how he’s earned himself a reputation as a Casanova. Now she’s seeing it, she thinks. He can go from withering condescension to full-blown charm in the blink of an eye.
“I’m so pleased for you both. That’s terrific news, Clive, really.”
He grins. “Thanks. Not the best timing, obviously . . .”
“There’s never a right time for a baby,” she says, parroting the words her mother said to her when she confessed she was thinking of trying for a baby with Tom but didn’t think it was the right time. She was still getting commissions overseas in places like Durban and Pakistan.
“You’re right,” he says, still clearly elated. He runs his hands through his hair. She feels a twinge of something as she notes his flushed face and gleaming eyes, a man overjoyed to be having a baby. Tom’s reaction to the news of Gaia wasn’t exactly what she’d expected, or wanted. He’d fallen deathly silent. Couldn’t form a sentence. You’d have thought she’d announced she had a terminal illness, or was leaving him. Later, he told her he was thrilled. He’d just needed a moment to compute the surprise.
“Well, it’s certainly made me appreciate how much of a sacrifice it is for a woman to give over her body like that. And her career.” He flicks his eyes up and down her body. “How did you manage it?” he says, refilling her glass. “When you had Gaia, I mean?”
Aurelia lifts her glass, considering this question. Did she manage it? She’s not quite sure. It’s always felt like utter chaos.
“You must have superpowers,” Clive fills in, and she grins, but the smile soon wanes. She doesn’t feel like she has superpowers. She feels like she’s failing everyone around her every single day.
Clive notices the change in her expression. “Are you all right?”
She nods, clears her throat. “Fine, fine.”
“Actually, I think I may have just spoken out of turn.”
She looks up. He’s smiling at her.
“It’s not superpowers at all, is it? I mean, to manage two kids and a career, a husband, a house being built in the middle of nowhere. You must work crazy hard on so many levels, inside and out. And I bet nobody really sees what it takes out of you. How you suffer as a result.”
She stares at him. His voice has grown so low it’s as though it’s inside her own head. He looks at her as though he can see everything about her—every thought, every wish, every desire. He clears his throat, looks away, suddenly embarrassed.
“Anyway . . .” She’s not sure whether she says it or he does. How many glasses has she had? It’s after four. They must have been talking for quite a while, and oh, Lord, she has one bare leg bent on the seat beside her, revealing a long white thigh to Clive and probably an eyeful of her crotch. Not that the view is particularly sexy—she’s wearing cotton granny panties that sag down around her hips like boxer shorts. She lowers her leg and blinks hard, hoping he didn’t see her crotch.
“Congratulations,” she says again. “That’s amazing, Clive. Amazing . . . I should . . .”
She presses both hands firmly on the table to raise herself to a standing position, but somewhere in between coordinating her legs and hands she knocks the glass to the floor with a loud clang. Clive moves to grab it, and suddenly she finds herself standing above him and staring in his eyes. His eyes are not smiling. But his hand . . . his hand is on her bare thigh, much too close to her crotch. It takes a long moment for her brain to connect with her mouth.
“What . . . are you doing?”
His fingers creep higher, slipping under the side of her knickers at her hip. “Why don’t you sit down?” he whispers. Then, strangely, and with a smooth confidence that she’ll recall with a shiver for days afterward, “You want this, Aurelia. You want this.”
In the haze of it all she finds she can’t seem to speak and move at the same time, because for whatever reason Clive has reached up and caught the fabric of her panties between his fingers, so any movement is likely to end up with them askew, or pulled down, which would be embarrassing.
Without taking his hands from her underwear he rises and steps close to her. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he says. She finds she can’t. It’s not the gin. It’s being