Ruthless (9 page)

‘I’ve been travelling.’ He shrugged. ‘Here and there, you know. Europe. Paris. You’d love it there.’

‘Would I?’

‘I’m sure you would.’

‘Well, one day I must go.’ She smiled her sad, secretive smile.

‘I’ll take you,’ he said, looking into her beautiful eyes.

Orla didn’t answer. She drained her whisky, and stood up. ‘I’m off to bed. You can find your way to your room all right?’

She’d sorted him out earlier with the room he’d slept in as a boy, put clean linen on the bed, made it comfortable for him.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Sleep well then, Rufus.’

Just like that. He sat there in the empty kitchen for a long time, wondering had he misread those smiles, her evident joy at seeing him again. Perhaps it was wrong, a sin to think of a cousin in that way, but he would be her lover in the blink of an eye, given the chance. She
knew
that. He believed that she had always known it. He finished his whisky and went upstairs to his allotted room – which took him past Orla’s.

He stopped there outside the closed door, and thought,
This is stupid. I want her. She wants me. Doesn’t she?

The thought of her in there, her silken skin, her hair on the pillow, inflamed him. He’d loved her so long, mourned her, and she was
alive,
she was his. He reached out a hand to open the door. Turned the handle.

It didn’t open.

The door was locked.

He stepped back in surprise.

Who the hell has a lock on their bedroom door?
he wondered, frowning.

He tried once more. Yes, it was locked. And no word came from within, she didn’t ask who it was, she didn’t come running, throw the door wide.

Confused, he walked on to his own room.

Orla sat up in bed and watched the handle turn. Once. Twice. Her heart beating fast, her limbs frozen in fear, she clutched the sheets against her. Then she heard him move on, and go into his own room.

Slowly, inch by inch, she relaxed.

But after that, she couldn’t sleep.

20

London, 1985

‘I don’t think I’m up to this,’ said Annie to herself in the mirror.

No? Well, you’ve committed yourself to it now, so tough. Get on with it.

She stared at her reflection. She was wearing a vintage black lace Dior gown, with her hair swept up on top of her head. Before she set off this evening she had accentuated her eyes with flicked-up black eyeliner, outlined her mouth in her usual scarlet red. She looked sophisticated, worldly. Beautiful even. But she was shit-scared.

However, when she left the powder room and re-entered the busy restaurant her fear didn’t show. She sat down, and smiled across at her date. He smiled back. He was an attractive man with straight dark hair and expressive brown eyes. He wore a bespoke suit, navy blue. He looked good and smelled even better.

This was their second date. On their
first
one, he hadn’t tried to so much as kiss her goodnight, thank God. On this one, he just might. Annie wondered how she felt about that. Answer – she hadn’t a clue. She had met him through a connection of Dolly’s. He was divorced too. And a banker, so not sniffing round after her money: he had plenty of his own. Layla had no idea her mum had been on two dates: she’d been away for the first one and Annie had made damned sure she didn’t find out about this one either.

Annie had moved on, and she was proud of herself for that. After the divorce, she had crumbled. She knew she had. Good friends had helped her pull through a very tough, painful time. A time in which her daughter had completely blanked her. A time during which some days she couldn’t even get out of bed, comb her hair or clean her teeth, she felt so low.

Bad, bad days.

But she’d come through all that. She had slowly, surely, rebuilt her life. Layla was nineteen now – a young woman. Things between them were still . . . well,
frigid
would be a good word for it. Layla was polite but distant. No more, no less. She had a job in an accountancy firm, she was hyper-bright, could add a column of figures in record time.

As for Annie . . . well, she’d learned to drive. Bought herself a top-of-the-range car. Treated herself to some designer gear: a few Yves St Laurent pieces, a lot of Chanel, some cunningly constructed items from Betty Jackson and Balenciaga. She indulged in high-end holidays, regularly jetted back and forth to the States, checked out the Times Square club, visited with Alberto her stepson, made something of a life for herself.

And . . . she’d started dating.

She glanced at her date as he paid the bill, left a hefty tip for their waiter. No, her date wasn’t mean. But he’d been rude and snappy to the poor little bastard more than once this evening, trying no doubt to impress her or maybe the other diners with his standing as a gourmand, his expectation of only ever receiving the very best. David Fairbright. Good-looking, wealthy but not mean with his money, and tall – taller than Max.

Shit, now why had she thought of him?

As they went out to the taxi, she pushed her ex-husband out of her mind.

‘Nice dinner,’ David said as they sat in the back of the cab on its way to Holland Park.

‘Lovely,’ she replied, although she couldn’t even remember what she’d eaten. And his treatment of the waiter had annoyed her.

‘You haven’t been there before?’ he asked.

‘No. Never.’

Silence fell. Silence had been falling between them all evening, and it wasn’t an easy companionable one either. The fact was, he didn’t know what to say to her and she wasn’t interested enough to come up with something to say to him. Annie suspected that he found her slightly intimidating. A lot of men did. She was wealthy in her own right, and some men – David included, she thought, for all his pumped-up self-importance and yes he
was
a bit of a bolshy git – couldn’t handle that.

That, and her background. Which was colourful, to say the least.

They’d talked on their first date, about their divorces. She had mentioned Max’s name. And she suspected that since then David had been doing a little homework, because he seemed a fraction cooler this time. Now that he knew about Max, and about her, she suspected their second date would also be their last.

The taxi pulled up outside the Holland Park house. Annie got out, and David did too, paying off the taxi driver, who drove away.

Annie walked up the steps to the big navy-blue double doors, getting her key out of her bag. What the hell had he sent the taxi away for? Suddenly all she wanted was for him to be gone, to just be alone.

On the step underneath the porch light, he took her hand. Then, to her surprise, he pulled her in close, and started to kiss her. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and Annie jerked her head away.

‘Don’t do that,’ she snapped.

‘Oh, come on,’ he said, and she saw him smile. ‘The evening’s been a bit of a disaster so far, but that’s no reason to call it off altogether.’

He moved forward again. This time Annie shoved him, hard, and he half-staggered down the steps and nearly fell.

‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ he said, glaring up at her as he regained his balance.

‘Me? Nothing. You? You’re a pushy arsehole looking down your stupid nose at the entire world, and you know what? I don’t like you.’

She opened the door and went inside, slamming it behind her. She wiped her mouth, irritated at him, at herself too because she’d hated him kissing her but what did she expect? Violins? Heavenly choirs? She marched across the hall and into the study, fell into her chair and picked up the phone on the desk. She dialled.

‘Doll?’ she asked when she heard the familiar voice on the other end of the phone.

‘How’d it go?’ asked Dolly excitedly.

‘It was horrible. He’s a prick.’

‘Damn. That’s a shame.’

‘He tried to French me.’

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone.

‘Annie, love,’ said Dolly, ‘you used to run a knocking shop. You were a gangster’s moll, pardon me for pointing out the flipping obvious. And you married into the Mafia. And you’re shocked that some guy
French kissed
you?’

‘Oh fuck the men. Who cares? I’m happy enough without them.’

‘You can’t give up yet.’

Annie stared at the phone.
This
from a woman who, as far as she knew, had never so much as given any man a second glance.

‘Tea tomorrow? The Ritz? Don’t forget.’

‘I haven’t forgotten.’

‘And listen, Ellie was telling me about this
fantastic
bloke . . .’

Annie let out a groan. ‘Don’t. I’ll see you there tomorrow, OK?’

‘Chin up,’ said Dolly.

‘Oh fuck off,’ said Annie, and hung up to the sound of Dolly laughing merrily in her ear.

21

There was no mention of the locked door. After that first night, Rufus had tried twice more, then given up. Orla, though obviously pleased to have him around, continued to be restrained in her affection. Their lives settled into a routine, dull but not unpleasant, and gradually the months passed into years. Then one day, while the old folks had their breakfast, she asked him to chop some wood for the stove.

‘Of course,’ he said, and went outside into the brisk morning breeze. It was a bright clear day and he felt his spirits lift.

This old place was like home to him now, and he was glad to be here, glad to have stopped running at last. He found the axe in the shed and set to the job with enthusiasm, chopping the logs in two and piling them up in the store, ready for the coming autumn. It was hot work. Rufus stripped off his shirt and worked bare-chested in the sun. He’d been at it for an hour or so when Orla appeared with a cold lemonade for him.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘You’ve done well,’ she said, her eyes skimming over the pile of wood before returning to rest on him. Her gaze dipped to his chest, to the rivulets of sweat running down there. She thought he looked like some Norse giant from a fable, golden and muscular and strong.

Rufus watched her watching him.
For God’s sake,
he thought in frustration. What was going on with her? She was clearly interested. He
knew
she was. Yet there had been that locked door, the cold shoulder.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, draining the glass and handing it back to her.

‘Sure you can.’

‘That first night I came here – and the two times I tried after that – didn’t you hear me at your door?’

Orla’s smile slipped. She stared at the ground. Didn’t answer.

‘Why d’you have to lock your door anyway?’ asked Rufus.

She shrugged, looked up. ‘I can’t sleep without it locked.’

‘Really?’ This sounded strange. ‘But you heard me at the door, didn’t you?’

Her eyes met his. ‘Yes. I heard you.’

‘Orla . . . why don’t you leave it
unlocked
, tonight.’

Orla stared, said nothing.

‘Don’t you want to?’ asked Rufus gently.

Orla started to shake her head, then slowly she nodded. Her fingers were clenched so hard around the empty glass that he thought she might break it.

‘Leave it unlocked,’ said Rufus, and his eyes held hers. ‘I’ll take care of you, I promise. You know I will.’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘I know that.’

She walked away, back indoors. He watched her go. Then he started chopping more wood, with a smile on his face. He couldn’t wait for the day to go, for night to come.

And now here he was, outside her bedroom door again. He knocked lightly – he didn’t want to disturb the old folks – and then tried the handle. This time, it opened. He went in. The bedside light was on. Orla was sitting up in the bed, wearing a pink winceyette nightdress, the kind a granny would wear, her hair loose around her shoulders, the soft light making her glow like an angel.

Rufus closed the door behind him. He turned the key in the lock, to keep her happy. Besides, he didn’t want the oldies wandering in and finding them making love. Unbuttoning his shirt, he went to the bed and smiled down at her.

She looked nervous. In fact, she looked afraid. He was puzzled. Of course she would have had lovers over the years.

‘It’s all right,’ he said soothingly. ‘I promised to take care of you and I will.’

He took a packet of Durex from his trouser pocket and placed it on the bedside table.

He kicked off his socks and shoes, unbuckled his belt, unzipped, slipped off his trousers and underpants. Then he slid under the sheets and cuddled up to her. She stiffened, but he drew her close, nuzzled at her neck. Tentatively, her arms went around him. He kissed her more deeply, and she pulled away.

‘We’ll take this slowly,’ he said, although he didn’t want to. ‘As slowly as you need. Don’t worry about a thing. Now, perhaps we could just slip this off . . .?’ He indicated the nightdress.

Orla nodded. He thought that she looked as if she was about to be shot, not pleasured. But she yanked the unflattering thing off, tossed it on the floor, and then clutched the sheet against her breasts.

He was almost amused by her reticence. It was like seducing a teenager, not a full-grown woman. He’d had lots of experience, personally. There’d been many women, impressed by his bulk and strength, younger ones and one particular older one, a goddess in human form, who had taught him at a very young age how to make a woman lose her mind in bed.

‘And the sheet, if you could let go of that,’ he said, smiling, making light of it to relax her.

Orla let go of the sheet. Rufus pushed it down to the bottom of the bed, his eyes running over her with great admiration. Where his eyes went, his hand followed, smoothly gliding across her silky white skin, lingering at the fiery red bush, progressing to her cinnamon-coloured nipples, which were hard as pinpoints on the soft small mounds of her breasts.

‘I’ve dreamed of this,’ he said with a shiver of delight. ‘So many years, I’ve dreamed of it.’

‘I know,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I always knew.’