“Delicious, thank you, but your subject change sucks. Not even subtle.”
“I don’t talk about it.”
“About it, or about you?”
“I listen a lot better than I talk.”
I smiled. “That’s a terrible cop out.”
“Why so?”
“It’s lazy,” I laughed. “Hiding behind a smokescreen of interest to detract attention away from yourself.”
“It’s not a smokescreen.”
“What’s so bad about talking about you, Mr Clarke? Are you some big, bad serial killer or something? A secret special forces operator? A stamp collector?”
“I value privacy above almost all other things. I think you understand that more than you’re letting on.”
“Yeah, I get it. I’m normally the one doing the listening.”
“Then I guess we have a stalemate. Two listeners out to dinner, far away from any talkers.” His eyes smiled at me, big dark pools of cinnamon. “Were you in love with him?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You first.”
“Not a chance.” I held his stare, unwilling to buckle. The pressure to give into him nipped at my heels, compelling me with an unknown force, strange and unfounded. Finally he smiled, and the tension broke. He shifted in his seat and I felt the bloom of victory in my ribcage, as though I’d won some battle I didn’t realise I was fighting.
“Rachel is the kind of woman who thrives on the adoration of others. I gave her plenty of my attention, and for a long time we worked like a dream. Then work got crazy and she lost the spotlight of my adoration every waking minute. I didn’t realise she was finding solace in other men until it was too late.”
“She had an affair?”
“Several,” he announced calmly. “So, were you in love with him?”
I took a breath, itching to pursue the adultery revelation. His expression told me I didn’t have a hope in hell. “I thought so.”
“Thought so?”
“I loved him. I don’t know if that’s the same thing on reflection.”
“Did he make you wet?”
I nearly spat my wine, staring across at the man opposite, at his crisp, corporate packaging, his steady hands, his considered smile. His goddamn perfect poker face and jaw of steel. “Sorry?”
“You heard me.”
I felt my cheeks burning. “I, um... we had a healthy relationship.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Stuart is attractive.”
“That’s not what I asked, either.”
“Well, yeah, sometimes. I mean... he could.”
“He could, but he didn’t?”
I sat agog, waiting for him to crack a smile and admit he was joking, but the smile didn’t come. “It was nice, but with work, and long days and general life. You know how it gets.”
“So, he didn’t. You’re a young woman, with your whole life ahead of you. When the betrayal fades you’re going to do just fine.”
“You aren’t so old, yourself.”
“Old enough to know what I want, and more importantly what I don’t want.”
I chanced my arm. “So what do you want?”
“Dessert.”
He called the waiter.
***
Chapter Four
James
The splash of cold water did little to bring me to my senses. What the fuck are you doing, James? What the fuck? It was the eyes, her fucking eyes. Cat’s eyes. Pale turquoise eyes full of fuck me hard. Lydia Marsh was a sharp little cookie, a guarded little conker full of pain. Tough, and tight, and aching to be broken apart. Jesus pissing Christ.
Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.
She’d driven me crazy this trip. The sight of her reverent fucking gaze as I’d delivered my pitch. Staring up at me like I was the God of fucking everything, standing in front of my PowerPoint deck like some kind of goddamn guru. Sweet fucking Christ. I recalled the gentle swell of her tits as she breathed, the slightest imprint of a lace bra under her blouse. Her sweeter than sweet little handshake, her quiet confidence, her eagerness to please. Yet, Lydia Marsh was clearly a fighter. Someone who bottles it all up inside, buries it deep. I’d avoided everything to do with her in the weeks since Kitchengate. Sworn abstinence and no fucking way. Yet here I was, my cock alive and kicking in spite of my better senses. Would she beg? Would she kneel on her soft little knees and plead for release? Would she sob under the cane like a broken little doll? Not easily...
A far off memory danced across my retinas. The gangly unease of inexperienced youth. The crunch of autumn leaves under my feet as I chase after Katreya. Katreya Moore, just a year older than me, but so much taller. Her