The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson
Dipping a hand into the bubbling water, Fleur laid the palm first on her forehead, then her breasts. The coolness was so sensual that it made her want to slip off her shoes, gather up her skirts and get wet, like Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita. As she went to lean over the pool again, she became aware of a man lounging against a pillar, watching her. He was unmasked. A predatory half-smile curved his mouth, and he was eyeing her cleavage as if he wanted to dive straight in.
The insolence! Fleur dismissed him with a toss of her head and a curl of her lip; but her hauteur was wasted. He responded with a low laugh, peeled himself away from the pillar and sauntered towards her. The next thing she knew, her arms were pinioned and she was being kissed more forcefully than she’d ever been kissed in her life.
Her initial impulse was to pull away, but the greater her resistance, the more insistent the kiss, until Fleur’s champagne-muzzy mind thought Pourquoi pas? Who cares? His kiss was so expert, so masterful, so goddamned sexy, that it would have been too selfless an act not to kiss him back. As he pulled her harder against him she was aware of his erection, aware of the subtle scent of spice, the subtler one of sweat, aware of his breath on her cheek as he released her mouth and trailed a kiss along the line of her jaw.
‘I think you’d better stop now,’ she managed finally, sounding as if she’d been inhaling helium.
‘Really? I think the lady doth protest too much.’ His voice in her ear contrived to sound both sceptical and amused. A finger skimmed the curve of her throat, pausing briefly to trace the scoop made by her collarbone, and then the stranger allowed his hand to travel further, sliding it beneath her bodice and cupping her breast. ‘Something tells me you don’t want me to stop. Something tells me you’re more trollop than sovereign, Rachel. Perhaps you should have thought about attending the ball as the whore Boleyn, rather than the virgin Queen.’
Rachel? Rachel! Oh, horror, horror! This was clearly an egregious case of mistaken identity. What to do? What to say? Fleur knew she should disabuse him at once, but the sensations being triggered in her by the touch of this man were so unexpectedly, so wickedly erotic that she didn’t want to come clean, didn’t want to explain that she wasn’t who he thought she was, didn’t want him to back off with an awkward apology. She heard her breath coming faster, felt her nipple rise under his fingers, and – as he thrust a knee between her legs – recognized the surge of lust that made her want to grind herself against him…Oh! She was shameless! She wanted to be a whore, a hussy, a harlot!
‘Slow down, sweetheart,’ he murmured, disengaging his hand, dislodging his knee, and leaving her weak as water. ‘Let me go check if there’s a room available.’
And the tall, dark stranger – who, before the night was out would be a stranger no longer – had bestowed a smile upon her before dropping a brusque kiss on her mouth and strolling back into the ballroom…
The strains of Edith Piaf’s La Vie en Rose interrupted Fleur’s sentimental journey. Corban’s name was displayed on the screen of her iPhone.
‘Hello! I was just thinking about you,’ she told him with a smile.
‘I’m glad to hear it. What were you thinking, exactly?’
‘I was thinking about the first time we met.’
‘Soppy girl.’
‘It would make a great short story.’
‘Or a Mills & Boon.’
‘Now there’s a thought! I read somewhere that sales of romantic fiction have gone through the roof recently. Everyone’s trying to escape into fantasy land.’
‘Might be too raunchy for Mills & Boon. You’d have to shut the door on the bedroom activity.’
‘Au contraire. They publish really sexy stuff these days.’ Fleur stretched languorously. ‘Let’s see – how would our story go? “‘I’m not who you think I am,’ confessed our heroine, as the masterful stranger took her hand. ‘I don’t care who you are, any more than you care who I am,’ he growled, leading her into the bedroom of the magnificent, luxury penthouse.”’
‘It wasn’t a penthouse,’ Corban corrected her.
‘In my Mills & Boon version it is. “She set her champagne flute down on the marble-topped bedside table and turned to him. His gaze was fierce. ‘I must have you,’ he told her. Her bosom heaving, she sank upon the fourposter, looking up at him through the slits of her golden mask. ‘Now?’ she breathed. ‘Now!’ he insisted. Without further ado, he reached for his manhood. She gasped when she saw—”’
‘OK. Enough’s enough. Time to shut the door. Incidentally, did I really growl, and did you really gasp?’ asked Corban.
‘Of course. Gasping was mandatory. It was the raunchiest thing I’ve ever done. Until last night, that is. It’s a pity I’ll have to give Río back her gypsy costume.’
‘I’m sure we can think of some other suitably titillating attire. I rather fancy you as a schoolgirl.’
‘No! Schoolgirl’s too pervy, Corban. And I’m far too old. French maid is more my line, don’t you think? Il y a quelque chose d’autre que je peux faire pour Monsieur?’
‘Translate.’
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’
‘Well, yes, actually, there is. I scribbled a number on yesterday’s Financial Times, and forgot to enter it into my phone. Could you text it to me?’
‘Sure.’ Fleur swung her legs out of bed, and reached for her peignoir. ‘Whose phone number is it?’ she asked, as she padded downstairs.
‘Shane Byrne’s. I want to arrange lunch with him.’
‘Lucky you. Where are you taking him?’
‘There’s a new place that’s opened not far from where they’re shooting today. I thought I’d try that.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Chez Jules.’
‘Oh! How brave of Jules to open when all around him restaurants are closing. I hope it works out for him.’
The Financial Times was on the breakfast bar, open at some arcane article on investments. A number was scrawled in the margin, with the initials S. B. beside it. How many people in the world had access to Shane Byrne’s private phone number? Fleur wondered. Maybe she should auction it at the charity gig this afternoon, to raise more money for the hospice. Reaching for her mobile with her free hand, she started texting Corban. ‘Shall we eat out tonight?’ she asked, as she keyed the numbers in.
‘No. I’ll pick something up on the way back. Fillet or sirloin?’
Fleur’s heart sank a little. Corban adored red meat, while she favoured chicken or fish. However, since she didn’t have many opportunities to cook for her man, she might as well serve up what he was partial to. ‘Why not bring me some good quality braising steak, and I’ll do Carbonade de Boeuf?’
‘Excellent. I’ll get us a Bordeaux to go with it.’ There came a blip over the line. ‘Ah – incoming call. I gotta go, lover. Did you find that number?’
‘Yes.’ Fleur pressed ‘Send’. ‘It’s on its way to you now. A plus tard, chéri.’
Setting the phone down, Fleur tied the sash on her robe, broke off a hunk of baguette, spread it with butter and thick comb honey and moseyed out onto her deck. The first time she’d appeared on the deck in her peignoir, the village had been mildly scandalized; now, no one turned a hair.
It was a shame that she’d be breakfasting alone, she thought. It was a perfect morning for perusing the papers over café au lait and shooting the breeze with her lover. They managed so seldom to spend quality time together, as demands on Corban to spend precious weekends