Beautiful Liar (22 page)

“Slow down, will you?” My voice sounded shriller than I'd intended.

Alex's eyes flicked over to me, and for a moment I thought he might refuse. But then his gaze shifted to the dashboard, which I was gripping so hard that my knuckles had turned white. A second later he eased off the accelerator, until he was cruising just below the speed limit.

We'd set off in the late afternoon, and the traffic had been surprisingly light as we had managed to hit that magic time between school runs and the evening commute home.

It should have been a ninety-minute drive to Buckinghamshire, but at the speed Alex was going, we made it in under an hour. He finally slowed as we pulled onto the winding country lanes, manoeuvring expertly around the narrow bends, low branches of trees scratching at the paintwork.

We turned onto a private road, and reached the huge wrought-iron gates that guarded the Manor. Alex pulled up to a discreet electronic box, input a security code, and the gates magically eased open.

The sweeping driveway was lined with huge oaks. I'd been here occasionally as a child, and dimly remembered the place, but still I couldn't help gasping as the main house came into view. It was like a fairy-tale castle, a Disney-style elegant sprawl of turrets and towers, encircled by manicured gardens that fanned out into lush woodland. From what I remembered, it had originally been built for a wealthy merchant family during the 1880s, in the neo-Renaissance style of a French château. When their fortunes had waned a century later, Duncan Noble had purchased Rexley Manor for his family.

Alex pulled up outside. A middle-aged man and woman were waiting for him—I presumed they were the couple
who managed the estate. He gave them a polite nod and introduced me to them—Bill and Sarah Davidson. Then he grabbed our bags from the boot, gave his keys to Bill to park the car, and went into the house. I followed behind.

The entrance hall was exactly as I'd expected—a flagstone floor, dark wood panelling and an array of oil paintings. It was like walking into a little slice of history. Any restoration work had been sensitively carried out, and the sumptuous opulence of the Renaissance style was clear to see. I gazed around in wonder, wanting to linger for a while to drink it all in, but Alex didn't give me a chance. He was already heading for the sweeping staircase that arched up from the hallway.

“I'll show you to your room.”

I had to run to keep up with him. It had been like that between us all week, our conversation limited to no more than polite, impersonal exchanges. I hadn't realised how much I'd miss our banter.

I was staying in the Queen's Suite on the second floor, a beautiful, bright room of ivory teamed with splashes of pale apple-green. The furnishings were lavish—a huge four-poster bed and elegantly upholstered armchairs. But there was every modern convenience, too—a mirror above the fireplace turned out to be a flat-screen TV, and the en suite bathroom came complete with an integrated Bose sound system and rainfall shower as well as a claw-footed tub. It
was the perfect combination of classic style and modern amenities.

Once Alex had given me a quick tour, he stood by the doorway, clearly eager to get away. “Is this all right for you?”

“It's lovely,” I said softly. “Thank you.”

“Good. Well, you can relax for a couple of hours now. I'll see you at nine for the game.”

Once he'd gone, I looked up at the clock. I had time before I needed to start getting ready. And I knew what I wanted to do.

I pulled on a warm coat, gloves and a hat, and ran back downstairs. There was a stand by the door, filled with huge golfing umbrellas, but luckily it had stopped raining, so I headed out into the early-evening darkness, and began to trudge across the estate.

I'd only visited the spot once before—six years earlier, when I was thirteen, the very last time I'd been to the estate—but I knew how to get there. It wasn't exactly something I'd ever forget, because it was where my father had his accident, when he'd been driving back to London along that twisting road that led from Rexley Manor, and his car had spun off the road, and smashed straight into a tree.

My mother had taken us there a week later. I could still remember the indent of the car on the trunk.

I cut across the manicured lawns by the driveway, and made for the rougher surrounding grounds that bordered
the road. It was a good half an hour's walk, and there was little to illuminate my path—the lights from the house for the first part of the journey, and then I had to use the small torch I'd brought with me.

I passed a neat cottage, which I presumed was where the caretaker couple lived. And then a little while later, I was finally there.

It was as I remembered it. I could see the sharp bend in the road where my father's car had spun out of control. The tree that he'd hit had been removed, though—and the area grassed over. Someone had obviously tried to erase all reminder of what had happened.

I felt an unexpected sadness wash over me, for all the years that we'd missed together. Tears began to spill down my cheeks, and I furiously wiped them away.

“Hey.”

The voice made me jump. I whirled round and saw that it was Alex. At first I thought he'd followed me, but it was clear that he was equally surprised to see me.

“What're you doing out here?” I said. It was obvious why I was there—to pay my respects to my dad. But I doubted Alex would particularly want to.

He seemed to hesitate for a second, and then he shrugged.

“Just wanted to clear my head.” He looked around him. I wondered if he would avoid mentioning my dad—that's what most people did, they were so uncomfortable with
death. But then he said, “You still miss him?”

“Every day.”

We stood there for a moment without speaking. I was pleased the inky blackness stopped him from seeing my face. I didn't want him to know that I'd been crying.

It was Alex who broke the silence. “We should get back. It's nearly time to get ready.”

We set off towards the house.

“Just think,” Alex said. “Once tonight is over, you'll be free of me forever.”

For some reason, the thought depressed me, but I did my best not to show it. “Yes, I guess I will be.”

We did the rest of the walk without a word.

* * *

The players—eight of them—were all there by nine thirty. The table was set up in the billiards room—which had a distinctly masculine feel, with its wood-panelled walls and huge burgundy-leather sofas. Four of the players were out quickly, but the others went on until the early hours of the morning, in what felt like an endless stalemate.

It was almost three by the time the game wrapped up. The drivers had all waited patiently downstairs in the drawing room—as the players had all elected to return to London that night rather than stay at the manor.

While Alex went to bid them goodbye, I fixed myself a
soft drink and curled up on one of the sofas. I whirled the ice around the tumbler, and allowed myself a second to contemplate the momentousness of the occasion.

This was it. I was finally free of Alex and his illegal poker games.

I expected to feel relief, but there was also something else there—a twinge of regret. I shoved the thought away, and tossed back the rest of my drink.

Part of me knew I should take the opportunity to head up to bed. It would be the easiest way to avoid any awkward conversation. But a large part of me wanted to see Alex.

I was thinking about what to do when he walked back into the room, taking the decision out of my hands.

“Here.” He tossed something onto my lap. I looked down and saw that it was an envelope, a couple of inches thick. Alarm bells went off in my head.

“What's that?”

“Payment. For tonight.”

I opened the envelope and looked inside. It was filled with twenty-pound notes. At a guess, there was about ten thousand pounds in there.

I looked up, my mind turning. Alex was standing at the bar with his back to me, pouring himself a Scotch. “But tonight was meant to clear my debt with you, nothing more. You shouldn't be giving me this.”

“That's the first time I've known someone to turn down money.”
He slugged his drink, before turning to face me. “Consider it a tip, if you like.”

I knew what he was doing—giving me the money out of pity. And I didn't want to end our relationship with him thinking of me as some charity case.

I got to my feet, walked over to where he was standing and laid the envelope on the bar in front of him. “I know you mean well, but I don't want money I didn't earn.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Are you serious? You're acting like this is an insult, or something. I was trying to do something nice.”

“I know you were—”

“Yeah?” he said bitterly. “Because it seems like I can't do anything right for you.”

He downed the last of his Scotch, and reached for the bottle to pour another. I put my hand out to stop him.

“Alex—”

He rounded on me. “What?” His eyes flashed. “What is it you want from me? Because I'm not Giles, and I never will be. I tried to change, I tried to do my best for you, but it obviously wasn't enough. You made that clear the night of the concert. You'll always see me as bad news, so what's the point of trying to be anything else?”

“That's not true.” I couldn't believe he still thought that. “I came to you after that to try to show you that I was sorry for judging you. And you were the one who rejected me.”

“Of
course I did!” He was looking at me as though I was crazy. “I was drunk out of my mind and you told me that you were a virgin. It just proves my point. You must have a pretty low opinion of me if you thought I was going to sleep with you then.”

Alex was no more than an inch away from me—so close that I could feel the heat of his breath on my cheeks. The sound of my own heartbeat filled my ears. I knew I should walk away, go to my room, but in that moment I didn't want to move. Lust flooded my belly, and I couldn't stand it a second longer. Before I could think about what I was doing, I grabbed his face and kissed him.

Alex needed no further invitation. His hands went to the small of my back, pulling me to him with a force that made me gasp. My lips parted against his as my arms snaked round his neck, my fingers burying into his silky dark hair.

For once, there were no thoughts in my head. All I could focus on was the way he was touching me, how he was tugging my shirt from the waistband of my trousers, his cool palms grazing my warm, bare skin. I moaned against his mouth, and our grip tightened on each other, as though we were trying to meld into one another.

Then I felt him tense. His hands were suddenly on my shoulders, and with a willpower I was surprised he possessed, he pushed me away, breaking our kiss. I let out a little mew of protest, looking up at him with a frown, but he held
me fast. “Why?” His eyes searched mine. “Why are you doing this?”

I thought for a moment. I knew how important the answer was to him. “Because I want to,” I said finally. “Because I've wanted to for a long time.” I paused. “And because I trust you. Because I know you're better than you let people think.”

“And Giles?”

I shook my head. “There was never anything between us. That kiss—it was him, not me. I set him straight. He knows I don't feel that way about him.” I waited a beat. “In fact, he's the one who guessed how I felt about you.”

Alex's expression cleared. I tilted my head, wanting him to kiss me again, but he held back. “No. Not here.”

He took my hand, kissing it briefly, and then led me out of the billiards room and upstairs. He pulled me into what I presumed was his bedroom—a more masculine version of the room I was in. It came complete with four-poster bed, heavy velvet curtains, and a colour palette of magnolia and hunter-green. It was oddly impersonal, not like a childhood bedroom should be—but I had no time to think about that, as he kicked the door shut and then drew me into his arms again.

This time his lips touched mine ever so softly, and I could tell he was deliberately taking it slow. As his kiss deepened, I fell back onto the bed, pulling him down on top of me. I felt
the weight of his body stretched across me, and I tugged at his shirt, eager to get on with it. But he stilled my hands.

“Patience,” he whispered, in that low, husky voice of his. “There's no rush. We've got all night.”

I lay there as he began to undress me, watching as he slowly, carefully unbuttoned my shirt, slipping it from my shoulders in an unhurried way; biting my lip as he unzipped my trousers, easing them over my hips with excruciating slowness, until I was finally in nothing but my underwear. He paused, his eyes drifting over me, drinking me in, and a tremble of anticipation ran through my body. Even with my limited experience I could tell I was in the presence of a master, a connoisseur.

His lips found mine again, his kiss teasingly light, and without me even being aware of it, he was unhooking my bra with a practised expertise, gently lowering the straps. His mouth trailed down my naval, hot and wet against my belly, and I could already feel the throbbing between my legs as he hooked his thumbs into my panties.

He slid the black lace down over my hips. He began to kiss me again as his hand grazed my inner thigh, and I inhaled sharply when his fingers finally moved between my legs. His touch was agonisingly teasing. My back arched and my legs stretched in delicious frustration as his fingers flickered over me, my hands grabbing fistfuls of the duvet, until at last I shuddered against him.

He pulled away from me then, his eyes searching mine as I struggled to catch my breath. “We can stop now. We don't have to do this tonight.”

In answer, I reached up and began to unbuckle his belt.

When he was finally undressed, he opened the top drawer of the nightstand and fished out a condom. My heart began to speed up as he slipped it on.