An Eligible Bachelor (38 page)

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the entire engagement had been a publicity stunt. But no – Richenda couldn’t have engineered that. He’d proposed to her voluntarily, if a little rashly. Guy told himself now he was being paranoid.

Nevertheless, the entire incident was making him question everything that had happened between them. He urgently felt the need to escape. He couldn’t go back to her apartment tonight. He didn’t trust himself not to have a huge confrontation with her; a confrontation that would question her values and her motives. And in the mood he was in, he didn’t think their relationship would survive. He needed to get away and think before he made his next move.

Resolved, he moved through the adoring throngs and reached her side.

‘Listen, darling – I’m going to slip off and leave you to it.’

She looked startled.

‘What? But we’re going on somewhere to celebrate. You can’t leave.’

‘Honestly – I’ve got to be up early in the morning. We’ve got a huge party this weekend and I haven’t done a thing yet. If I go out partying with you I’ll be in deep trouble.’

‘I want you with me.’

Her eyes were beseeching him. He had to be firm.

‘I know it’s a bore but it can’t be helped.’

‘But I wanted you to meet my mother. She’s coming round in the morning.’

‘I think it would be far better if I left you two alone. If it’s all coming out in the paper tomorrow you won’t want any distractions. Much better if we have a get-together when everything’s calmed down. Maybe… bring her down for Sunday lunch or something?’

Richenda looked slightly mollified by this suggestion, though Guy could see she wasn’t happy at being abandoned. But she couldn’t protest, not in front of her adoring entourage. The press would pick up on any discord straight away. Well, she’d made her own bloody bed. She could lie in it.

Guy gave her a lingering kiss for the benefit of her onlookers.

‘Well done, darling. I’m so proud of you. And we’ll celebrate as soon as I’ve got this weekend out of the way. Have a lovely evening.’

He squeezed both of her hands in an affectionate gesture of farewell, and walked away swiftly. It was all he could do not to bolt for the exit as soon as her back was turned. He came out of the hotel, ran down the steps and breathed in the crispness of the cold night air, so refreshing after the smell of a hundred different perfumes, the lingering traces of cooking and the million cigarettes that were being smoked one after the other. A cab appeared around the corner with its orange light on. Guy stuck up his hand, leaped into the back and flopped on to the seat with a relieved sigh.

‘Paddington Station, please. As quick as you can.’

*

When Johnny and Honor had finished supper, she plonked the dishes in the sink, then brought over the bottle of wine to top up Johnny’s glass. To her surprise he put his hand over the top.

‘I’d better get going. It’s going to take me over an hour to get home.’

Honor knew that disappointment was spreading itself over her face.

‘You could always stay,’ she said softly. ‘On the sofa,’ she added hastily.

Johnny looked up and gave her his familiar lopsided smile.

‘If I have another drink, I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

‘Oh dear. Well, we can’t have that.’

She smiled down at him teasingly. He put a hand either side of her waist, his thumb massaging her hip bone. She could feel the warmth from his fingers diffuse right into her bones, melting her. All of a sudden she felt rather weak.

‘What are we going to do, Honor?’

He was looking up at her, suddenly serious.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, as he stood up and folded her in his arms. She leaned back slightly, panicking inwardly. ‘I don’t know…’

The evening had been perfect. Delightful. Easy. How fantastic if they could just repeat that formula day after day. Him getting in from work at about seven, getting quality time with Ted for half an hour. Then the two of them enjoying a relaxed meal. Honor sighed. If only she had a copper-bottomed guarantee that was how it would
be, she’d suggest making a go of it again. But she was wary; very wary.

‘I need time,’ she told him.

‘Of course you do. It’s still early days.’

She looked at him, surprised. She was expecting pressure for a decision.

‘It’s totally up to you, you know that. And when you make up your mind what you want to do, I’ll go with it. Because I know you’ll make the right choice.’

She nodded her agreement, distracted by his hand massaging the small of her back, wanting him to explore further but knowing she should move away. Instead, to her horror, she found herself winding her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. She told herself it was because she wanted the comfort of human contact, the reassurance. But the tiny little tornado of white heat she felt deep inside made a mockery of this. It was all she could think of. She could hear Johnny talking to her, reassuring her, in the special voice he used when he was comforting an animal in pain. She wasn’t listening to him, though. All she could focus on was the incredible sensations, long forgotten, seeping through her.

She turned her face to kiss him. As long as she only kissed him, that was OK. A kiss didn’t mean anything, especially to the likes of Johnny. She brushed her lips against his, once, then twice, then once more; random little pecks of affection. That was fine. Nothing too compromising. But the next kiss became lingering, sensual. She shivered as she felt his tongue against hers, told herself this was the moment she should pull back, then chastised herself as she responded and their tongues
entwined slowly and languorously. She found herself coming to life inside as the flicker of warmth ignited into full flame and charged through her, as if her veins were filled with petrol and the fire was dancing along them, unstoppable. She felt his muscles through the soft cotton of his shirt and longed to feel his skin on hers. For a moment, she wondered if he’d slipped something into her wine. She’d heard about people using horse tranquilizers in nightclubs: maybe he’d got hold of something that turned women into sex fiends. Because she felt desperate. After years of celibacy, she craved abandonment.

Before she knew it, his hands were inside her jeans. She moaned as he made contact, then rubbed herself against his fingers as satisfaction became the only thing important to her. Nothing would make her turn back now. As she came, she hugged him to her, racked by the ferocity of the first orgasm to have been effected by another person for more than seven years. He brushed his fingers against her lips, then he kissed her again, and they shared the taste of her in a gesture that was incredibly intimate.

She laid her head on his shoulder for a moment, trying to recover her poise, then he disengaged her gently.

‘I really had better go,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got to be at work at half seven tomorrow morning.’

He drew away from her. She looked up. If he smirked, she’d slap him. But he didn’t. He picked up their wine-glasses and took them into the kitchen, washing them carefully under the tap and wiping them with a cloth and putting them on the draining board. Honor busied herself
putting away the salt and pepper; pushing the cork back into the wine bottle. She could barely look him in the eye as he picked up his keys. He kissed her again, lightly, affectionately, just on the side of her mouth.

‘I’l see you at the weekend.’

She nodded.

‘Bye…’

As soon as he’d gone she sank down on to the sofa with her head in her hands. What on earth had she been thinking of? It was almost worse than sleeping with him, letting him get her off like that. It had been for her satisfaction alone. Her behaviour had been… well, wanton was the only word she could think of. And now he had the moral high ground, the smug satisfaction of knowing that she had been desperate while he’d exercised total self-control. Her cheeks rosy with shame, she reflected that she’d gone from cosy and contented to orgasmic to desolate in the space of one evening.

Then she remembered – that was life with Johnny. The bloody emotional rollercoaster, never knowing where you were. It hadn’t been her at all – he’d engineered the whole thing. Ruthlessly exploited her weak spot. Literally.

Bastard. Bastard bastard bastard. He’d known exactly what he was doing, and she’d fallen into his trap. She could imagine him now, smirking at the wheel of his car, convinced he was well on his way to winning her round. Having given her all that blarney about the future being her choice. Well, bugger him. She wasn’t going to be manipulated any more.

By the time she got to bed, she was freezing. She struggled to get to sleep, as guilt and self-reproach and
indecision did nothing to warm her. Chilled to the bone, she searched in vain for a solution to this dilemma that wasn’t going to cause one of them pain.

Rozzi Sharpe was incandescent with rage as she looked at the early edition of the
Daily Post.
A photograph of Richenda delivering her acceptance speech was emblazoned across the front, along with the headline ‘Mother and child reunion: see full story inside’. Mick Spencer’s story wasn’t worth wiping her arse on now. Stupid, blithering drunken fool. It would have been a fantastic story –much better than the simpering, saccharine-sweet reunion plastered all over the
Daily Post.
People loved nasty stories much more than they liked happy endings –
schadenfreude
kept the British media afloat.

She wasn’t even going to bother contacting Mick. His accusations were unfounded without the mother’s backup; it would just look like petty sour grapes on the part of her paper. She’d find a better story. There was absolutely bound to be one. She wouldn’t bother with Richenda: her guard would be up now. Rozzi knew exactly where she was going to concentrate her investigations – in deepest Gloucestershire, where the handsome prince was residing in his castle. She wasn’t really bothered what came out of the woodwork: accusations of drug abuse, homosexuality or a family history of hideous war crimes. But she’d find something.

She phoned up her favourite reporter, a tenacious little terrier who she saved for the really juicy jobs. He always got results, but he made her pay.

‘Guy Portias. Get me some shit. And make it stick.’

Bill Weeks’s evil chuckle was all she needed to satisfy her that she’d have a big steaming mound of it before too many days had passed.

Guy woke on Thursday morning feeling guilty. Firstly because it was nearly eleven o’clock, and he had vowed to get up early and start work. But he hadn’t got in until the early hours of the morning, and then he hadn’t slept properly.

Secondly, he felt rather uncomfortable with his actions of the night before. Abandoning Richenda like that was hardly chivalrous. But he’d felt totally compromised. He wouldn’t have trusted himself not to say something awful, especially if he’d had a few more drinks, which he no doubt would have if they’d gone on partying. It was best that he left when he did. Anyway, he consoled himself, she hadn’t exactly been short of company.

Now he’d distanced himself from her, however, he realized he had to give her a chance. Both of them a chance. They had to get off the merry-go-round that was their life. He had to explain to her exactly how he felt about what had happened, and she in turn needed to defend her actions – he had no doubt that in her eyes it had been defensible. Then perhaps he would be able to understand her better. It was, after all, almost as if he’d fallen in love with someone from a different culture entirely. An alien.

What the two of them needed was time alone, away from both the pressures of Eversleigh and the public eye,
to have a really serious heart to heart and lay down some ground rules. The events of the past couple of days were only the beginning; if Richenda continued on this upward path, life was going to become more and more tricky. He needed to book something romantic for the two of them. Paris was out: by the time they got there it would be time to come back. Lunch at the Honeycote Arms, by contrast, wasn’t really special enough, and it was hardly private. He lay there for a few moments, musing on various possibilities, when inspiration hit him. He picked up the telephone by the bed and dialled a number.

‘Eldenbury Wines.’

‘Felix – it’s Guy. Tell me, is your brother still running that crazy business of his from your parents’farm?’

‘He certainly is. And don’t mock – it’s turning out to be very lucrative. More profitable than dairy cattle, at any rate.’

‘Give me his number, will you?’

Ten minutes later, satisfied that what he had organized was the perfect antidote to their floundering relationship, he called Richenda. She answered on the first ring.

‘Hey. How are you?’

‘Guy! I was wondering when you’d call. I was getting worried.’

‘Sorry. I’d have rung earlier, but I’ve been… seeing some suppliers.’ He couldn’t admit he’d been snoring his head off in bed. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Great. Mum’s here with me having a late breakfast. We’ve got the paper. Have you seen it?’

Shit. He should have had the foresight to get it from the shop before he phoned. He didn’t want to look too uninterested.

‘I’ve just sent Malachi down to the shop. I’m going to read it over a coffee.’

‘Cindy’s done a fantastic job. And the pictures are wonderful. I really think we’ve made the best out of a bad situation. In fact, Mick’s almost done us a favour.’

Guy wasn’t sure he liked the glee in her voice, but he murmured his approval nevertheless.

‘We’ve had loads of calls from magazines wanting to do features,’ she burbled on. ‘But I’ve told them that’s it for now.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ve told them they’ll just have to wait for the wedding.’

She gave a merry little laugh and Guy felt his blood freeze. He tried to inject some warmth into his voice as he responded.

‘By the way – I’ve booked us a surprise. For Monday morning. Just you and me.’

‘Oooh – what?’

‘I can’t tell you, because then it won’t be a surprise. Anyway, I’ve got to get on. Mum’s tearing her hair out.’