Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte
wanted to stop, but Laura was clenching her muscles more tightly around him, bucking wildly in response to his own increased arousal, and he knew he was too far gone to turn back.
When he came it was Tish’s hair he was grabbing, pulling it painfully, wanting to hurt her as much as he wanted to satisfy her, wanting to punish her. But for what exactly? For taking Abel back to Romania, or for his own unhappy childhood? He didn’t know any more.
‘Ow! That hurts,’ Laura complained. ‘My hair. Let go of my hair!’
‘Sorry.’
Viorel released her, like a man coming out of a trance. He slumped back on the blanket feeling frustrated and dirty, aware that behind the confusingly erotic images of Tish, a different woman’s face hovered ghostlike in the background. He hated the idea that Martha Hudson could still get to him. That even now, after all his success, it was his adoptive mother who had moulded his relationships with women, sowing the seeds of self-destruction and distrust into his sexuality like a cancerous gene. He hadn’t contacted his mother since he came to England, nor had Martha made the remotest effort to contact him. But clearly his falling out with Tish, and the connection he felt with Abel, had raked over feelings in his subconscious that he would rather not have been reminded of. Feelings of loneliness, of abandonment and rage. What was that Philip Larkin poem? They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
Was Tish going to fuck Abi up, the way Martha had him?
‘Let’s eat.’ Laura’s grating voice broke the spell. ‘I’m famished. Where are you taking me?’
The thought of having to sit in a restaurant making small talk with this half-witted girl depressed Vio even further. But he supposed the least he owed her was a meal, and the alternative – heading straight back to Loxley Hall – was even less appealing.
‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Somewhere posh.’ The girl was unequivocal. ‘Harvester?’
It was late by the time Viorel got back to Loxley. In the clear night sky, a full moon bathed the house’s fairytale turrets in a gossamer haze of softest silver, with no sign of Dorian’s predicted storm clouds. With any luck, we’ll be shooting again tomorrow, thought Vio. I should get some kip. The few lights left on in the East Wing gave the house a warm, welcoming glow and, as he crunched across the gravel to the front door, Vio was surprised by how much affection he’d come to feel for the place. Behind him he heard the rushing of the River Derwent as it skipped and danced its way through the valley floor. Above him, trees swayed gently in the night breeze, the rustling of their leaves soothing and rhythmic, like waves lapping on a shore.
Part of me will be sad to leave, he admitted to himself. Sad to leave Loxley. Sad to leave Abel.
A couple of weeks ago, he realized with a pang, he would have added Tish Crewe’s name to the list of people he would miss. Was he being foolish, maintaining this feud? Perhaps he should try to build bridges. But then again, why should he be the one to make the first move?
Once inside, he closed the door gingerly behind him, hoping not to wake the sleeping household. He was halfway up the dark stairs when a figure in a dressing gown emerged from the shadows.
‘You’re late.’ Sabrina’s voice sounded low and throaty.
‘Jesus.’ Vio jumped. ‘You scared me.’
‘So how was the date with your teenage dream? Did you have fun?’
He sighed. ‘Since you ask, no, not really.’
‘But you fucked her anyway, I suppose.’
‘Come on, angel,’ said Vio placatingly. ‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Like what?’ snapped Sabrina. ‘Pissed, you mean? That you can go out and get laid while Rasmirez has me stuck here like frikkin’ Rapunzel, twiddling my thumbs?’
‘Is that all you were twiddling?’ Vio teased. But Sabrina was in no mood to see the funny side.
‘I’m serious. I need to get out of here. I’m climbing the walls.’
‘So go out.’
‘How?’ Sabrina laughed. ‘Dorian’s spies are everywhere. He’d eviscerate me, and the Countess Dracula would have my entrails for breakfast.’
‘Poor baby,’ said Vio, hugging her. ‘If it makes you feel any better, the sex with Laura was terrible.’
‘It doesn’t make me feel better,’ said Sabrina, pulling away and tying her robe more tightly around her waist like a knight fastening his armour. ‘I hope you sleep like shit.’ She stalked off, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
Wearily, Vio continued up the stairs.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, you know.’
That was all he needed. What was Tish doing up? Judging by the look of withering disapproval on her face, he assumed she’d overheard him talking to Sabrina about Laura.
‘Give it a rest, Mother Teresa,’ he said crossly, trying to erase the mental picture he’d had a few hours ago of Tish naked and desirous beneath him. ‘We’re not all gunning for a sainthood.’
Tish said nothing. She didn’t have to.
The contemptuous look in her eyes said it all.
The following morning the whole house was woken by the rain. The storm that had seemed so invisible last night had arrived with a speed and force that shook the ancient glass in the windowpanes and battered the trees in the park till they were bent double. Water pounded against glass and stone relentlessly, a wild cacophony of drumbeats accompanying the tortured howling of the wind. It was the kind of dawn in which you almost expected to see Cathy Earnshaw’s ghost at the window, her wrists bloodied on the jagged, broken glass, tormenting her beloved Heathcliff.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.