now.
Freaky Friday. We dress down.
The answer flashes up instantly.
The hell you do. Get your lick-able little ass round here straight after.
My stomach shrivels. Every wicked thought I’d suppressed earlier flares up again, fired by guilt.
Pigtails? Pedal-pushers? To a man like him they’re straw thrown at fire. Deep inside it burns in me, too. The pleasures we’ve missed all week now clamour for attention. Nameless, wicked desires prickle my belly with little points of flame.
It also occurs to me the word ‘lick’ has two meanings and I may be in for both.
With an effort I dismiss the class and hurry over to Eldon to thank him. I reassure him I’ll get his camera back in time for his next visit. It takes a while because the students are still crowding round him, wide-eyed now I’ve mentioned a real-live series. Now they think he’s from CSI they want his autograph and news of their favourite stars.
Eldon plays along happily, pleased with all the fuss. He even answers some of their questions with his superior insider’s knowledge. I look on fondly, glad he’s seen the funny side.
Meanwhile my thoughts are busy elsewhere, intent on revenge. Darnley may have issues with my outfit but I have issues too – blonde-related.
Tonight I have a date with Mr Darnley high-and-mighty Wolfe. I daresay diamond bracelets will be heavily involved, as will any number of dark, thrilling and so far unspecified, possibly unspeakable, activities.
But for now unscripted blondes shoot to the top of my agenda.
The sex can damn well wait.
I walk out of the Academy into the golden afternoon and pull up short. The car Darnley sends for me on Friday evenings is already here. He meant what he said. No chance to go home to the tiny apartment I share with my friend Billy to shower or change, or even squeeze into mini box-pleats and turn the whole thing into a joke.
Darnley’s residence is way out of town, over in leafy Lexington. I’ve shared with Billy on and off since we were students. Billy likes to work close to the centre to reach her office, me ditto the Academy, so I visit Darnley at weekends while Eldon, Darnley’s brother and Billy’s surprising new squeeze, conveniently takes my place in her apartment.
It’s early days but so far it’s working well. Happy families all round.
As the vast car pulls up in the spacious driveway I get out and breathe in quiet, scent-laden air from the lush gardens, a world away from the busy backstreets of Boston or the neighbourhood where I work. It’s peaceful here, with birdsong and the swish of leaves. It’s a calming prelude to what may turn into a weekend of hot sex, blistering arguments or even a new shift in our stormy relationship. Darnley can be difficult when he wants – part of his appeal.
In the light, art-filled spaces of his mansion I’m partway across the gleaming tropical hardwood parquet when something strikes me as out of place. One of the stunning artworks, a massive Lichtenstein and by chance one of my favourites, is tilted at a crazy angle in the hallway. Halfway up the stairs I see a scrap of filmy scarlet lace draped over the banister.
I frown. What’s going on?
At the top of the stairs, reality shifts. Am I in the wrong house? Walking casually across the spacious entrance hall below me is a female, semi-naked and wet, towelling her hair with the corner of a bath-towel loosely draped round the rest of her. Her bare feet trail wet prints across a precious antique rug specially shipped from China.
Through the open doorway on this floor I can hear a piercingly sweet aria by Mozart so I know he’s here somewhere. But the sight of the woman down there chills my blood.
It’s that blonde.
I stand very still as Darnley appears at the door to his sitting room. He looks casual, lithe, gorgeous, like he’s been freshly poured into the soft fabric of his costly tailoring. He could have stepped straight out of a commercial for fabulous, wealthy men. For men like him women wait in line, blondes especially.
At the sight of me he stops short. The blonde is looking up at me, her face furrowed with an unappealing frown. She looks less than pleased I’m here.
The feeling is mutual.
‘You again?’ With a flare of her nostrils she turns on one wet heel and disappears into some room on the left.
I descend the stairs. One look at Darnley’s beautiful, classical face and I firmly resolve not to allow my eyes to stray downwards over his muscular chest, his powerful thighs and further down.
I fail spectacularly.
He does just the opposite, feasting on me with his gaze, his look melting my will.
‘What’s happening?’ I glare at him, suppressing the urge to beat his chest with my fists. ‘You’re planning a threesome?’
‘With you in that?’ His eyes flicker. ‘No way.’
‘So who is she?’ I keep my voice low in case my outrage derails things before I can prise an explanation out of him.
His lip curls. ‘What, you want me to introduce you? I thought you two knew each other.’ His sardonic tone is a shock. So is the slight flare to his nostrils, proof it’s real.
Does he have any idea how close he is to sudden death? I take a step closer and raise my chin, keeping my voice low. ‘And why, precisely, should I know that?’
He frowns, like something’s not quite adding up. ‘She was in your class.’ His tone hints both that it’s my fault and that this explains everything. ‘Consuela’s over here for a while. She’s under my personal protection.’ He breathes out slowly, summoning patience.
‘I thought I was under your personal protection.’ All at once my voice sounds husky. It’s a minor miracle I have a voice at all.
I’m at a serious disadvantage here. She’s not only lissom and beautiful, she’s freshly showered and elegant in sexy satin. I’ve been working hard all day; I’m hot and tired and the hasty dab-wash I managed in the staff toilets did nothing to cool me down. I’ve no satin or scent to help me out, just kooky pigtails and too-tight, day-weary pedal-pushers.
I’m defenceless – alone and unarmed.
And as I stare at him, still not making any sense of all this, an awful possibility washes over me. Is this it? Is this how it’s done? Is this how he dumps me? Is this what happens when his mysterious love life ricochets from one dazzling beauty to another: skipping over the shy, awkward teacher-cum-poet he somehow got stuck with somewhere in between?
Famously crap at relationships: Ryan’s description. My ex should know. He was famously crap at them himself.
Darnley’s expression is unreadable. I want to scream and shout, tell him to get that woman the hell out of here. But something in his manner stops me.
He’s unnaturally still, his look unnaturally intense. ‘You are,’ he says at last.
I
