The Key

by Geraldine O'Hara

  I nodded, forehead rubbing against his damp T-shirt, and wondered, as sobs began their bizarre dance up my chest and out of my mouth, what the hell he’d want to do that for.

  Chapter Nine

  “Chantal Rossi Thompson, come here, woman!”

  I still couldn’t get used to being called that. Not only did I have a new surname, courtesy of us getting married a week ago, but I’d had my birth name changed too. How many women could say their future husbands had understood why they’d pretended to be some nutball French woman, accepted it, then suggested she legally become said nutball French woman?

  David was amazing.

  I stared ahead at the endless stretch of beach, at the sand dunes of a place in the South of France, where sand dunes abounded. The ocean swooshed to my right, white spume chasing itself up the beach then retreating, as if the dry sand had shocked it into tumbling backwards. Sea birds squawked, wheeled in wide circles, nothing like the brazen, chip-fed gulls of Brighton, who swooped low and threatened to thieve your sandwich right out of your hand.

  Our honeymoon location had been a surprise to me until we’d arrived. David having a private jet had meant I hadn’t had to see where we were going on a destination board or have a desk clerk give it away in a fake chirpy voice as we handed over our passports. It had warmed me that he’d recalled the time I’d said I wished we were on a French beach so we could fuck behind a dune. The idea of that didn’t appeal in reality, though—all that sand in my bits wasn’t an attractive prospect—but David had packed a blanket in the hopes I’d change my mind.

  Shirking Jane Smith had been so easy, and once, David had said that I’d been Chantal all along, I’d just needed the courage to be her—be myself. Apparently, when I’d left my flat on the day of our wedding, Mr Big Bollocks had come out and shed a tear. I’d been so busy drowning in nerves that I’d failed to notice, but Dad had asked, as we’d sat in the car, me arranging my dress so it didn’t crease, what on earth that sobbing man had down his pants. David had pointed out that my swollen neighbour had a crush on me, yet I’d failed to realise all that time. I’d just thought he was a pervert with a perpetual hard-on.

  “Don’t you go off without me, Mrs!” David called.

  I turned around and walked backwards, toes sinking into the sand, and took in every bit of him as he strode towards me, bogged down like a packhorse with a cooler in one hand, a rucksack in the other and a rolled-up towel beneath each arm. I’d offered to carry something, but he’d insisted that wasn’t the way it worked. He would carry our things—and that had been the end of that.

  Still a gentleman. I knew he always would be.

  The sun was behind me, and he looked as if he was glowing. He’d tanned quickly—unlike me, who was burnt and getting sore despite slathering myself with sun cream—and the sight of him had me thinking of some bronzed god. I wasn’t biased either. Plenty of women on this private beach had been giving him the eye and, funny enough, it hadn’t upset me. He was mine. After all, he’d told me I was the key that fitted quite snugly into his keyhole. I’d retorted that it should have been the other way around.

  “I’m not going off without you,” I said, slowing my pace so he could catch up.

  Once he was abreast of me, I turned to walk beside him. Took hold of his little finger, the only bit of him I could grip, and had such a surge of how lucky I was rising inside me that it stole my breath.

  “Up there, look,” he said, dipping his head to indicate a large dune that would hopefully shield us from view. “That one looks promising.”

  “It does, but like I told you earlier, I don’t really fancy having sand grains going into places they don’t belong, and I doubt very much it’ll be comfortable for you either, if you catch my drift.”

  “It’ll be all right with the blanket.”

  “So long as we don’t scuff sand onto it…”

  I knew I was going to do it regardless—I couldn’t seem to deny him anything. The good thing was, he felt the same, because no matter what I suggested, how late at night it was or early in the morning, he made sure it happened.

  “I wonder how your parents are doing living in my old house,” he asked.

  “Living it up and pretending they’re royalty. Pissing your parents off, most likely.” I paused, thinking of how he’d so readily given up his home for something smaller that we now shared. “Be honest now, you didn’t mind down-sizing, did you?”

  “Of course not. Rattling around—bloody hell, this dune’s steep—was ridiculous, like you said. I mean, we could have loads of kids, but even having a clutch of them wouldn’t have filled the house.”

  “A clutch?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Good job I do…”

  We crested the dune, and it reminded me of being on Lobb’s Mountain, except there was no dog shit in sight, just a smooth, wavy surface all the way down. I glanced at David, who grinned back, and wondered whether we’d make it down without tumbling head over heels.

  “Shall we run for it?” he asked.

  “If you like, but I don’t—”

  He tugged me, and we ran down, my insane hair flying back, the breeze welcome on my hot face, gaining speed the lower we went. My stomach clenched at my thought that any second now we’d—

  I toppled forwards, let go of his finger, and rolled end over end, shutting my eyes tight, feeling my sunglasses go flying off my head. David’s laughter floated towards me as though from far away, and I realised the lucky bugger hadn’t gone down in the same manner. I came to a stop at the bottom, hair streaked across my face, my heart shouting that for crying out loud, woman, can’t you do anything ladylike?

  No, I couldn’t. I doubted I ever would, either.

  I shoved my hair away, cross with myself, and stared up at David coming towards me, all poised and graceful. We were definitely a case of opposites attracting.

  “All right?” he asked as he met me at the bottom. “Enjoy your trip, did you?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’d better be careful what you say if you want us to be saucy down here.”

  “I’ll be careful, but I can’t resist asking that next time you send me a postcard.”

  “Har har, so very not funny, Thompson.”

  But I laughed just the same. Difficult not to when he was giving me that cheeky look that dared me to keep a straight face and remain mad with him.

  “It was delightfully funny from where I was standing.” He held up both hands, the towels falling to the sand, the bags swaying from his fingers. “But I can see I’m pushing it so I’ll shut up.”

  “Best you do,” I said, smiling. I stood and walked over to a flatter stretch. “About here should do it. If you hand me that rucksack I can sort the blanket.”

  He ignored me and plonked everything down by his feet, then opened the rucksack and took out a large folded blanket. Coming over to me, he shook it open then put it on the ground, keeping his feet off it so he didn’t pepper it with sand.

  “So how are we going to do this?” he asked.

  “Well,” I said. “I rather thought you knew how to do it…”

  “You know what I meant. Us. Getting on the blanket. Without sand.”

  “Hmm.” I put my hands on my hips. “Go down on your knees so you land near the middle, then rub your feet together to get the sand off. I’ll do the same.”

  “Okay…” He eyed me warily.

  “It’ll work,” I said. “Trust me.”

  “After three, then?” He took a steadying breath.

  I nodded.

  “One,” he said. Another breath. “Two… Three…”

  We both went down, and as our chests clashed and we tumbled onto our sides in a tangle, I realised what the wary look had been all about. He’d known, with me being so clumsy, that nothing good could have come out of my plan. I laughed, kicking my feet, a spray of sand showering down on us. The blanket became a rippled mess. He rolled onto me, laughing too, staring down at me, an
d I’d swear his eyes were sparkling. Tears spilled from mine I laughed so hard, and I made a concerted effort to control myself.

  With my breath coming out fast, my chest rising and falling, I waited for what I knew was going to happen. His eyes did that thing they always did just before he kissed me. Went half-lidded, dreamy, the blue of them intensifying. He pressed his lips to mine, and I closed my eyes, surrendering myself to him. I heated up from more than just the powerful sun, my skin searing from the touches he skimmed over my body. I smoothed my hands up and down his back, the oil-based cream he’d applied earlier almost gone.

  I spread my legs, curling them around his, my libido skyrocketing at his erection pressing into my slit. Lifting my hips so I could get more friction, I kissed him harder as he rocked. His hardness stimulating my clit set an orgasm in motion, and I reached down to tug at his swim shorts and free his cock, then lift my legs to cross them at the ankles at the base of his spine. He slid into me effortlessly, right to the hilt, his width stretching my opening with a delicious burn that I wished would never go away. He gained a frantic rhythm, the passion in our kiss escalating, and my breath hitched in my throat.

  His cock throbbed, grew that little bit harder, and with him grinding into me and abrading my clit, I was on the verge of coming. Taking my mouth from his, I nestled my face between his neck and shoulder, biting lightly. Strong tendrils of pleasure spread in waves from my clit to somewhere deep inside me, rendering me helpless, able to do nothing but soak up the bliss and ride with it. He slid his hands beneath my arse, lifted me higher, pressing his groin into me, racheting up my desire. Ecstasy exploded, stars danced beneath my closed eyelids, and my head spun. David moaned a second before he shuddered, his movements uncontrolled, his lower half spasming as he came. I clutched at him through my aftershocks, holding him tight, never wanting to let him go. I loved him, bloody loved him, and couldn’t remember what my life had been like before he had come into it.

  It seemed it had always just been me and him.

  “I love you, Jane,” he whispered.

  Tears stung the backs of my eyes, and I opened them to stare into his, at the utter adoration there. He always used my old name at times like this—his way, he’d said, of making sure I knew he loved who I’d been before we’d met, that I had always been someone worth loving. I just hadn’t realised it.

  “And I love you,” I said. “You rescued me, you know, with that advert in the paper. I wonder sometimes what I’d be doing now if I hadn’t bought those stockings and that corset. I don’t think I’d have ever thought of looking for a man in the wanted ads otherwise.”

  “Fate,” he said, “makes us do things if we’re not living our life the way it thinks we should. Sounds nutty, but I’m sure of it.”

  “Hmm, it is a bit nutty, but then I always knew you had to be, what with falling for me.”

  “Don’t,” he said, putting one finger to my lips. “You know it upsets me when you put yourself down. Just believe in yourself—really believe in yourself. See what I see. A beautiful woman.”

  I snorted.

  “All right,” he said. “A beautiful woman with mad hair and a penchant for falling into rivers and down sand dunes. But beautiful all the same.” He smiled, his expression tender. “You’re the key, Chantal Rossi Thompson, golden and sparkling, the only one who can unlock me. There’ll never be another.”

  I fought the urge to cry, really sob out of sheer happiness.

  That bloody haggis!

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  Samantha Little: The Dimple of Doom

  Lucy Woodhull

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Accountants should not be so sexy.

  It all started at the office Christmas party, as many terrible hangovers do.

  My palms began to sweat at the sight of The Accountant walking in my direction. His shining eyes said, I wanna spread your sheet, his masterful gait said, Damn, I’m masterful, and his tantalising smirk said, I’ve read the Kama Sutra—all the way through.

  I swallowed the lump of lust in my throat and twiddled with the tablecloth of the catered buffet table. My usual party plan involved making winsome eyes at the food, but tonight I salivated over more than just the pigs in a blanket.

  “Potato ball?” he asked. Sam Turner, aka The Accountant, held the fried offering palm up on a festive red and green paper plate.

  I had the hots for a dude named Sam. My name is Samantha. Samantha ‘n’ Sam. It was the stuff of obnoxious wedding invitations.

  What colour were his hazel eyes today? Glancing up, I slid into hormone heaven. He stood, eyes mossy green pools of sensual seductiveness, and offered me the Garden of Eden apple. Except it was a potato ball.

  Cocking my head, I posed in an alluring manner that I hoped brought Marilyn Monroe to mind. I should say something. Something not stupid.

  “I love balls.” Oh, damn. “And potatoes!” Did I just tell him I loved to eat balls? “I mean I love to eat food! In ball form. You know. Because it’s easy. To eat. Except when it rolls. Then it can be hard to catch.”

  Stop.

  Talking.

  “Okay.” Sam’s lips turned upward in mockery on his almost handsome, totally charming face, topped in curling, floppy, please-run-your-hands-through-me brown hair.

  Yes, I absolutely had told him I loved to eat balls. I decided I should smile through this faux pas. Everyone knew a bright grin made unpleasant things go away. Ask Judy Garland.

  “I like food in stick or chip form myself,” he said, munching a piece of celery in stick form.

  I couldn’t come up with anything to say about sticks that wasn’t dirty. “Chips are good.” Really, I impressed even myself with the brilliance of my witty banter. At any moment my clothes would be ripped off my quivering body by Sam, my same-named accounting crush.

  I hated the office Christmas party.

  Sam blinked and appraised me in what I chose to interpret as a captivated manner. A girl could dream. Instead he said, “So, Scott told me you entertained the employees at last year’s party.”

  “Yes. I fell down the steps.” My cheeks burned like the carpet at the end of two flights of stairs. I wasn’t clumsy too often, but when I made the effort, I really won at it. “You can still see the splotch on the floor from the blood. I lost a tooth, but gained a reputation.”

  “That’s gross.” He grinned. One wouldn’t call him drop-dead gorgeous or anything. At first, you might consider him kinda ordinary-looking. Then the naughty glimmer in his eye caught your breath. The smile appeared, emphasising the lickable curve of his bottom lip. Charm emanated from his very pores.

  And, of course, he possessed the nuclear weapon of facial features. The dimple. Only one—on the left side of his face—deep enough to bury yourself in. One flicker and panties fell at thirty paces.

  My body temperature had suddenly shot upward to somewhere near surface of the sun levels. I’d disconnected completely from the conversation and reverted to teenage-girl-like gawking.

  I took a steadying breath and jumped back into the fray. “So, accounting? Is that as glamorous as it sounds?” I had, apparently, decided that deriding his profession was the way to go, flirt-wise. Plays like this were risky, but desperation had sunk in. His temp job in the finance department ended today—I would have no more chances to bend and snap at the water cooler for his benefit.

  The corners of his sometimes green, sometimes brown, always dreamy eyes crinkled. “Of course. Usually I have eight models in my accounting entourage, but I gave them the night off.”

  Uh-oh. He was funny, too. It just wasn’t fair. “How kind of you. You could say you’re a model boss! Ha ha!” Yes, I laughed at my own joke, which was a behaviour shared by the most sophisticated of ladies. Then I remembered I turned a horrid shade of blotchy red when I got too excited. I choked off my laughter and forced down some potato.

  “I could say that, but I won’t.”

  “No,
you really shouldn’t.”

  The dimple chose that moment to come out and play. Oh, Sam—let’s retire to the supply room and hump. It had been so long since I had humped anyone. Or anywhere. I shoved more mmmmm-yummy potato ball into my mouth and almost didn’t get it on my festive sweater, the beautiful red one I’d spent way too much money on in the hopes of getting Sam to notice me.

  He noticed now. “You have a blob of—”

  Then he grabbed my boob.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry!” His eyes became saucers, and he jerked his hand back, leaving my skin scorched and feverish. “There’s a bunch of potato on your…sweater. Let’s, um, let’s go to the kitchen. There’s a sink.”

  My stomach dropped three storeys—I’d just accidentally got to second base in public. He grabbed my arm, and we hurried past a maze of monochrome cubes draped in twinkle lights to the break room. This was the most exciting event in the office since they had switched the carpeting from taupe to tan.

  Sam stood there while I applied a paper towel to my tit. Actually, he didn’t merely stand there—he stared, turned away, blinked and stared again. I couldn’t blame the guy. The girls were rather ravishing—perky from the cold water, encased in a formidable push-up bra, eager for more inappropriate fondling.

  “I’m sorry about…that.” He slumped and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “It’s okay. It happens.” I smiled, brimming with reassurance.

  The tension finally broke when he snickered. “It does? How often does it happen? You should avoid potato balls.”

  “And accountants.”

  We laughed at each other. For once I wasn’t laughing by myself.

  My ears pricked at the silence surrounding us. The back office echoed, and we were alone. The whirring hum of the old refrigerator sounded like a Lionel Ritchie love song to me in my hyper-aroused state. Hello? Is it me you want to do on the floor?