Dirty Little Secrets (5 page)

James’ eyes widened, clearly not expecting her to take him up on the offer. “Great.”

James struggled with his keys as he adjusted to using his right hand for the task.

“Let me.” She took the keys without being offered.

“A woman who takes charge.”

“Always,” she said.

She was surprised by his décor. She expected a typical bachelor pad with leather sofas and a flat screen television the size of a compact car, or fully kitted out in IKEA. Thankfully, the reality was entirely different. The house was classic and understated, hardwood floors with pale throw rugs dotted about. The walls were covered in paintings that ran the gamut of artists: impressionists, modern, to neoclassical. There was no television in sight, instead there were bookcases crammed full of works. She was impressed; few people had more books than she. Ever since she had had a disposable income, her biggest monthly outgoing had been books, and she didn’t part with a single one. Once they were read, they were placed on the book shelf, never before.

“Red or white wine?” James asked as he laid his suit jacket on the back of a chair.

“Red, please.”

“Good, cause I have a bottle open. Not sure I can manage to open the white. That is one way to slow down an Aussie, break his bottle opening hand.” Half of his mouth hitched in a crooked smile.

Her back stiffened, “Do you drink a lot?”

“By Australian standards? I would say I’m verging on teetotal.”

“And by American standards?”

“The Yanks are a funny bunch. A couple drinks with dinner and they start staging an intervention. I reckon most people who drink are alcoholics by American standards.”

She was not going to let the issue go. Alcohol misuse was not something she took lightly. Not that she took much lightly. “So you would say you drink to excess by American standards?”

“Shouldn’t you swear me in before you cross examine me?” When he smiled, crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry. I don’t make small talk as much as I interrogate.”

“Occupational hazard?”

“No, it’s all me,” she admitted.

“Well then I suppose it was a good thing you found the law.”

She nodded as she sat down on a blue chambray couch.

“I’m starving. Do you fancy a bite to eat? I know you said you have cereal waiting for you at home, but maybe I could tempt you with chicken and salad. Don’t want to brag but I grill a damn fine chicken breast,” he called as he walked through to the kitchen.

Megan thought for a minute. He was only offering to be polite and if she was going to return the favour she should just make her apologies and let him get to bed.

He returned a few minutes later carrying a glass of wine in his right hand and another glass balanced between his left hand and his chest. “I put dinner on for you too. I hate eating alone.”

She accepted the glass and took a sip. “Nice.” The wine was ripe and sweet with a velvety flavour. “Californian?”

“No, Australian. All good things come from down under. When will you Yanks learn that?”

“All good things?” she asked as she took another sip.

“Well, the best wine and the best men.”

Despite herself she smiled. In other men, the comment would be arrogant. From him it seemed a statement of the obvious. As a physical specimen, he would be hard to beat. He was simultaneously beautiful and masculine, raw and refined.

Again she noticed his mouth; it was generous in size with full lips that curved easily into a carefree smile. They were perfect kissing lips. She took another large drink of wine and allowed herself to imagine kissing him. It was harmless fun. She would never actually do it and later when she dusted off her vibrator it would be nice to see such a perfect face as she came.

“I’m going to go check on the chicken. What kind of dressing do you want for the salad? I have French and Italian.”

“What, no Australian? Are they not number one in the condiment market also?”

He rewarded her with a smile and her heart skipped a beat. She took another sip of wine. She was having fun, flirting and pretending to be carefree. She missed sex, the pure hedonistic joy of fucking someone and finding as much pleasure as their body could give you. Tomorrow she was going to book a vacation, somewhere where no one knew she was the senator’s wife. After Booker Colley named Ben as his running mate, Megan would never be anonymous again. Her role would be cast in stone at that point. No turning back.

Her throat tightened at the prospect.

If Megan was going to have sex again in the foreseeable future, she would need to do it sooner rather than later. As soon as she got home she was going to book a flight. Someplace warm, with men who looked like James. She was now determined to find a man for discrete, but utterly hot and meaningless interludes. Abstinence was not a normal state for human beings; for any being, for that matter.

She put her wine down on the coffee table, finding a coaster to protect the polished walnut wood. She picked up the sole book,
The Giving Tree
. She smiled as she opened the cover and discovered the signature of the author—Shel Silverstein.

“My favourite book,” Megan said when James returned. He topped up her wine before sitting on the armchair opposite her.

He smiled. “Mine too. I take it with me when I move between houses. It’s the only constant. Everything else is interchangeable. The countries, the cars, the furniture.”

“The women,” she continued for him.

He nodded. “I reckon I shouldn’t say that, but yeah the women. One warm body is as good as the next and all that.” He held up his glass to toast. “To warm bodies and good books.”

She clanked her glass against his. She appreciated his honesty. Most men would bullshit about wanting to find the one, as they boned as many women who would let them stick their dick in them. There was something utterly refreshing about his candour.

“So why is it your favourite book?” James asked.

She took another sip of wine before she answered. “Because it’s simple and beautiful at the same time. And it captures just how greedy men are. They take and take and take, even when there is nothing left to give. The take-away message is: men are bastards, but it is written so beautifully, I cry every time I read it.” She realised too late she had admitted far too much about herself. “Tell anyone that and I will deny it.”

“Which part, that you are cynical or that the ice queen can show genuine emotion?”

“God, I am proud of the cynical part, just can’t let people know I cry.”

“I’m guessing not very often.”

She shook her head. “No. I haven’t read the book in a few years, so it has been a while. I probably have a build-up of tears. I really should make time to read it again.”

“Do you really think the take-home message is men are bastards?”

She nodded. “Yep, and still it is beautiful. That is a good writer, who can tell you a horrible truth but put it in such simple and perfect terms that you think your life is richer for the knowledge.”

“Interesting perspective. Not the way I see it, but valid all the same.”

Watching his mouth move while he spoke was mesmerising. His lips caressed each word. Part of it was his generous mouth, the other was his pronunciation. His accent was broad. His intonation rose at the end of each sentence, like we has asking a question. It was an interesting juxtaposition: as a man he radiated confidence but his tone made him sound like he sought approval.

“How do you see it?”she asked.

James reached for the book and rested it on his thigh. “The clue is in the title. It is about the unconditional love of a parent. It’s not about taking, it’s about giving. The tree did not need to keep giving but she did it out of love.”

“If you believe that, you’re far too much of a romantic for me. I’ve never met anyone that loves like that, certainly not my mom. She is more like the little boy who keeps taking when nothing is left.”

“Yeah, so was my dad. Maybe nobody loves like that. It represents an ideal. That is the beauty, it gives something for us to strive for, and fall terribly short.” He topped up the glasses again and raised his again to toast. “To shit parents who fail us and make us stronger.”

“I don’t want to toast to that.”

“If it weren’t for shit parents, you would be out of a job. Christ, so would I, I’d have left journalism if it wasn’t for my dad. And as you can see, it has rewarded me handsomely.” He gestured to the spacious living room. “Shit, I’m talking too much. Maybe I should have asked the child prodigy if it’s safe to mix pain medication and wine. I mean, I wouldn’t have listened but I like to know the risks I’m taking.”

“What do you mean you would have left journalism?” she asked. The idea of him in another profession intrigued her. She tended to think of journalism as a character defect, not something one could walk away from.

“Christ, I’m talking too much. You don’t want to hear about all the ways I think my dad is an asshole. Spoiler—it’s a lot of ways.”

“So why didn’t you sell the company after your father was arrested?”

“And not prove to the world there are journalists with integrity? And prove to my dad that you can run a successful company and have ethics? Perish the thought, woman. You have your life’s work, I have mine.”

“But you don’t like it?” she asked a bit too hopefully.

“I love it, actually. I could do without people thinking I was scum because of it but que sera sera.”

“People think lawyers are scum too, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“Those people are ignorant fucks. They carry on hating lawyers until they need one to get their ass out of a bind.”

Her stomach did a flip. Those were near enough the same words she had said to Ben a few hours earlier. Damn he was hot, smart men were sexy men. But truth be told, she would still be up for it if he was the dullest bulb on the Christmas tree. Thank God James was a journalist because his profession was the only thing that kept her from climbing on his lap and sampling those full lips. She took a deep breath and pushed the thought to the back of her mind where she could find it for later use.

“You do swear a lot.” She crossed her legs as a hot flush spread across her body. She really did need to have sex. She was far too turned on, even for how good looking he was. Maybe it was because he was the ultimate forbidden fruit, a journalist doing a story on her husband. No, that wasn’t it. Journalists did stories on Ben all the time. The media already knew he was odds-on favourite for Colley’s running mate. Her attraction was something different, but she wasn’t going to waste time trying to determine what that actually was.

She really hoped she had fresh batteries because she was going to need them tonight.

“Did I forget to say I’m Australian? Sorry, it slipped my mind.”

They finished the bottle of wine before James got up to check on dinner. Megan followed him through to the kitchen.

He had laid out two plates with salad, ready to be dressed.

“Here, let me get the chicken. Hot grill plus broken hand and painkillers and alcohol, I don’t think that story would end well.” She reached beneath the grill and put the meat on the plates beside the salad before turning the oven off.

“I’m not drunk, not even a little bit. Just more relaxed than earlier. Now if you compare me to a paedophile, I’ll tell you to fuck off, that’s the only difference. Other than that we are still good to go.”

He came up behind her as she put dressing on the salads. He was so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her bare shoulder. He was so large, next to her. He filled the area around her, his presence sucking out the air, leaving a vacuum of electric energy. His presence was palpable despite the inches that separated them.

She let out a ragged breath. “Good to know. I’m down with swearing. It’s just violent drunks I can’t handle.”

“I said I wasn’t drunk, but clearly I can be violent when I need to be.”

He reached around her, his hands brushing hers as he reached for a bottle of salad dressing.

She jumped at the brief contact. She turned to face him. She could read people, she would know if he was lying. “At the hospital you said you would never hit a woman.”

“Of course I would never hit a woman. I could be drunk off my face and I would never hit a woman but that doesn’t mean I can’t be violent. You saw, I broke my hand on a guy’s face.” He held up his cast for proof.

Her heart beat faster. “But you would never hit a woman?” she pressed.

“Nope.”

“What if she really pissed you off?”

“We already established that. I would tell her to fuck off.”

“What is she hit you first?”

“Look at me, I have 90lbs on you. You can hit me until your fists bleed. I’m not going to hit you back.”

She shook her head. She needed to know his trigger point. All men had one. “No, what if she was going to hit you with something?”

In an instant, James pushed her against the island, trapping her hard against his hard body and the cold marble. His body was connected to hers at every level, applying enough pressure to keep her pinned in place. He was so close. She could feel his solid heartbeat through his shirt. It was hard to breathe. Heat radiated from her core, sending scorching tendrils down between her thighs, blood pooling in their midst. With every beat of her heart. Desire mounted and her restraint was washed away like the tide carrying away sand.

“There is never an excuse to hit a woman.” He lowered his head and breathed the words against her neck. She shivered from the sensation.

She believed him.

She licked her lips. His moss-green eyes were engulfed by large obsidian pupils. She remembered that look, even though it had been years since she had seen it. It was the look of a man before he kissed a woman. She closed her eyes, a nonverbal sign: an invitation.

She had not been kissed in too long. She could not remember the last time a man had held her with the intent of using her body for his pleasure. She breathed in the moment, the sweet anticipation.

In an instant James’ mouth closed on hers. He was more than a head taller than her so she had to rise on her tiptoes to reach his lowered lips. His mouth was sweet and tasted of wine. Even though all of his weight was pressed against her, he wasn’t close enough. She wriggled her arms free and linked then around his hips and pulled him closer. Through the thick material of his suit trousers, she could feel the hard length of his erection strain against the fabric.