Prima Donna (45 page)

‘Come on,’ he said, taking the bags from her hands and tilting his head. ‘I’m just parked over there.’

Reluctantly she followed him over to where an ancient burgundy Morris Minor was sitting. Sophie noticed that moss was growing on the window ledges. Tony threw her bags in the back and opened the
door for her. She curled herself into the passenger seat and felt a bit of the roof interior pressing against her head.

‘Mmm, sorry about that,’ he said, reaching into the back footwell and grabbing some tacks and a hammer. He leant over and pinned it back up again. ‘There,’ he smiled.

Sophie burst out laughing at the gesture.

‘I guess they don’t have cars like this in Chicago,’ he said, resting his arm on the back of her seat and looking out of the back windscreen as he put the car into reverse.

‘No,’ she smiled. ‘More’s the pity.’

Tony raised an eyebrow. ‘What? You mean you don’t go in for bigger, faster, glossier? Cadillacs and Chevrolets?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘Nope. Why would you think I would?’

He shrugged. ‘You just . . . you just look the type.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know. The perfect hair, the flawless figure . . .’

‘Oh my God! You have got to be joking!’ she mumbled. He obviously couldn’t read anything about her at all. She was as far from that glossy image he’d just painted as it
was possible to get.

Tony cast a glance at her. She was staring out of the window.

‘I hear you’ve got some interest from Dublin,’ she said finally, embarrassed as they lapsed into silence.

‘Yes.’ He didn’t elaborate. He obviously didn’t want to talk to her about it. He probably thought she was patronizing him again.

She sighed, frustrated by his chippiness. ‘Well, it doesn’t surprise me. You were really good the other night,’ she said politely, opening her bag and looking for the keys.
They were approaching her parents’ house. She couldn’t wait to jump out.

‘Yeah? You think so?’ He looked across at her.

She nodded as he slowly parked.

Tony cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’ he began. Then changed his mind. ‘No, forget it.’

‘No, what is it?’ Sophie asked absently, leaning over the back seat to get her bags.

‘Well, I was just wondering whether you’d like to come back to my place,’ he said, staring fixedly ahead. ‘To hear what I’m working on, I mean.’

Sophie sat back down and stared at him, baffled. One minute he acted like she was a nuisance, in the way of him having a good time with his mates. The next he was helping her with her bags and
wanting her opinion.

He gave a small smile and shrugged. ‘I could do with a fresh ear. The guys can only offer so much.’

She looked out of the car and saw her father standing behind the curtain, watching them both, and she felt the familiar claustrophobia wash over her.

‘Why not?’ she said, giving a small smile and putting her seatbelt back on.

‘Great.’ Tony gave her a sheepish grin and pulled away. He took a left and a right out of the village and idled past Murphy’s farm. Friesians were lying down in the field,
occasional rabbits flashing their cottontails on the fringes of the pasture. Tony hooked a right down by the fisheries onto an unmade track Sophie didn’t remember from her childhood. They
bumped down the lane, the Morris Minor’s suspension barely up to the job of crossing a gravel drive, much less this cratered landscape. He stopped a perilous half mile later outside a stone
cottage that overlooked the lake.

‘God, it’s beautiful,’ Sophie gasped, stepping out of the car and staring at the view. ‘I’ve not seen it down this way before. How long have you lived
here?’

Tony shrugged. ‘Coming up to four years now.’

‘Have you always lived round here? I don’t remember you.’

‘I grew up in Tregarnon,’ he said, opening the front door, which he’d just left on the latch. ‘South Mayo.’

‘So what made you come to Fennor?’ she asked, walking round the car.

‘My father died and I decided to take off around the country. When I got here, I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to leave. So I stayed.’ He stood back to let her in.

She stepped into the cottage. It was a single room with a huge inglenook fireplace to the right and a black stove that appeared to pre-date an Aga on the far wall. The bed was built into a huge
cupboard in the corner, with heart-shaped cut-out wooden doors. A grand piano sat, rather conspicuously, in the middle of the room.

Sophie walked round the little cottage with undisguised delight. ‘God, I just . . . I just love it!’ she exclaimed.

Tony grinned. ‘Me too.’ He walked over to the fire. ‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked. ‘Shall I set the fire?’

Sophie nodded, and seeing there was nowhere else to sit she plonked herself down on the piano stool. It might be May but the evenings were still chilly. She watched as he set to getting the fire
going, the muscles in his back clearly visible beneath his T-shirt.

‘You don’t like the cold, do you?’ she smiled.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t ever seem to get used to it.’ He got up and walked over to the fridge. He pulled out a bunch of grapes and took a huge wedge of Brie down from the
slate larder shelf.

‘Merlot okay?’ he asked, holding up a New World bottle.

‘Lovely.’

He grabbed two glasses and brought them over to the piano. He poured the wine and sat next to her, their legs not quite touching and yet she could feel the warmth of his, so close to hers.

‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘To new friends.’

She raised an eyebrow and clinked his glass. ‘So that’s what we are, are we?’ she asked, taking a sip.

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Can you blame me? You haven’t exactly been welcoming up till now.’

Tony looked down at the ivory keys. ‘It wasn’t that,’ he said quietly, beginning to press down on them softly. Sophie wanted to ask him what it was, then; but he was letting
his fingers do the talking, a mournful melody beginning to swirl like mist around them.

Sophie watched the tendons in his forearms as his fingers skated across the keys, the hairs on the back of his hand, the way his bicep bulged softly as he ran up the octaves. Slowly, she dragged
her eyes up to his shoulders, his neck and throat, his face. Staring at his profile she saw that his eyes were shut. He was lost to her, immersed in the music. God, he was so beautiful. She wanted
to reach out and touch him, run her fingers over his face like a sculptor, commit his contours to her own touch.

Quietly, she slid off the stool and padded over to the worktop. A Stanley knife-sharpened HB pencil was sitting on top of some sketches of a barn. She took it and a clean piece of paper and
looked around for somewhere to sit. The bed was the only other place and it gave her a good angle of him.

She pushed her shoes off and sat down cross-legged, hurriedly sketching him in vignettes – the long lashes sweeping down and back up off his cheekbones, his straight nose, the full lips,
the black curls at the nape of his neck. Over the paper her pencil flew, drafting his passion, his tenderness, his joy.

When she finally looked up again, she realized he’d stopped. His eyes were roaming over her face, intrigued by her own absorption. He got up and walked over to her.

‘Let me see,’ he said, standing above her and holding his hand out.

She held it up slowly. ‘I’m sorry. I know I should have asked,’ she said awkwardly. ‘You asked me here to listen to your music, not so that I could . . .’ As the
paper left her hand, she caught sight of what she had drawn and she realized suddenly how much she had exposed herself, her hunger for him leaping off the paper as she tried to capture him, to get
to the heart of him.

He looked at it for a long moment, and she felt her cheeks fame from embarrassment. How could she have been so unguarded? She saw the paper waft from his hands to the floor. He hated it!

She looked up at him and found him staring at her. Time stopped.

Without saying anything, he propped a knee on the bed, between hers, and bent down over her, forcing her backwards until the mattress spread out under her and there was nowhere left to go. Her
hair fanned out beneath her and she felt her heart flip as finally, blissfully, he covered her mouth with his.

She untangled her long legs, wrapping them around him, gasps escaping her as his hot breath covered her neck. She wound her fingers in his hair, keeping him close to her as she felt his fingers
unbutton her shirt. He had it off in an instant, his brown hands caressing her pale waist, his scarlet lips on her pink nipples.

She rolled on top of him, pulling his T-shirt off in one fluid movement, and wriggling down him, covering his chest with hungry kisses while she pushed his jeans off with her legs, desperate to
get to him. She wriggled out of hers and ran her fingers up the length of him, hearing him moan as she increased the pressure and pace. She felt the tension build in him, his breathing change, and
she sprang up like a cat, straddling him. Her knickers were still on but neither could wait. She pulled them to the side, lifting herself on to him and falling into a rhythm that had them both
panting within seconds. His hands grabbed hers, their fingers entwined, and he pulled her body down to his, every part of them touching as they succumbed together to an unworldly, unstoppable
climax.

The fire crackled across the room, sending out stray sparks which hissed into cold oblivion on the stone floor. The Brie began to ooze on the plate.

Sophie lay in his arms, feeling the heat emanating from him, hearing his heart hammer under her cheek.

‘Why weren’t we friends the other times?’ she whispered.

She felt him pause before he let the words out. He tipped her chin up with his hand and kissed her sweetly between her eyes. He rolled over, pinning her beneath him. ‘Because I thought I
was going to lose you,’ he said. ‘The very night I’d finally found you.’

Tanner folded his arms as he watched the horses being brought in from the outer fields. It was four in the afternoon and he’d come straight from the airport to the farm,
his bags still in the car. Velasquez wasn’t due back at the estate until after six, and he’d taken the opportunity to come and check out the horses’ fitness and temperaments for
the journey that lay ahead.

All around him, cicadas were ticking in the trees, the mosquitoes rising up from the grasses, and he admired the stately mountain range that fanned out below the estate, as though it had been
parked there by Velasquez’s own decree.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, dripping in sweat. It was the middle of June and the humidity was oppressive. His chinos were clinging to his thighs and a dark sweat patch was
slowly spreading between his shoulders. His ironing wasn’t going to stand up to much out here. Since Jonty had returned to his MLitt at Cambridge – paparazzi pictures of Harry and Lulie
at Cannes together finally convincing him that she wasn’t coming back – and Violet had gone, he had had to do a crash course in household maintenance.

His nostrils flared at the memory of walking in on them – Violet on her knees in Silk’s office – when he’d gone to chase up the outstanding invoice that Pia, of course,
had failed to pass on to him. He hadn’t been hurt by the infidelity, though his pride had, as, yet again, Will Silk pulled a number on the Ludgrove family.

But he was determined to have the last laugh. Velasquez had not only paid the yard’s entire liveries a year upfront, but he’d paid them at double the rate Silk had negotiated. His
fortunes were on the up and things were better without Violet, even if he did keep pulling pink shirts from the washing machine.

‘Ha!’ cried the groom, rounding the horses easily into the pen and shutting the gate behind the last of them.

Tanner crossed his arms again and walked slowly round, appraising them. They were fresh and skippy, but a couple were looking a bit too frisky for such a long journey – he’d have to
check the feed they were on and make sure they weren’t on oats.

He jumped over the fencing and moved between the horses, talking to them gently. ‘Are they supplemented with vitamins?’ he asked, running his hand down one mare’s flank and
lifting the hoof.

The groom sat on his horse, arms crossed on the back of the horse’s neck. ‘
Si, senhor
. Very good.’

Tanner nodded, weaving through the horses like a snake through water. His Portuguese was about as good as this guy’s English. He’d have to wait for Velasquez’s return before he
could get any level of detail on them.

‘Right,’ he said, completing his check and vaulting back out. ‘Well, that’ll do for today. They look fit enough. I’ll check them against their vet records
tomorrow.’

‘
Si, senhor
,’ the groom replied, clearly not understanding a word.

He and Tanner stared at each other. ‘Shall we go up to the house, then?’ Tanner asked finally.

‘House?
Si, senhor
,’ the groom replied, cantering over to the jeep and speaking to the driver in rapid-fire Portuguese.

Tanner rolled his eyes wearily. He was going to be here only three days but he had a feeling it was going to be a long trip.

Velasquez was sitting on the verandah, a fan spinning above him, when Tanner finally came downstairs. He had succumbed to a fitful sleep on top of the bed and awoken only when
the sound of parrots screeching in the imperial palm trees pierced his dreams.

‘Welcome, my friend,’ Velasquez said, rising and pumping Tanner’s hand.

‘Vittorio,’ he said warmly, appreciative of the large cold rum his host immediately set to pouring. ‘It’s good to be here.’

‘I am sorry I could not be here when you arrived. I had urgent business in Santiago that could not be put off.’

‘It was no problem,’ Tanner demurred. ‘I took the opportunity to go and check out the horses.’

Velasquez smiled at him. ‘Yes, I heard that you had wasted no time seeing them. And what did you think?’ He handed Tanner his drink and leant on the verandah rail.

‘Every bit as glossy as your portfolio suggested. It looks like a winning team.’