Читать книгу Cathy Kelly 6-Book Collection: Someone Like You, What She Wants, Just Between Us, Best of Friends, Always and Forever, Past Secrets - Cathy Kelly - Страница 20

Waiting for Felix Andretti to phone was worse than waiting for Godot, Hannah decided. When he didn’t ring the day after she’d met him, she took a deep breath and told herself that such a delay was perfectly normal. He was acting cool, not being too eager. It was perfectly understandable. That didn’t stop her jumping every time her phone rang, desperately hoping it was him. She didn’t leave her desk at lunchtime that Thursday, either, asking Gillian to buy her a sandwich instead.

‘I’ve a lot to do,’ she said vaguely, rifling through files and trying to look too horrifically busy to walk the five minutes down the road to the sandwich shop.

She ended up reading the newspaper and doing the crossword while she ate her tuna sandwich and drank two cups of coffee, longing for the phone to ring.

On Friday, she dressed up in killer high heels, a long lean dark skirt with a split up the side and a kitten-soft cashmere cardigan in a flattering bronze colour. She left her hair loose and wore her contact lenses instead of her glasses, in case they might be off-putting. Wearing her matching coral-pink net bra and G-string, she felt highly desirable and utterly turned on. Felix, she decided smugly, was the sort of man to turn up out of the blue and ask you out to dinner. It would kill her to do it, but she’d have to refuse. As she worked, she toyed with the various ways she’d neatly rebuke him for his audacity in expecting her to drop everything.

‘Do I look like the sort of girl who can make a date at a minute’s notice?’ she’d say archly, making him weep with desire and suffering. ‘Sorry, I may be able to fit you in next month…’ She’d hardly be able to wait that long herself, but she didn’t want Felix to think she was desperate.

‘Hannah,’ interrupted Gillian rudely, ‘it’s the man about the dodgy plumbing in the gents’. Don’t forget to tell him about the problems in the kitchen.’ Ripped from her reverie, Hannah applied herself to the task in hand.

‘Going anywhere special, love?’ enquired the plumber cheekily as he stared at the length of Hannah’s shapely leg in her sexy skirt while she showed him into the kitchen.

She shot him a murderous look.

‘I was only asking,’ he muttered and got to work.

Half five came and went with no personal phone calls. Hannah could have wept.

She stood at her desk, morosely tidying up and thinking that she’d certainly hear nothing from Felix now until next week; if he rang at all, that was. The only way he could contact her was at work.

David James emerged from his office, yawning and carrying his briefcase in one hand.

‘Going anywhere special, Hannah?’ he asked, eyes roaming admiringly from her clinging cardigan all the way down to her perilous shoes.

‘I wouldn’t ask that if I were you, mate,’ muttered the plumber, passing on his way out to his van. ‘She’ll have you up on sexual harassment charges, that one.’

He fled past Hannah before she could glare at him.

David grinned. ‘Did he try it on?’

‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘He got me at a bad moment.’

‘Fancy going for a quick drink to turn it into a good moment?’ David said idly, long fingers drumming the desk.

She shook her head. She was too miserable to be cheered up.

‘Just one, and you can moan to me,’ David pushed.

She began to relent. One drink wouldn’t kill her and while she was talking to David James, at least she wouldn’t be moping about bloody Felix.

‘Call for you on line one,’ yelled Donna. ‘Personal.’

A quiver of excitement rippled through Hannah. ‘No,’ she said to David. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

David shrugged. ‘See you on Monday,’ he said.

Hannah snatched up her phone and punched line one.

‘Hannah, it’s your mother. I know it’s last minute, but can Stuart and Pam stay with you for the weekend?’

‘What?’ said Hannah crossly, furious that it wasn’t Felix phoning her and just as furious at the thought of having her brother and his wife to stay with her for the weekend. The flat was much too small for guests and, what’s more, she and Pam didn’t get on. Mind you, neither did she and Stuart. ‘Last minute isn’t the word. Why couldn’t they have asked me before now? And why are you phoning, Mum? Has Stuart lost the use of his dialling finger?’ she added sarcastically. Her brother was their mother’s pet and she did everything for him.

‘Don’t fly off the handle, would you, Hannah,’ her mother said, unperturbed. ‘They’re up for a wedding and the arrangements for the hotel didn’t work out. It’s the least you can do. They’ll be up by ten tonight, and Pam says not to bother cooking.’

Hannah snorted. She’d had no intention of doing any such thing.

She drove home in a rage. The flat was immaculate as always, although after a weekend of Stuart, it’d doubtless be a tip. Hannah left fresh sheets and a duvet cover on top of the spare-room bed but didn’t change the bedclothes – her brother could do that. She wasn’t running a damned hotel. In fact, that was probably why Stuart was coming there. Too mean to pay for a hotel, she guessed accurately.

She cooked an omelette for herself and watched television, simmering away at the thought of both her inconsiderate brother and Felix. Why go to all the bother of chatting her up and pretending to be crazy about her if he had no intention of ever seeing her again? What was the point? Hannah didn’t get it. Was the chat-up a type of sport? Did handsome guys keep scoreboards on flirting so they could gauge how irresistible they were? Probably. She had a mental vision of Felix boasting about how he’d made ‘this girl in the estate agent’s drool for me! I tell you, lads, she was eating out of my hand.’

Stuart and Pam arrived at half eleven, waking Hannah who’d fallen asleep in front of the telly after watching Frasier.

‘Thought you’d be out on a Friday night,’ said Stuart, dumping a giant suitcase on to the floor and prowling around the flat speculatively.

‘How could I be out if I was waiting for you pair?’ demanded Hannah, immediately irritated.

‘You could have left a key with the neighbours,’ he said.

‘You could have booked into a hotel,’ Hannah suggested.

Pam, used to the way her husband and his sister got on, made her way to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

‘Do make yourselves at home,’ sniped Hannah, furious at how her sister-in-law had blithely made herself at home without asking permission.

‘We will,’ said Pam, a self-satisfied woman who was oblivious to all subtle and not-so-subtle innuendo.

‘Nice place,’ Stuart said, throwing himself on to the couch and testing how springy it was. ‘Got yourself a man yet?’

Hannah remembered why she and Stuart had fought like cat and dog as children. Although they looked alike – he was tall with dark hair and eyes the same colour as his sister – they were utterly unalike on the inside. Stuart was lazy, careless and, as he proudly put it, ‘spoke his mind’. In Hannah’s book, that meant he was blunt verging on rude. They brought out the worst in each other. She thought he was one of life’s takers, while Stuart clearly thought his sister was an uptight cow. When she’d been working for the Triumph Hotel, Stuart had thought nothing of asking for comped rooms for all his pals on wild stag nights, yet if she asked him to have a look at her car – as he was a mechanic – he’d procrastinate until she got angry and paid someone else to do it.

‘Yes, I do have a man, Stuart,’ she snapped. ‘He’s an actor, but he’s away,’ she lied. ‘There are sheets in the spare room, towels in the hotpress and I’m going to bed. Good night.’

‘Don’t you want tea?’ asked Pam, appearing at the door of the kitchen with a pot of tea and a big packet of biscuits on a tray.

‘No.’

At least they went off early the next morning, after a lot of arguing in the bathroom about who’d steamed up the mirror, and Pam complaining that Stuart never said she looked nice in anything.

Hannah, awake but remaining in bed in case she had to get involved, could hear everything through the thin walls of the flat.

‘I got this hat specially for the wedding,’ Pam roared at Stuart. ‘The least you could do is say that it’s nice.’

‘It’s not!’ yelled Stuart. ‘You can’t wear a red hat with red hair. You look stupid.’

When they’d banged the door loudly on the way out, Hannah finally relaxed. She got up, made herself a cup of coffee and planned her day. Grocery shopping, the gym and a trip to the cinema with Leonie and the twins tonight. It was only then she remembered that she had forgotten to give Stuart and Pam a key to the flat. Tough bananas, she thought grimly. She’d be out until at least eleven and if they wanted to get in before that, they could go hang. Serve them right for being too mean to pay for a hotel bedroom.

She got home at half eleven, tired but relaxed. Mel and Abby had been so funny that she hadn’t been able to be miserable. Watching them checking out good-looking blokes in the cinema had been much more fun than watching the movie. When she got to the top of the stairs in the house, Pam and Stuart were sitting outside her flat door looking furious.

‘How did you get in?’ asked Hannah, not pleased that any of the other tenants had let them in.

‘Never mind that,’ snarled Stuart, who was obviously plastered. ‘Why the hell didn’t you give us a key so we could get in? Or why couldn’t you be here to let us in?’

‘I was out with my boyfriend,’ Hannah said sweetly, ‘and I didn’t think you’d be home so early. The free bar ended, did it?’

She let them in and Stuart immediately threw himself on to the couch, shoes and all, and went to sleep. His drunken snores reverberated about the flat and Hannah looked at him with disgust.

‘I don’t know why you stay with him,’ she said to Pam, staring at her brother’s prone figure. ‘He’s a drunk, like his father.’

‘He’s not, he’s nothing like your father,’ Pam protested.

‘Isn’t he?’ said Hannah bitterly. ‘He’s just the same, if you ask me: useless and bone idle. I’m amazed he’s still going to work. I thought he’d have you earning it all by now, with him only venturing out to the bookies.’

‘Stuart doesn’t gamble any more and he isn’t a big drinker,’ Pam protested. ‘We were at a wedding, after all. I can’t remember the last time he got drunk. Just because you’ve got a hang-up about your father, don’t tar Stuart with the same brush.’

‘I don’t,’ snapped Hannah. ‘I merely see Stuart heading the same way. Like father like son.’

‘What about like mother like daughter?’ said Pam pointedly.

Hannah whirled round. ‘I am not like my mother. I refuse to be tied to some useless lump of a man who’s good for nothing.’

‘What was Harry?’ asked Pam nastily.

Hannah’s lip wobbled. That was below the belt.

‘You’re the one who keeps going for useless lumps of men,’ her sister-in-law continued mercilessly. ‘At least Stuart married me,’ she sniffed. She pulled a protesting Stuart from the couch and dragged him into the spare bedroom, leaving Hannah furious and upset behind her.

She didn’t fall for useless men, she didn’t. She’d been unlucky. That was all. Pam didn’t know what she was talking about. If Hannah had been married to someone as unmotivated as Stuart, she wouldn’t have boasted about it. Honestly, some women thought that wedding rings were the be all and end all of life. How stupid could you get?

Tired from two nights tossing and turning, thinking about what Pam had said, Hannah overslept on Monday and woke up to hear the news at eight.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she groaned, dragging herself out of bed, knowing she wouldn’t have time to wash her hair. She showered quickly, threw on the first thing she came to in her wardrobe – a plain brown dress that really only looked good with washed, fluffy hair and plenty of make-up – and was out the door in fifteen minutes. She brushed on some eyeshadow and lipstick at traffic lights and cursed for not having time to do her hair. She hated greasy roots.

‘Had a nice weekend, Hannah?’ asked Gillian loudly, looking at her watch pointedly as Hannah burst through the office door at ten past nine.

Hannah sniffed in reply. She refused to get riled by Gillian.

She grabbed a cup of coffee and sat at her desk, trying to sort her brain out. She’d been so distracted on Thursday and Friday thinking about Felix that she really was behind with work. By half ten, she’d only managed to drink half of her coffee. Ravenous after having no breakfast, she rushed over to the percolator hoping to get a fresh cup and maybe a biscuit. The percolator was empty and so was the biscuit tin. Weary, hungry and miserable, Hannah felt like crying. The whole world was against her.

Her phone rang and she marched back to her desk to pick it up.

‘What are you doing tonight, Ms Campbell?’ purred Felix.

Hannah nearly dropped the phone with shock.

‘Er…nothing,’ she said, too astonished to revert to her make-him-suffer plan.

‘Good. Would you like to go to the theatre with me? We could have a little supper afterwards.’

‘I’d love to,’ Hannah said, weak with a combination of longing and sheer delight that he’d phoned. ‘What time?’

‘I’ll meet you in the pub across the road from the Gate at seven. Can’t wait.’ And he was gone.

Her stomach was a mass of butterflies as she thought about Felix actually phoning her. Then the butterflies turned to knots as she realized she had greasy hair, was wearing completely the wrong outfit and wouldn’t have time to go home and change before the theatre.

And she hadn’t even asked what play they were going to see. Talk about the strong feminist type who thought marriage was for wimps. ‘I’ll make him suffer! Yeah, right. She was like an affectionate cat – rolling over so that someone, anyone could rub her tummy. Still, the faintest glimmer of a smile lit up her face. If it was Felix rubbing her tummy, she wouldn’t mind.

Determined that thinking about him wouldn’t put the kibosh on yet another working day, Hannah did her best to work steadily. She decided to tell David she had to leave early: that way, she could race home, do her hair and find something drop-dead gorgeous to wear.

But Cupid was having none of it. When five o’clock came, David called the senior staff into his office for a meeting. While he discussed sales targets, his master plan, and talked about how well everyone had been doing, Hannah wriggled in her seat. She wasn’t listening to a word he was saying. She was mentally running through the contents of her wardrobe, trying to remember if she’d ironed her new silky red shirt from Principles, the one with the tie-waist. And what about underwear…? If the beige lace bra was in the laundry basket, she’d shoot herself. It was the sexiest bra imaginable and looked wonderful with the rich red shirt with a couple of buttons left open so her cleavage could peek out. Hannah didn’t usually leave any buttons open, but she’d practised at home in front of the mirror and that particular look was very sexy. She’d even left her glasses off and was wearing contacts for a change.

‘I know we’re running a bit late,’ David said, with a glance towards a fidgety Hannah, ‘but an old colleague from the States is here and she’s kindly agreed to give us a talk about the real estate business in the USA and what’s going on there. Her advice could be useful because of all the clients we’re getting from the States who are relocating here. Can I introduce you to Martha Parker…’

Normally, Hannah would have been fascinated by the elegant and beautifully groomed Ms Parker, with her bobbed, frosted hair, exquisite fitted cream suit and a shimmering air of self-confidence. Tonight, she wanted Martha to get off the stage so she could race home and primp. Alas, Ms Parker had a lot to say and it took her half an hour to say it. As the staff filed out of David’s office, it was five past six. There was no way Hannah had time to go home now. She’d have to do wonderful things with make-up and deodorant, and pray the lights were dim in the theatre. What was that thing she’d read about in women’s magazines about talcum powder hiding greasy hair? You shook a bit on your parting, let it get rid of the shine and then brushed it out. Couldn’t be easier. She’d buy some en route.

What with asphyxiating herself with deodorant in the ladies’ loo and having to spend five minutes shaking talcum powder off her dress when she applied it too liberally, Hannah ended up ten minutes late. She was sure she was sweating as she reached the bar, despite all the deodorant and a generous spray of Donna’s Opium.

Even in the pre-theatre crowd that thronged the small bar, Felix stood out. His blond, noble head was visible from the door and Hannah could see he was talking to someone. In profile, he was even better looking: the straight nose could have been lifted from a medieval portrait of some arrogant young king, and the strong jaw jutted out in a gloriously masculine way. He threw back his leonine head and laughed. She felt herself smiling in sympathy as she crossed the room. Then he turned and saw her and the velvety mahogany eyes creased up in an appreciative smile.

Hannah felt her insides melt. She reached the group. Instead of taking her hand or kissing her on the cheek, Felix pulled her to him with strong, lean arms. When she was standing in the circle of his embrace, he lowered his golden head to hers and kissed her full on the lips. Utterly unexpected, it was utterly incredible. Forgotten bits of her body moulded against his in excitement. His lips were hard against her full mouth and their tongues entwined in passion.

‘Why don’t you see if they rent rooms by the hour?’ enquired a dry voice.

They broke apart, Hannah red-faced and Felix laughing. ‘She’s beautiful, can you blame me?’ he demanded of the group, keeping one arm round Hannah.

‘How are you, my love?’ he asked her in a low voice. ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.’

Some demon in Hannah’s head made her say: ‘Really? You took long enough phoning me, then.’

‘Ouch,’ he grinned, pinching her waist with one hand. ‘She bites. I deserved that, I guess.’

Hannah cringed at what she’d said. Talk about clingy and insecure. Why hadn’t she just told him she’d spent two days moping by the phone while she was at it.

‘I had a couple of hectic days filming,’ Felix was explaining. ‘That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. Now, what do you want to drink?’

She was already high and didn’t need alcohol, so she asked for mineral water.

‘Have a real drink,’ said Felix. ‘I’d have thought you were the type of tough girl who’d kick-start her vibrator, roll her own tampons and drink straight Scotch.’

The crowd guffawed again.

‘I’m only tough with men,’ Hannah retorted sweetly, thinking that two could play that game. ‘The rest of the time, I’m all woman.’

‘Oh, baybee,’ growled Felix. ‘You’re my kind of girl, all right. Mineral water it is.’

He didn’t introduce her to the group, which was just as well, Hannah felt, as he seemed different with an audience than he had alone in the office. She preferred having him to herself.

At half seven, they made their way to the theatre. It was the first night of a new production of Lady Windermere’s Fan, Hannah realized as she saw the posters. She wasn’t much of a theatre-goer and felt nervous in case she let this fact slip out. As an actor, Felix obviously went to the theatre all the time. She hated the thought of her lack of culture being made public. Hannah’s efforts at improving herself hadn’t stretched to the theatre yet. In the Campbell house when she’d been growing up culture was something found in yoghurt. Well, it was with Stuart and her father, anyway, who both felt that reading anything more taxing than the racing results was a waste of time.

Almost as soon as they’d made it inside, Felix said he had to disappear for a moment. ‘I see someone I must say hello to. I won’t be long,’ he said, leaving her in the throng of the foyer.

Feeling a little lost, Hannah looked around her, hoping she could adopt the air of one who fitted in perfectly but was gazing about her with interest instead of nerves. Two women beside her were talking volubly about the arts, braceleted arms jangling as they knocked back white wine.

‘…I hear the Lubarte Players are thinking of putting on a performance of Vera,’ one said.

‘Really, how terrible,’ the other replied. ‘What a dreadful play. You’d hardly believe it was Wilde, I always say.’ They laughed.

When Felix returned, they made their way to their seats. ‘I love Wilde,’ Hannah sighed. ‘I’m sure I remember hearing somewhere that some theatre group are trying to put on Vera,’ she added. ‘I’ve never liked that play; always felt it wasn’t really classic Wilde.’

Felix shot her an impressed look. ‘I had no idea you were an aficionado of the theatre, my love,’ he said.

Hannah smiled serenely. ‘Never underestimate me,’ she said in a mock severe voice.

The play was wonderfully clever and Hannah wasn’t sure if it was her heightened sense of pleasure that made it so thrilling for her, or the fact that Felix sat silently beside her, one hand wedged against her thigh, stroking her knee through the fabric of her long dress.

In the interval, they mingled with the other theatregoers, Felix leading her by the hand as they drifted from group to group, all comers hugging and kissing him delightedly. He was quite the star, she realized, as the fifth person threw their arms around Felix and congratulated him on the wonderful reviews he’d received for his last role. From the comments, she’d established that he’d had a small part in a British/Canadian production set in the 1800s. He was now filming a small-budget British film that was being made in Ireland and it appeared that at least half of the Irish acting fraternity were involved in some way.

‘Terrible tosh, but it pays the mortgage,’ sighed one elegant man in a velvet suit, who had a small role in the film.

‘Wouldn’t touch that sort of brainless rubbish!’ sniffed an actress, whom Felix whispered had been sent off after her first audition.

After lots of air-kissing and cries of ‘You must come to supper with us sometime soon, dear boy,’ Hannah and Felix made their way back to their seats for the second half.

‘Let’s make a speedy getaway when it’s over,’ he murmured into her ear, his breath caressing. ‘I want you all to myself and, if we hang around, we’ll have an entourage.’

After the third curtain call, Felix whisked Hannah out of the theatre, into a taxi and across the river to the Trocadero, the traditional after-theatre restaurant and a famous haunt of actors.

Annexing a small table at the back, Felix ordered smoked salmon and champagne for both of them without even looking at the menu.

Hannah wasn’t sure what excited her more: the way this fabulous man was gazing at her hungrily, or the way he’d taken charge of everything. There was something so masterful about him, it gave her a frisson of erotic excitement to think about being in bed with him. Imagine how utterly in control he’d be then, that hard golden body driving into hers, naked skin on skin…

Soft bread rolls came. Felix buttered one thickly for her and fed her small bits, letting her savour the taste of butter melting into the feather-light roll. ‘It’s soft, liquid and delicious,’ he said. ‘That’s what it’s going to feel like when I make love to you, Hannah. Delicious, but – ’ he grinned wickedly – ‘not soft.’

Hannah gulped. This was all moving too fast, yet she couldn’t help herself: she wanted him too.

The champagne arrived. Felix never took his eyes off her as he drank from his glass. The liquid exploded in Hannah’s mouth, like exquisite pins and needles dancing across her tongue.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said softly, reaching out with long fingers to touch her face. He traced the high cheekbones, trailed his fingers across her full, quivering lips, letting one finger slide languorously into her mouth. Instinctively, she sucked on it, holding him prisoner while her tongue ran over it, tasting the saltiness of his skin. As moments went, it was more erotic than any she’d ever shared with a man before, and they were in a restaurant! Lord only knew what it’d be like to be alone with him, without a phalanx of waiters and other diners as chaperones.

Felix’s wide mouth curved into a wicked smile, one that ignited something deep inside Hannah. Desire surged through her like a bursting dam. He pulled his finger out, then slid it into his own mouth as if tasting her. He put his head to one side consideringly. ‘Sweet,’ he pronounced. ‘Like you. Sweet…’ his voice lowered an octave until it was the consistency of honey-covered gravel, ‘and ripe.’

Hannah breathed out raggedly.

A waiter appeared with two plates of smoked salmon.

Hannah wanted to grab Felix, tell the waiters to forget about the fish, and hightail it back to her flat where she’d show him exactly how sweet she was.

But Felix attacked his plate with the same fascination he’d shown when caressing her. I’m so hungry,’ he growled, squeezing lemon on to his food with one hand and forking up slivers of smoked salmon with the other. She watched him eat for a while, not hungry herself because desire had elbowed all other primary urges out of the way. She loved the way his blond hair flopped over those hypnotic eyes and the way his huge mouth opened wide, white teeth gleaming as he consumed his meal. He was a man of passion, she thought wistfully, passionate about food, about love, about life and about sex.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he asked, looking at her untouched plate.

She gave a wry smile. ‘Not really. You’ve taken my appetite away.’

Felix pulled her plate towards him and attacked that too. Hannah finished the champagne in her glass and poured more for both of them.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ she breathed.

With most people, that was a difficult request. With an actor, as Hannah was to discover, it was an invitation to declaim a speech as familiar to them as their face in the mirror each morning. Felix loved to talk about himself.

Eating hungrily and drinking big gulps of the champagne, he told her about his career and his hopes. Hannah, trying to keep up with him as far as the champagne was concerned, was enthralled.

He glossed over his youth and family. ‘I don’t talk about it,’ he said, dark eyes soulful as he gazed at hers. But he was happy to discuss everything else. At thirty-seven, he was finally on the edge of huge success. It had been a hard climb, he said, telling her about his stint in an ill-fated British soap and his first film role where his few minutes on screen had ended up on the cutting-room floor. But everything was about to change. A sitcom he had a small part in was growing in popularity and he was suddenly inundated with calls from casting agents. His time had come, Felix said proudly.

It was a life lived in the fast lane, full of parties, premieres, carousing and being one of the beautiful people. But what Felix really wanted, Hannah felt instinctively, was security. He was like her, she knew it. Something in his past had tainted him and made him yearn for a safe haven he’d never had before. She could provide it for him.

The entourage arrived anyway, blowing kisses across banquettes in the Trocadero, waving at friends and waving even more animatedly at enemies.

‘We wondered where you two sneaked off to,’ said the man in the velvet suit accusingly.

‘Privacy is important to me,’ Felix replied blandly.

The entourage sniffed and surveyed the tables beside Felix and Hannah.

‘Sit somewhere else,’ he said rudely. ‘We want to be alone.’

Normally, she’d have hated that sort of rudeness, but it was different with Felix. He was so impossibly handsome and talented that people were drawn to him and the only way to get rid of them was to be brusque.

They’d talked their throats hoarse and the second bottle was nearly empty when the waiter came with complimentary Sambuccas.

‘I couldn’t,’ giggled Hannah, eyeing the small flaming glass of liqueur. ‘I’m drunk already. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I had any more.’

There was an evil glint in Felix’s dark eyes. ‘Can’t you?’ he said.

He’d been lounging back in his chair, regarding her possessively as he ran his long fingers around the rim of his glass. Now he pulled his chair forward. She jumped slightly as she felt one of his hands on her thighs under the table, sliding and pushing her long dress up her legs.

Even in her intoxicated state, Hannah tried to stop him. There were other people around, someone might see.

‘Someone might see you,’ she said, scandalized.

‘So what?’ he enquired, one eyebrow raised sardonically. ‘Let them watch.’

Hannah looked shocked.

‘They can’t see,’ he assured her. ‘There’s a tablecloth hiding us.’

His hand finally pushed her dress up and with one long arm straining, his fingers moved up the silky skin of her thigh covered only by sheer tights. Hannah quivered as his fingers stroked her skin, only half-way up her thigh and yet, if his fingers slid even a centimetre further up, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from crying out. She couldn’t control the erotic feeling that rushed through her. It was like being hooked up to a machine with electrodes delivering unimaginable pleasure to her erogenous zones. His hand crept further up.

‘Next time we go out, you’ll have to wear stockings,’ Felix murmured. She gasped out loud and then, just as suddenly, his hand was gone. ‘Let’s go,’ he said roughly.

He kissed her in the taxi home, nothing more. Just luscious kisses which melted her insides as his tongue explored hers. Hannah could feel her heart beating like a metronome as she led him up the stairs to her front door. She fumbled with her bunch of keys and giggled quietly at her own stupidity. Felix didn’t giggle. Finally, she managed to insert the correct key in the door and pushed.

‘It’s not Buckingham Palace…’ she began to say as she dropped her handbag on the hall table. She never got any further with her comments.

The front door closed and suddenly Felix was wrapped around her, arms clinging to her, hands probing and trying to pull off her coat. Their mouths were meshed together, lips hard against lips, tongues entwining and twisting in passion. Felix managed to rip her coat off and he began to slide her dress up her thighs. In return, she’d dragged off his jacket and was pulling at his shirt, not caring that buttons were pinging as she pulled, rattling against the floor like hailstones as they fell.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he purred, golden head moving down towards her breasts, fingers burrowing under her dress. Like exquisitely practised Riverdancers, they moved apart long enough to pull off her dress and his trousers. Suddenly remembering that she was wearing that male bugbear – tights – Hannah wrenched them off and thanked some deity she was wearing decent silky black knickers even if her bra was a boring old white cotton one. What a pity she wasn’t dressed to thrill in her coral see-through net rig-out. So she ripped off the cotton bra and looked up to find Felix, clad only in striped boxer shorts, watching her. His body was glorious: lean, rangy, golden and perfectly proportioned. She could see the outline of his erection straining against the fabric of his shorts. In one swift move, he’d grabbed her, lifted her up and carried her to the couch. Then he lay down on top of her, grinding his body into hers in triumph, running his hands over her torso, fingers kneading her erect nipples roughly, burying his mouth passionately in her hair.

‘You’re so beautiful, so sexy, I knew that the moment I saw you,’ he said hoarsely.

If he was turned on to some unbelievable level, he’d met his match in Hannah. The sexuality she’d kept under wraps for so much of her life exploded from her, like a bored tiger that had been in captivity suddenly released into a jungle throbbing with life. Their lovemaking was frantic and fierce, not the gentle, sweet lovemaking Hannah had remembered with Harry. That had been placid and comforting: this was fierce, primal and wild. Felix jammed his mouth against hers, plundering her mouth, desperate to taste every part of her. In turn, she dug her nails into his back when he jammed himself inside her, shrieking with relief at finally having his body become a part of hers. Joined together, they moaned and panted, frantic for release and just as frantic for this incredible lovemaking not to end. A sheen of perspiration coating her naked body, Hannah clung to Felix, pulling him deeper with her arms and legs, wrapping her long legs around his waist until she exploded in a firecracker of orgasm that was savage, primitive and utterly blissful.

As if he’d been waiting for her, Felix groaned, his body stiffened and he came, moaning her name over and over again until he fell on to the couch beside her, dank with sweat and exhausted.

They lay coiled together like puppies and breathed deeply. Hannah felt as if every muscle had been stretched to its limit. Her body was suffused with the glorious afterglow of orgasm and yet she felt at peace, as if this wild thing was what she was born for. Or maybe, she thought, with a pang of sheer adoration, it was Felix she was born for.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. ‘You’re wonderful,’ he said.

‘Look who’s talking,’ joked Hannah. ‘I’m so exhausted, Felix. I’m going to fall asleep here.’

‘Bed,’ he announced, getting to his feet gracefully and holding a hand out to her.

The birds were singing some exultant song when Hannah woke the next morning with a dull throbbing in her head from too much champagne. She shifted in the bed and her arm touched Felix’s warm body. It hadn’t been a dream; she beamed with sheer joy. What was a hangover to this feeling of happiness?

Moving quietly so she wouldn’t wake him, Hannah padded naked and barefoot into the kitchen and swallowed two headache tablets with a glass of water. After another glass to slake her hangover thirst, she crept into the bathroom. Her hair was a wild bush around her head, tangled curls in all directions. Her make-up, which naturally hadn’t seen cotton wool or cleanser the night before, was in patchy scales under her eyes. Her mouth was bruised from a combination of fierce kissing and from Felix’s late-night stubble. All in all, the sort of face to normally make Hannah groan. Only, today, something shone out from behind the tiredness, the redness and the panda eyes: something delirious and fulfilled. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth refused to stop smiling. She was happy, in love! She beamed at her reflection. Love, love, love.

After restoring herself to some of her former glory and brushing her teeth until her gums hurt in case she had bad breath, Hannah slid back under the duvet and wriggled over until she was half-lying on top of him. He didn’t appear to wake up, yet one hand moved gently to cup her breast, idly caressing the nipple expertly until Hannah sighed loudly. Felix opened one eye.

‘Are you a morning sex person?’ he asked, his voice hoarse. ‘I’d have thought from last night’s performance that you were a night owl.’

In response, Hannah wriggled until she was lying completely on top of him, exulting in the amazing sensation of her cool naked body against his sleep-warmed one. ‘I think I’m an every moment of the day sort of person,’ she said.

‘Good,’ he replied, pulling her head down to meet his.

Low-angled autumn sun lit up the front of Dwyer, Dwyer & James as Hannah walked towards it, swinging her handbag happily. The office was pretty now that it had been repainted in the firm’s trademark crocus yellow and white. Hannah grinned. Everything felt pretty to her today. The dour-faced traffic warden who lingered at the bottom of the road was practically good-looking today, even though he’d given Hannah a parking ticket the week before. Being in love was a wonderful thing, she decided. Better than rose-coloured spectacles any day.

‘Morning, Hannah,’ said David James, climbing out of his silver Jag.

‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ beamed Hannah.

David eyed her curiously. ‘Are you on happy pills or something?’ he teased.

‘No,’ she said, letting him open the door for her. ‘Just naturally happy, that’s all. You’ll never guess who I met last night,’ she added, knowing she shouldn’t say anything but unable to resist saying his name. ‘Felix Andretti.’

David’s brow furrowed. ‘Where?’ he asked.

‘At the theatre,’ she replied airily. ‘He seems like a nice man,’ she added, hoping for some titbit of information to drop from David’s lips.

‘He does?’ One eyebrow was raised sarcastically. ‘That doesn’t sound like the Felix I know and love,’ he remarked. ‘More of a professional playboy, I would have thought. Nice isn’t the sort of word people use about Felix. They either love him or hate him. Women love him until he dumps them, and men sometimes hate him because he’s so bloody successful with the opposite sex.’

‘Really?’ Hannah said idly, shocked but trying to hide it. ‘I thought he was nice, anyhow.’ She was longing to ask more but daren’t.

‘Was he with anyone?’ David asked, standing at Hannah’s desk.

‘No,’ she said, wide-eyed with innocence.

David grinned and turned towards his office door. ‘He must be losing his touch,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘I’ve never seen him without a string of beautiful girls glued to him.’

Hannah had all morning to chew this over. Felix and a string of beautiful girls. She was too jealous to be flattered by the obvious fact that she, too, was beautiful if the godlike Mr Andretti considered her worthy of him. Instead, she mulled over the notion that the man she’d slept with on the first date was something of a lady-killer and always had a few women in tow, women he’d dump whenever the mood took him.

What had she expected, she thought jealously. Felix was thirty-seven, he must have had scores of girlfriends before this. What if he’d gone out with her to try and bed her and, once that had been accomplished, he’d no longer be interested? Perhaps that was why women hated him. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Hannah felt her heart skip a beat with shock. How stupid could she be to sleep with him on their first date. What sort of woman would he think she was?

She cast her mind frantically back to his departure that morning.

All he’d said when he left was, ‘Adios, bebe,’ giving her a passionate kiss on the doorstep and the promise that he’d phone. Well, not so much of a promise, more of an: ‘I’ll call.’

Feeling like a woman whose lottery numbers have just come up but who forgot, for once, to buy a ticket, Hannah sat gloomily at her desk all morning. What sort of an imbecile are you? she was mentally asking herself for about the hundredth time when a messenger boy appeared at her desk, hidden by a huge bouquet of the palest pink roses.

‘Oh!’ gasped Hannah. ‘For me?’

‘If you’re Hannah Campbell, then yes,’ said the messenger. ‘Sign here.’

She buried her nose in the flowers, trying to breathe in the fragrance but finding them curiously scent-free. Still, they were beautiful.

‘Who are they from?’ demanded the rest of the staff.

Hannah opened the card. ‘To Hannah, my beautiful, ripe peach. See you tonight. I’ll pick you up at home at eight.’

Happiness saturated every pore of her body. He didn’t think she was a stupid slut; he wanted to see her tonight after all. Bliss.