Naked Truths (28 page)

He looked up at her. ‘Don't take this the wrong way, but you may have to take your tights off. I can't get at it properly.'

Catherine raised an eyebrow. ‘That's one I haven't heard before.'

John grinned. ‘It's purely professional, I'm only concerned for your welfare.'

Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then stood up. ‘I'm actually wearing suspenders,' she said, self-consciously.

John's grin got even wider. ‘Even easier to take off. I mean, for you,' he added, noticing her unimpressed expression.

Catherine couldn't help herself. ‘Had a lot of practice, have you?'

John laughed softly and averted his eyes as she slowly took them off. There was silence apart from the ticking of the clock on the wall. Catherine surreptitiously stowed the stockings in her handbag and sat back down again.

John took her knee between his hands and inspected it. Luckily the cut wasn't very deep. He dabbed at it gently.

‘There's no dirt in there; I think you'll live. I'll put a bit of Savlon on, just in case.'

‘Ow, ow, ow,' protested Catherine as he smoothed the antiseptic cream on.

John looked up, amused. ‘Come on, you're a big girl now.'

‘Still bloody hurts,' she said through gritted teeth.

John got a plaster out of the first-aid kit and, using both hands, carefully put it over the cut.

‘There, that's better.'

His hands didn't move from her leg, and Catherine felt her stomach do a slow somersault.

‘I am so undeniably attracted to you, Catherine,' John said, his voice husky. ‘I always have been.' Very gently, his fingers started to stroke her bare skin.

Catherine tried to make light of it, even though her heart was racing furiously. ‘Hey, you're only human.'

He looked up at her, a slight smile playing on his lips. ‘I'm starting to believe you are, too.'

‘Appearances can be deceptive,' Catherine started to say, but suddenly John was up, pulling her into his strong arms.

‘Tell me you want me as much as I want you.'

‘I want you,' gasped Catherine, and then his lips were on hers, soft yet firm, his tongue insistent and probing, wanting to taste every part of her. Catherine found herself responding back, more and more passionately, until her hands were raking through his hair with desire. With one swift movement John had her in his arms and was striding out of the room towards the mahogany staircase.

‘It's time for bed,' he said, kissing her all the way upstairs. The next time Catherine opened her eyes they were in a large, stylishly furnished bedroom. Arms firm and solid, John gently lowered her feet to the ground. Catherine felt as if she was in a trance, every part of her body alive with lust and anticipation. As she and John kissed his hands ran through her hair and down her body. She savoured the taut outline of his back and buttocks.

John started undoing the buttons on her black chiffon blouse. Underneath, Catherine was wearing a plunging lacy bra, her cleavage deep and succulent. John groaned with appreciation. His hands moved around to find the zip of her skirt. One tug, and it was off, and Catherine stood before him, still in her suspender belt. She'd always preferred suspenders over tights, and, judging by the look in his eyes, so did John Milton.

Slowly, John undid her bra and ran a hand down between her breasts, placing it over Catherine's heart. He looked into her eyes, intense and passionate. ‘You are so incredibly beautiful.'

Almost picking her up, he pushed her backwards towards the bed. Catherine's feet hardly touched the floor. She was totally in his power.

John's breathing was heavy now. ‘I promised myself I'd be a gentleman with you, Catherine,' he murmured. ‘But you turn me on so much, I can't help myself.'

He stood back, and without taking his eyes off her, undid his shirt and threw it on the floor. Through the half-light, she could see how magnificent his physique was. Wide, capable shoulders and solid, muscular arms that could only have been achieved by years of sheer physical labour. Catherine moved to unbutton his trousers, but he pushed her down.

‘I want to please you first.'

Kissing her neck, he savoured her perfume, before his tongue moved down and he circled and licked her erect nipples. Involuntarily, Catherine arched her back with pleasure as John continued his inexorably pleasant journey southwards. His lips brushed across her flat stomach, before she felt his tongue run tantalizingly along the top of her knicker line. Catherine lifted her hips to help him, as John pulled her La Perla G-string down the length of her long legs, before moving slowly up, kissing every inch of her calves and inner thighs. Catherine moaned in anticipation as finally, he moved in – between her legs.

John's tongue pleasured and teased her until she was brought to the brink. Her hands ran through his thick, dark hair, pushing his face into her.

She could wait no longer.

‘I want you inside me,' she whispered.

He kicked off his trousers and Hugo Boss pants. Against the half-light filtering into the room, Catherine could see the silhouette of his huge erection. He reached into the bedside drawer and brought out a condom. She opened her legs and waited. As he lowered himself down and gently eased into her, Catherine felt a surge of elation.

‘Oh my God,' she whispered.

They started to move, slowly at first, each enjoying the feel and touch of the other. Gradually, they moved faster and faster until John was driving himself into her urgently. Catherine gasped with pleasure, and wrapped her legs around his back. John pulled her up effortlessly on to his lap. They were so close now, her breasts pressed against his chest, arms wrapped around each other, kissing furiously. Catherine could feel herself close to orgasm as he drove himself back and forward inside her.

Her breathing quickened. ‘Oh John . . .' she cried out. The climax exploded inside her, waves of pleasure pulsating through her body like an aftershock. John came seconds later, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

At that precise moment, Catherine had never felt so close to anyone. Gripped by an unassailable wave of emotion, she burst into tears. John held her even closer.

‘It's all right,' he said, stroking her hair. ‘I've found you now. I'm here.'

It was early morning when she opened her eyes. They lay as they had fallen asleep, John on his back and Catherine cradled in his arms. For a moment she stayed there, feeling the throb of his heart.

What had happened last night? She had been so carried away in the throes of passion. John Milton had taken her to places she'd never thought possible – and places she'd never wanted to visit again. He'd made her feel vulnerable, and that was not a word Catherine could allow in her vocabulary. The intense emotions she'd experienced now felt confusing and alien – frightening, even. Poor Catherine Connor, who'd had to build a protective armour from a young age, was ill-equipped to deal with them. So she did the only thing she knew.

She got up and quietly dressed, before leaving him again.

Catherine stood under a steaming hot shower, as if it would eradicate all traces of what had just happened. Afterwards she made herself a coffee and went to lie down on her sofa. She stared unseeing at the television screen, but then her eyelids grew heavy and sleep rescued her.

The sound of her mobile ringing woke her some time later. ‘Private number' was flashing up on the screen. Catherine leant forward and picked it up from the coffee table. No one called her, especially at weekends, unless it was work.

‘Hello,' she said groggily. The wall clock opposite said 2 p.m. She'd been asleep for hours.

‘Was my snoring that bad?'

Catherine jerked upright. Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to speak.

‘I'm sorry about earlier, I just had things to do,' she said, aware of the chill in her voice.

John paused. ‘Are you OK?'

‘I'm fine!' she snapped.

‘Look, if now is a bad time . . .'

‘Yes, it is. In fact, it's always going to be a bad time. John, nothing has changed. I told you, I'm damaged goods. It can never work.'

He didn't say anything.

‘Did you hear me?' she asked.

‘Yes,' he replied quietly. ‘Catherine, last night was . . .' He paused. ‘You felt something, too, I know you did.'

Catherine felt sick. ‘Don't tell me what I feel,' she said furiously. ‘You don't know anything about me.'

‘I know enough,' he said simply. ‘Enough that I want to be with you.'

Catherine felt like it wasn't her voice speaking. ‘Look, John, it was a bit of fun, but that's all.'

‘Do you really mean that?'

Catherine's nerves broke. ‘Yes, I do! And I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me again. It was a one-off. That's it. That's all.'

With that she hung up.

Then the tears really started.

THE WHIRL OF
Christmas drinks parties was well under way at
Soirée
. Barely a morning went by without hungover staff members gulping down huge bottles of Evian water at their desks, or sending round sheepish emails asking if anyone had any Nurofen. To her mortification, Saffron had thrown up in the toilets two mornings running.

Harriet was elbow-deep in a pile of invoices when Annabel appeared at her desk. ‘I'm on my way out to an extremely important brunch with Keira Knightley's agent. If Catherine needs me, I'll be on my mobile.' She stopped and looked closely at Harriet's bowed head.

‘Oh. My. God!' Annabel paused and looked round, making sure she had everyone's attention.

‘Do you know you've got
loads
of white hairs? If I were you, I'd do something about that.'

Harriet burned with embarrassment, but Saffron was over there in a flash.

‘Don't be so rude, Annabel!'

Annabel's eyes bulged indignantly. ‘Well!' she huffed. ‘I was only telling Harriet as a friend.'

‘If that's what you're like as a friend, I'd hate to be your enemy,' retorted Saffron acidly. She looked down at Harriet.

‘Don't pay any attention, H, I can't see any.' She glared back at Annabel.

‘Why don't you go and tell Keira she's grown a second head, instead?'

Muttering something about lack of respect, Annabel shot an evil look at Saffron and bustled out of the office.

It was nearly midday when Catherine walked into the office from her early breakfast meeting. It had been the last thing she'd needed – like many of her staff Catherine was feeling the effects of too much imbibing. But unlike everyone else, who had racked up their hangovers after one party or another, Catherine had got drunk alone at home. Again. If she actually stopped to think about it – and Catherine didn't – she had been drunk virtually every night for the last week. Every morning as she woke, head throbbing mercilessly and a nasty taste stagnating at the back of her throat, Catherine vowed not to drink again. In the daytime she was fine, but it was the evenings stretching ahead that scared her. It was simple: Catherine didn't want to be alone with her thoughts, so she blotted them out with alcohol. No matter how hard she tried, though, snapshots of her night with John kept coming back. The scent of his aftershave, his hands running over her body, the way he'd made her feel . . .

Even more disconcerting, Catherine was also dreaming about her mother for the first time in years. It all seemed so real, like it had only been yesterday. Annie's sweet smile, and the light, flowery perfume Catherine had loved inhaling when she was swept up in her mother's arms. The way her heels had clacked around the kitchen of their immaculate house while she made Catherine her dinner. Or ‘tea' as her mum used to call it. ‘Come on Cathy, be a good girl and eat up!'

Once Catherine woke in the middle of the night, her cheeks wet with tears. Although she couldn't remember the dream, she knew it had been about her mother. As she lay there in the darkness, an almost unbearable sense of loss had overwhelmed her.

‘See what he's done? You were fine until he came along,' she whispered to herself. Her throat tightened. It was another sign she was better off without him.

It was the editors' annual Christmas dinner. Rivalry and egos were put aside for the evening – at least on the surface – because this was a chance for the great and the good of the publishing industry to rub shoulders and congratulate themselves and each other.

Catherine really hadn't wanted to go. She was exhausted, and the last thing she felt like doing was sitting at a table with Adam Freshwater and the other Valour head honchos making polite small talk. On the plus side, she could go there and hold her head high: they were well on their way to smashing the Christmas target. Not that you'd guess that from Sir Robin's behaviour.

It had transpired he'd sent one of his henchmen down to the
Soirée
Sponsors office. They hadn't counted on coming up against Gail, however, who had given the haughty man in a suit short shrift when he'd asked to look through her financial records and been even curter when he'd told her he would most likely be sending several estate agents around to value the place.

‘Snooty little git he was, turning up out of the blue and snooping through our filing cabinets,' Gail had told Catherine. ‘When he told me I should be lucky
Soirée
Sponsors was still going, and then pulled the estate-agent gubbins, I sent him off with a flea in his ear!' Gail had paused uncertainly. ‘They're just trying to put the frighteners on us, aren't they? They're not really going to sell the office?'

‘They probably just wanted to come down and see how everything was going.' Catherine had placated her, but inside she had been angry. How dare ‘Hatchet' Hackford do that behind her back?

In fact, Catherine had been close to crying off the evening with a headache, and might have if
Teen Style
's Fiona MacKenzie hadn't been going. Fiona was a straightforward, no-bullshit person and the closest thing to a friend Catherine had. The two women didn't meet very often, but liked and respected each other, kindred spirits in an industry where style often ruled over substance.