Love Lies - By Adele Parks Page 0,86

thing.

‘My “Good Versus Evil” Opus football table. It’s made by the Eleven Forty Company.’ Scott raises his voice at the end of the sentence showing that he’s assuming I’ll recognize the designer. I don’t. I notice that men are always this enthusiastic about their toys. Adam would love this footie table. I shake my head a fraction. Why the hell is Adam, the loser, popping in there? It must be the effects of the flight; jet lag is making me lose focus. I push the thought of Adam out of my mind.

‘Who usually wins?’

‘Evil has had quite a run of luck but I’m thinking that might all change now I’ve met you.’ Scott flashes me one of his oh-so-familiar, utterly delicious smiles and I swear my heart is beating between my legs.

A stunning grey leather corner settee divides the room. I wonder if Scott will throw me on it and ravage me until sunrise. I wouldn’t mind, despite the jet lag. Because, here’s the thing, as hard as this is to believe, when we left the fabulous country hotel, the sheets were barely disturbed. It was good news that I’d slept so deeply but, as I closed the door behind me, I couldn’t help but sigh as I tried to exhale the dull disappointment that I had not left the sheets tangled and used. No sex. No damn sex. I’m engaged to Scott Taylor for goodness sake! It’s accepted that he is the rudest, sexiest man on the planet. He’s a man who can undress a woman in a finger click, a man who can leave a woman feeling wet and dizzy by treating her to a particularly penetrating gaze, a man who embodies all that is crazy and dangerous about lust and life. I should be having smokin’ sex at least three times a day. It’s not right that we haven’t got naked yet.

We have been so, so busy in the last few days we haven’t managed anything more than a lengthy snog and a heady fumble. We are always together (chatting, laughing, playing cards) but we are never alone (which would certainly lead to much more carnal entertainment). To be frank, I’m more than a bit frustrated with the situation. I am so pleased to be here in our home; now we’ll have more privacy. Bob, the security guy, is a great bloke but his constant burly presence is a bit of a passion killer, and Saadi and her BlackBerry ought to be marketed as the western world’s most effective contraceptive; talk about barrier method. But, hey, here we are… alone… in love… I linger by the beautiful settee and finger the wonderful cool leather. I hope Scott can read my mind.

He can’t. It appears Scott isn’t thinking what I’m thinking. He doesn’t fling me on the cool leather and start to flick his tongue across my body. Instead he walks around the exquisite piece of furniture and excitedly points out the arcade game coffee table, the cashmere-lined hammock and the retro Champion Level 2 turntable. Now Adam would sell his mother to buy that. There’s a sixty-inch flat screen TV dominating the room. Scott follows my gaze.

‘Maybe we should watch a movie tonight. Let’s make popcorn.’

Tonight? No way. Won’t we be swinging from the chandeliers tonight? Surely. Watching movies is the sort of thing you do on the fifth or sixth date, after you’ve had loads of sex and talked yourself hoarse. Is there a way of saying this without sounding like a total hussy? I remain hushed while I think about it.

I notice that his shelves are full of amazing books about the history of art and photography. The range is incredibly broad. There are books about Neolithic, Egyptian and Grecian art. There are more on the Gothic period, Renaissance, Impressionism and Art Nouveau. (I’m reading this from the spines.) Cubism, Fauvism, Rayonism, Pop art and Kinetic art. I am so impressed.

‘I didn’t know you were so interested in art,’ I say, trying not to sound too sickeningly struck. Everything he does overwhelms me. I’m worried I might pop with the intensity of the imprint.

‘I haven’t read any of them,’ he says. His tone is a bit bored, a bit resentful and a bit apologetic.

‘Oh.’ I consider; am I as impressed knowing he has plans to read these books but hasn’t actually read them yet?

‘I don’t really know much about art except that I know what I like,’ he says with a shrug.

‘Fair enough, I’m just

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