He brought the car to a stop in the little mews street in South Kensington.
“This is you?” He asked, nodding towards a pale blue townhouse.
“Yes,” she responded, angry with herself, and Gael, and the whole situation.
He reached across and unsnapped her seatbelt, then stepped out of the car. When Carrie’s feet touched the cobbled street, she realised she was woozy. Two quickly consumed vodkas had obviously played havoc with her senses, but it wasn’t the alcohol alone. It was him.
She swayed a little, causing Gael’s frown to deepen. He put an arm around her waist, but she shrugged away from him.
“You’re most definitely not welcome to come in,” she muttered caustically, as she slipped the key into the wooden door and pushed it inwards.
His laugh was the only reply she received, as he barrelled past her and reached for a light switch. He moved through the two-story townhouse with an apparent air of ownership.
“Didn’t you hear me?” She called after his retreating back. He took the stairs two at a time; she could hear him moving about in the top floor. It had her bedroom, a guest room, and her home office. Downstairs was the rarely used kitchen, bar and lounge area. She sloshed some more vodka into a martini glass, added ice and carried it with her. “I want you to go, Gael.”
He came down the stairs two at a time, his black eyes glittering in his face like perfect gem stones.
“What in God’s name has happened to you?”
She glared at him, fury zipping through her. “You don’t like me now, Gael? You don’t want me now that you know who I really am?”
Oh, if only that were true. His body was aching with the need to pull her to him. A need he had no intention of obeying. But it was taking every shred of willpower to resist the tug of attraction. “I don’t understand you,” he corrected throatily.
“There’s nothing to understand. I’m this.” She gestured up and down her body, slopping vodka over the rim of the glass onto the tiled floor. “A woman you wanted to seduce an hour ago. A woman you wanted.”
He reached out and took the vodka from her, placing it on the bar. “You are upset.”
She took in a deep breath. He was right, and she was annoyed at herself for feeling that way. For letting her emotions control her. She’d spent six years learning to contort her feelings into an obedient maze of sense. Now, they were running away from her, as though she were a clueless seventeen year old again.
“I just need my own space,” she said finally. “Would you please go?”
“You should have thought of that before you started this.”
“Started what?” She shrugged, aiming for complacence. “What happened between us was just sex. Two people who wanted that moment of enjoyment. It’s done. Why put any more energy into analysing it? You didn’t know who I was, but you knew what I was, and what I wanted.”
“And what are you, amante dulce?”
“A woman,” she whispered. “I’m not a kid anymore. Some stupid, fat, needy child desperate for romance from someone like you.”
“No,” he agreed, closing the distance between them. “You are no longer a child.” He kissed her before she could guess what he intended, his lips hard on hers. “You are an adult, and you’ve entered into a very adult game. Do you want to play, Carrie? Are you really willing to fight with me?”
Her body softened against his. Desire tore through her. “Yes,” she murmured against his lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and lifted a leg, trying to bring him closer to her. He pulled her, lifting her, holding her, as he crossed the room to the sofa. He lay her down gently, and brought his lips back to hers.
His kiss was warm butter on toast, so sweet and delicious, that she had no choice but to succumb to it. Her fingers were pushing, impatient and needy, at his shirt, ripping it from his body. She didn’t care when the buttons popped off and flew across the room. She simply wanted, no, needed, to see his naked form once more.
“You should have told me who you are.”
She closed her eyes. He was right. Or was he? Would he have wanted her? She couldn’t have said. “You should have known.”
Her accusation pressed something inside of him; a button that set off a wave of guilt. He should have known. He did know, on some level, surely. Her familiarity had been obvious, and yet he’d tried to ignore that tug of knowledge.
She pushed at his chest before he could respond, so that they tumbled to the floor, landing on the shagpile rug. She was on top of him, pulling at his belt, and pushing his pants down. This time, she remembered protection, slipping it on him before straddling him, to take him back inside her moist, desperate core.
She exclaimed; a wave of euphoric possession escaped her lips. She moaned, as he shifted his weight, moving further and deeper inside. How she needed this. How she needed him.
Needed him? It was ridiculous. Other than sexually, she needed nothing from him, or any other man.
Pleasure built up, like a wave. It radiated through her with fierce, undeniable intensity.
And Gael knew how to answer it. Every question her body posed, he met and obliterated. She ached afterwards, with satiated desire and shock. Shock that he, Gael Vivas, could be the one man who’d ever sent her body into this kind of tailspin.
She collapsed onto the rug beside him, her breathing ragged, her mind heavy with the fog of confusion.
Gael stared down at her. He had an incredibly tense gaze. A way of looking at her as though he could unravel all her secrets if he cared to. “You are so different, Carrie.”
Her expression shuttered, her blue eyes were closed to him. She was different. She was better. She was sophisticated and beautiful, and people listened when she talked, now. “I know,” her smile was sharp. “It’s been a long time since we last saw each other.”
“It is not the passing of time that’s changed you,” he denied instantly. “Yes, you were a teenager then, and now you’re a woman. A young woman,” he amended with a frown. The age gap between them was the same. The gulf in their life experience was still great. A yawning expanse of knowledge and understanding. What would she be? Twenty three. And he had just marked his thirty fifth birthday. “It’s more than that.”
She pushed up on her elbow, meeting his gaze at his level. “What is it?” She pushed, forcing him to say what was on his mind.
“You’re … just different.” His frown deepened.
She was. Different in every way. She hadn’t just lost weight and changed her hair. She’d changed her heart and soul. No more stupid Jane Austen. No more roses. No more singing with the birds. She was a successful businesswoman, not a weak-minded desperado waiting to be rescued by Prince Charming. She stood gracefully, and walked naked towards the stairs. At the bottom, she turned towards him, her blue eyes showing her hurt despite the fact she no longer wanted to feel that kind of emotional pain. “And you’re exactly the same.”
Gael followed. He was off kilter. Something about her threw him way off balance. It was an unfamiliar experience for him. “Am I?” He asked, just behind her. God, she was gorgeous. Walking upstairs behind her would fuel his fantasies for the next decade. She stopped at the top, forcing him to pause two steps lower.
“Sure. Appearances always mattered most to you, Gael. They obviously still do.”
His laugh was a sound of rich disbelief. “How dare you? You don’t know anything about me. How can you accuse me of being superficial?”
“Oh, I’m not just accusing you of being superficial,” she retorted angrily. “I’m accusing you of being a disgusting cheat and a bastard, too.”
“Woah, hang on a minute.” He held a hand up, and ran the other through his hair. “What exactly did I do to earn this appraisal from you? We hardly know each other.”
“On the contrary, I know you very well. I’ve had the dubious privilege of knowing lots of men just like you over the last few years.”
Lots of men like him? How many? And how well? A scowl marre
d his brow as, out of nowhere, he pictured her as she’d been that night six years ago. Bathed in the silver threads of the moonshine, face sweet, heart bursting.
“And what am I like? What is it about me that makes your beautiful mouth pucker indignantly?”
She lifted her fingers to her lips. “I do not pucker.” She ran her hands higher, to her hair. It was a tangled mess. What must she look like? Panic spread through her at the very thought of being seen by Gael Vivas without her mask in place. The mask she wore without fail, even when it was only her own reflection to see her.
“Excuse me,” she spoke sharply, pulling coldness around her like a shroud of protection. “I have nothing left to say to you.”
“Carrie,” he took the last two steps and followed behind her. At her bathroom, he paused. She held the door open just an inch.
“Go, Gael. I’ve had fun, but it’s over now.”
5
“I am not wearing yellow,” Carrie said with a flicker heavenward of her eyes. “Tell me you’re trying to give me a heart attack.”
Juanita giggled, pushing the picture closer to her friend. “I don’t mean the colour. Just the style.”
Juanita looked at the picture torn from a magazine. The Givenchy gown was beautiful. A fitted bodice, with a feathered skirt that fell to the floor, it was both elegant and timeless. “Yes, the style is lovely.”
“High praise from you, Miss Picky,” Juanita grinned.
“I’m not picky. Just … selective.”
Juanita slipped the picture back into the bright green folder she carried in her handbag at all times. “WEDDING” was emblazoned on the front, just in case she mistook it for any of her other bright green folders, bursting at the seams with ripped magazine pictures and printed Pinterest snaps. “Okay, bride stuff dealt with. Tell me what went down on Friday?”
Carrie shook her head. “Ancient history reared its head for a moment. But I’ve popped it back in the past, where it belongs.”
“Oh, no you don’t. Come on, Carrie. Give me the details!” Juanita leaned forward, her dark hair plaited to one side, her lips parted in excited expectation of the salacious gossip. “You know Tom and I are like an old married couple. I live vicariously through your sexploits.”
“Sexploits?” Carrie arched a perfectly shaped brow, and turned her face to her MacBook. Only a slight flush betrayed the hint of self-consciousness that was ripping through her.
“Uh uh, no way,” Juanita reached over and pushed the screen down. “You told me that if I dragged myself to your office, I’d get at least an hour of your time.”
“I’m sorry,” Carrie smiled in true apology. “We’re in the middle of looking around for some capital, and I have a meeting this afternoon with a possible investor.”
“Then tell me what happened with Gael Vivas and I’ll leave you in peace.”
Carrie shook her head; the smile on her face now felt sticky and fake. “Nothing happened.” Everything had happened. A night of impossible passion followed by a weekend of tortured memories and confusing doubts. Doubts about who she’d become and what she wanted in life had left Carrie with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Gael Vivas,” even saying his name made Carrie’s heart lurch painfully, “showed me that I was right all along about the kind of man he is.”
“And what kind of man is that?” Juanita leaned forward, her expression captivated.
“He’s…” She bit down on her lower lip, and then expelled an exasperated sigh. “He’s … ugh. He’s a superficial, sexy, shallow jerk.”
“Oh.” Juanita’s face fell. “What a shame. I was holding out hope it might have been love at second sight.”
Carrie pulled a face. “As if. He’s a pig, good for one thing, and one thing only.”
“I see.” Juanita leaned back in her chair, wondering if there was more to the story than her best friend was letting on. After all, Carrie didn’t blush. She didn’t evade questions. And she didn’t vent plasma type rages about men she’d slept with. Carrie was known for being cool as a cucumber. Juanita was one of the few people who knew there was more beneath the cold exterior Carrie had perfected. And apparently Gael Vivas had an idea, too.
“Stop looking at me like that, Bridey. Just because you’re loved up to the extreme, doesn’t mean I’m keen to jump on your ship.”
“But it’s awfully fun,” Juanita said with a wink. “You want to know what Tom and I did Friday night, after we left the ball?”
“I don’t know. Do I?” Carrie prompted, her tone droll.
Juanita leaned forward and lowered her voice, as though she was on the brink of revealing something incredibly personal. “We went home and,” she looked conspiratorially towards the closed office door, “put face masks on while we watched old episodes of Mr. Bean.”
Carrie burst out laughing, and shook her head, sending her short blonde hair flying like two pale wings around her face. “That’s tragic. You used to be the doyenne of the party scene. What happened to you?”
Juanita grinned. “I grew up.”
“God, we’re twenty three. Don’t we have a million years or so before we have to do that?”
“What can I say? I guess I had a head start on partying. You were a late bloomer.”
“So you think I’m making up for lost time?”
“It would explain your steadfast commitment to sensual hedonism,” Juanita observed, her manner suddenly serious. “You are happy, aren’t you, Carrie?”
Carrie responded in the way she had for years. “Of course I am.” It was automatic. A response that the question asker seemed to want, that was therefore easy to supply. “Never been better.”
“Good. Then we can stop talking about you and start thinking about exactly which shade of white I’d like for my dress.”
Carrie laughed. “Shade of white?”
“Yes. You know, it’s really rather deceptive. People hear ‘white’ and see paper. But there are so many different versions. Ecrue, egg shell, cream, off-white, beige white. Look.” She pulled, as if a rabbit from a magician’s hat, a whole swatch of creams from her Balenciaga bag.
“What else have you got in there?”
“Just the bridal essentials,” Juanita promised seriously. “Now listen, we have to focus; I have a manicure to get to after this.”
Carrie resisted the urge to point out that her meeting was, probably, marginally more important, given that it would have a huge impact on the future of her business. Like all self-respecting Bridezillas before her, Juanita saw nothing as mattering more than her upcoming wedding. Nothing. Not world politics, not global warming, nothing. In fact, it was remarkable that Carrie’s time with Gael had even got a look in.
She pushed thoughts of Gael from her mind. Or rather, she tried to. But like the proverbial water seeping through fine cracks in a vase, flashes of memories punctuated their conversation. His hands, dark and strong, moving over her body. His eyes, sharp and probing, staring into her soul. His mouth, insistently tasting and teasing hers. She was relieved when Juanita looked at her slim gold wrist watch and squawked.
“I’m so freaking late, my manicurist is going to fire me.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Carrie consoled, watching as her best friend packed everything back into her Mary Poppins Bag.
“I’ll call you,” Juanita promised, blowing a kiss from the door.
Carrie shook her head slowly from side to side. As long as she’d known Juanita, she’d been just the same. Scatty and brilliant at the same time.
Carrie opened her MacBook back up and clicked into her projected profit spread sheet. It was good. With a healthy looking financial position to interest the serious investor, Carrie had no doubts she could swing the ancient Terence Newman into splashing his cash.
Nothing a cranky old man liked better than a technology start up. In Carrie’s experience, it made them feel young and relevant, even though they had no real clue what the product involved.
And New
Network wasn’t any ordinary app.
It was a money making machine.
Unfortunately, it needed money first. More than she had. And Terence Newman, with his oil billions and desire for immortality, would hopefully prove to be the cash cow she sought.
Carrie pressed print and moved across her office, to collect the seven pages of figures. She slipped them into one of her folders, emblazoned with the CB logo, and then checked the office. Carrie hadn’t wanted her business to feel like a business. She’d kept the stuffy boardroom furniture at bay, and opted instead for plush cream carpet, white sofas, impressive and intimidating, beautiful and elegant: furniture that screamed success.
She topped up two crystal glasses with sparkling water, and then ran her hands down her silk shirt. It was tucked in tight to a black pencil skirt that fell straight to her knees, and on her feet, she wore a pair of bright red heels. Her favourites. They said ‘confidence’ with each step she took.
The scene was set; all she needed was for the old man to arrive.
She looked across at the wall clock, and a frown briefly marred her beautiful face. Finally, twenty minutes after their scheduled meeting, Carrie’s phone rang. She snatched it off her desk and swiped it to answer. “Carrie speaking,”
“Miss Beauchamp? It’s Noris Newman here. My father Terence was supposed to meet with you today?” His accent was thick American. Carrie knew they hailed from Texas, but even without that knowledge, she would have picked it in a second.
“Yes,” she responded, her tone clipped. She mentally braced herself for the bad news that was imminent.
“He’s not well, I’m afraid. Just a stomach flu, but he’s asked me to handle matters in his stead. I’m tied up today. Can you catch up tonight?”
“That’s no good,” she remarked, hoping her voice had the right amount of sympathy in it. “But I’m absolutely fine to reschedule. You tell me when and where.”
“Do you know the bar at the bottom of the Pyrmont?”
She closed her eyes, as butterflies assailed her stomach. Know it? Of course she knew it. It was where Gael was staying. Where they’d made love on Friday night. Her heart squeezed.