You’re in there, mate.”
; Yes, he would be in there if I had my wicked way.
Back at the table, David pushed the cork into the top of the bottle then sat beside me again. He leaned across and whispered, “Drink up. Really, we need to leave. I’m about to embarrass myself. I can’t look at you without my…”
I guzzled my wine, beetroot-stained-teeth effect be damned, then put my glass on a coaster advertising Guinness. The alcohol joined the potency of Chantal’s personality, leaving me lightheaded and weak-legged. I held up one finger. “Just wait for a second, please. I need to collect myself.”
“Would you like a second or two alone? I can wait by the door, if you like.”
“No, I am quite all right now, thank you.”
I stood, teetering a bit, unused to such high heels. He took my arm, picked up the bottle, and I walked with him to the door. Once again he opened it, allowing me through first. Out in the cold air, I realised that the freshness of it would mess with my head, making me feel drunker than I actually was.
“Oh!” I leaned into him. “This air is bracing. I wish for a warm beach in France where we could stroll in the sand and perhaps fuck behind a dune.” Oh, Lord Almighty, stop me now.
“That would be… Yes, that would be very nice.” He led me across the car park. “I’m afraid I don’t have any dunes handy, but I do have a car—not that I expect us to become further acquainted in there. What I meant was, I could take you home and we could meet up again another time when you’re… You look a bit peaky. Are you all right?”
“Of course,” I said, looking around to see where his car was.
There were none in sight.
“Listen, I’ll be as blunt as you,” he said. “I don’t usually do first-date fucking.” He guided me to the footpath, walking me along it, past houses then some high bushes that appeared to stretch on forever. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but it’s never felt right, d’you know what I mean?”
Jane knew, but Chantal found the idea alien. “No, I do not know what you mean. If two people want to be together in that way, then there is no firm rule on this earth that says one should not act on impulse. If we are feeling a little rampant, what would be the harm?” I smiled up at him. “Do you feel rampant?”
The Key Page 2