‘There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved.’
Charles Morgan
She woke to find his arm still round her. So this was real, not some wonderful fantasy dream. A slow, lazy morning smile spread across Claire’s face. She lay there feeling the warm skin of the gorgeous man beside her, noting the dark-blond hairs on his forearm. Turned slowly to look at his face, all mussed-up blond hair, his eyes still closed, little crags of laughter lines and dark-brown lashes.
His eyes opened.
‘Morning,’ she squeaked, caught out staring at him.
He smiled slowly, as if he was remembering last night too. ‘Hey.’ His voice was honey-warm.
She couldn’t think what to say, wanting to stay close and not break the spell. Could it possibly last? It had just been so magical – a whole night of magic moments. There would be plenty to add to her newspaper column, though it might have to be X-rated, she smirked. And maybe, just maybe – she hardly dared let herself hope there might be lots more magic moments for them.
She moved a hand to his face, touched his cheek, which felt prickly with morning stubble. Brushed the waves of hair off his forehead. She wanted to kiss him, but wondered if her breath would be all fusty and garlicky after last night’s langoustines. She could just nip to the bathroom and freshen up. She smiled at him, and began to wriggle sideways, realizing she was totally starkers. Could she brazenly just step out of bed? She knew he’d seen it all last night, but this was the cold light of day … She sat awkwardly with the duvet up around her breasts.
‘Do you want me to shut my eyes?’ he grinned, as if he knew she was being daft but was going along with it.
She nodded self-consciously.
‘Shame. You could pop my shirt on. It’s there on the chair next to you.’
‘Thanks.’ She leapt out of bed, betting anything he’d open his eyes anyhow and get an eyeful of her rear end. She whipped the shirt on and poked her head out. As she’d guessed, he was lying back watching her with a cheeky smile on his face, arms angled under his head on the pillows. She strolled out of the bedroom, trying to play it cool, found the bathroom opposite and brushed some paste around her teeth with her index finger. Had a quick pee too. That felt better. She had a cat-who’s-got-the-cream look on her face as she caught her eye in the mirror – and why not.
The day was theirs, she mused. She could just slip back between the sheets, and if he wanted to spend the whole day shagging her senseless, then so be it. Who was she to argue? She didn’t want to argue. Where were these brazen thoughts coming from? She’d definitely been out of action for far too long.
She slipped back under the duvet, still wearing his shirt, and snuggled up. His arm slid round her once more and she moved up tentatively for a morning kiss. It seemed a shy kiss compared with last night’s passion, but it was warm and tender. And she lay her head on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, taking in the warm-toast smell of his skin along with the lingering scent of last night’s aftershave.
‘Have you got much on today?’ A leading question and she knew it.
‘I do have some work I need to do, sorry.’
Ah, so maybe that was it, the get-out clauses creeping in already. For all her talk of one-night stands being fine, she felt gutted.
‘Maybe later?’ he continued. ‘I just need a few hours to finish some designs I’ve been working on for a client. Then I’ll have some free time. We could go out and sample the delights of the village pub or something?’
A date. He was asking her on a date. It wasn’t a one- night stand after all. Her heart soared.
‘Yeah, I’d like that. That would be great.’
‘I’ll fix us some breakfast first. Croissants and coffee okay?’
‘Ah, yeah, please.’
And he was up out of the bed, standing tall with his back to her, all naked buttocks, long legs and muscly thighs – gorgeous. A close-up of that first sexy vision of him on the beach. But damn, why wasn’t he staying in bed for more hot sex? Had her shirt-and-shyness act put him off? Bugger. Oh well, she’d be seeing him again later on. She watched as he put on a dark-grey dressing gown that had been hung on the back of the bedroom door and slipped out of the room.
After a breakfast together of orange juice, strong coffee and hot, crumbly croissants served with butter and jam, sitting in his lounge overlooking his beachside garden, she decided she ought to go back to her own cottage. He seemed a little distracted this morning, was probably keen to get on with his work, she supposed. She could go and have a nice leisurely shower and wash her hair – she’d better be looking good for tonight. Hopefully they could recapture some of that closeness of last night.
In her shower – the old-fashioned type hung from a pole over the shitty-green coloured bath in her chilly cottage bathroom – she started rubbing shampoo through her hair. She was suddenly blasted with a rush of ice-cold water. Damn and bugger! Ah, ah, ah, get out quick! Typical that the only time the shower produced decent pressure was when it was freezing cold.
She dashed from the peril of the icy blast and huddled in a towel she’d grabbed, the suds streaming down her face from the unrinsed shampoo. She rubbed it from her eyes, managing to rub more suds in than out, and then could hardly see as they began to sting. She shoved on a dressing gown and wrapped her hair, turban-like, in a towel. There was only one thing for it. Surely he wouldn’t mind saving her from hypothermia and hair like a nest.
She rapped at his door and rang the bell for good measure. Getting colder by the second, she realized coming out with bare feet was not a good idea. The gravel had spiked her soft soles. And although it was August, there was a chilly sea breeze – it was draughty right up and under her dressing gown, in places she’d much rather keep warm.
He seemed to take an age getting to the door, then looked through the glass panel quizzically at her. ‘What on earth –?’
‘Bloody hot water’s done a bunk.’ She launched herself into the warmth of his hallway. ‘Mid-shower, no-bloody-less. Can I use yours? Pleeease?’ She felt herself shiver and her teeth beginning to rattle.
‘Of course. Go on up before you catch your death. So the house from hell’s at it again.’
She’d rather have liked his arms around her at this point to warm her through, but it didn’t happen.
‘Yes, I’m sure the old bugger’s set it up as a death trap to torture unsuspecting guests so they never want to come back again, and he doesn’t have to bother any more. I have persevered, but …’
‘I bet you’re his only ever repeat booking.’ Ed grinned. He spotted her shivering. ‘Oh, go. Go on up and thaw out in the shower. Top of stairs to the left.’
‘I know.’ Having been to the bathroom only this morning. She gave him what she hoped was a sultry look through soap-squinted eyes.
‘Of course …’
She began to thaw under a stream of hot, power-jetted water and helped herself to a squeezy blob of his bodywash and shampoo, which smelt all fresh and manly. She half hoped he might pop his head round the door for a sneaky, sexy peek at her, or indeed whip off his clothes and leap in to join her. She’d enjoy soaping up that lovely chest … and more. But he didn’t materialize. Oh well, it felt kind of naughty and nice just thinking about it. And a proper power shower was a delight – hot, bubbly bliss.
Ed obviously had a lot of work on and stayed downstairs. Hopefully trying to finish whatever project he had, to free up some time tonight. She began to soap herself slowly, sensually, remembering the feel of his touch. She couldn’t wait for round two. Just a few hours away.
Finally, stepping out, she couldn’t resist using one of his huge fluffy towels, hot off the chrome radiator rail, folding her old damp cottage one on the floor. Aaah, she felt so much better. She towel-dried her hair and found a comb on the side to neaten it up a little, having left her own brush at the cottage in her rush. She wandered out to the landing. All was quiet. Glimpsed his bedroom, where they’d lain and loved only last night. Could this be the start of something beautiful? It surely felt like it. She was drawn to the open doorway and looked at the bed, which was still a little crumpled. She could smell his aftershave and was almost tempted to pull a pillow up to her face and sniff. God, she’d got it bad. She smiled.
Then her gaze locked onto a photo frame that was set on the far bedside table. It hadn’t been there last night. She’d slept on that side – she would have remembered it, for sure, especially when she’d got up this morning. She moved in closer, froze. It was an image of a woman, a very attractive dark-haired woman with a toddler, and behind them, with arms wrapped around them both, was Ed. The child’s eyes were the exact same green as his.
Oh my God, what was she seeing? They looked so happy, so close. It had to be his son. And the way his arms were held tight around the woman – she looked so much more than a sister, a friend. A wife, partner, lover?
So was everything last night a lie, a betrayal? What kind of a man was he? Oh no, she should have trusted her first instincts – the grumpiness, the offhandedness. The coolness again this morning. Had he got a family at home all the while? Had he just lured her with food and wine into his bed because he fancied a bit of playing away? She’d fallen for it hook, line and sinker. He must have been using her all along. She felt sick.
She’d always steered clear of married men, of anyone taken. This was not her thing at all.
She wrapped the towel tightly around her, left the bedroom and its memories, now tainted with betrayal, grabbed her dressing gown and the damp towel up off the bathroom floor and ran.
What an idiot she’d been. And she’d given herself so freely – believed him when he said she was beautiful. He’d probably put up with a scar for a quick shag. How could she ever be beautiful with a body like that? She’d so wanted to believe it. Believe him. Another liar, another man. She’d just been an easy lay.
She got to the front door and dashed out, not bothering to close it. Shit, the gravel was nipping under her bare feet. Bugger it. No more. No more men, no more so-called bloody romance. No more being duped and made a fool of.
She ran into her own cottage, slamming the door behind her. Heard his shout across the yard – ‘Claire … Wait … what the …?’ She turned the key in the lock and ran up to her room, grabbing her case and shoving clothes and shoes in haphazardly. She pulled on some knickers, jeans and a T-shirt, and slipped into plimsolls. There was no point staying now, stuck next door to that prick of a man. She never wanted to set eyes on him again.
Let him work it out. That she wasn’t playing his game any more. She wouldn’t be someone’s bit on the side.
She stormed into the kitchen, grabbed the food she’d brought and shoved it all into plastic bags. Time to get out of here. Time to go home.
She scoured the driveway – no sign of him for now. Bolting out of the door, she piled her bags into the boot, locked the cottage door and put the key back under the flowerpot outside. Security wasn’t tight, but who the hell would want to break into that hovel anyhow.
‘Claire.’ His voice was taut. Shit, he was out of his house, striding across. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
As if he didn’t know. She tried to make it to the car.
‘You tell me, Ed. You tell me.’ The bitterness spilled over into her voice.
‘What the –?’
How dare he play the innocent.
‘Oh, come on, I’ve had enough of being lied to, Ed. The woman, the photo by your bed.’
His face dropped. He paled. At least he didn’t try to deny it. He just didn’t say anything.
So he’d been caught. No defence. No, ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’
She opened her car door, got in, slammed it closed. Pulled the gearstick into reverse and turned the car with a satisfying spin of the gravel. A few more inches back and she might have hit him. The bastard would have deserved it. She pulled out into the main road, throwing a glance at the rear-view mirror. He was just standing there staring after her.