Fire Hawk (8 page)

‘No.'

She took her hand back as if his refusal hurt. She
looked down at her long, slim fingers with their neat clear-lacquered nails. Her hair fell forward covering much of her face. She tossed it back but kept her eyes down. The set of her mouth conveyed a sadness which he'd seen before from time to time and never fully understood.

‘Trespassers keep out,' she murmured.

‘What d'you mean?'

‘Sometimes you draw a circle round yourself, Sam. A circle nobody's allowed to cross.'

She stood up and moved his plate to the sink. He watched her as she rinsed it. She was right of course. He
did
treasure his personal space. He was far from sure he could ever share his life fully with a woman. But whatever the qualities such a woman would need to have, Chrissie had come closer than any other – because of how they'd been in bed, and because of how it felt just to
be
with her.

Watching her leaning forward at the sink, he couldn't stop himself thinking about what was underneath the neat skirt and blouse. He pictured her firm, round arse and slender thighs; the long, downy back. He looked at her hair and knew that beneath its chestnut layers there were cirrus-cloud wisps of a paler colour at the nape.

She finished at the sink and turned round. ‘What are you thinking?'

‘What I always think when I look at you,' he answered, smiling.

‘Sam . . .' She came round behind his chair and put her arms round his neck. ‘What am I going to do about you?'

‘I could make a suggestion or two.'

For a short while she remained still, holding her breath. Then she let out a long sigh and stood up straight again, her hands moving to his shoulders.

‘You're so tense,' she whispered. ‘I can still feel those
knots.' Her thumbs kneaded gently at the base of his neck. ‘I suppose I could . . .'

‘What?'

‘. . . give you a little massage. Purely therapeutic, you understand.' But the tremor in her voice told him it might be otherwise.

‘Of course.'

‘You've got great, hard lumps that need seeing to. Don't have to be a professional masseuse to feel them.'

Too right, thought Sam.

‘You'd have to try to empty your mind, you know . . .'

‘Meaning?'

It was a few seconds before she answered. ‘Meaning you'd have to forget it's me.'

He swallowed. What was she on about?

‘And how do I do that?'

‘I don't know. That's for you to work out.'

He heard a rising excitement in her voice, as if caught up by some idea.

‘Think of me as some professional therapist.' Her fingers worked away as she spoke. ‘Hands touching you, but not
my
hands. Not
my
body . . .'

He closed his eyes and tried to put his brain in neutral. If she wanted it to be a game then a game it would be – just so long as she understood where it was heading.

Suddenly she stopped the movement of her hands. She slipped her arms round him again and kissed his neck. ‘The masseuse says you'll have to get those clothes off, mister.'

‘What are we doing, Chrissie?' he murmured.

‘Chrissie? I'm not Chrissie, remember? Chrissie's the one who's made a promise to her husband.' She gave a little laugh. But a laugh with pain in it. ‘How long do we have?'

‘Quentin said a couple of hours . . .'

‘. . . about an hour ago.'

‘Yes.'

She kissed him on the top of his head.

‘Then I don't think we should waste any of it.'

Back up in the child's bedroom, her mouth opened to him and he kissed her. He felt the press of her stomach against his and smoothed his hands down her back and over the curve of her behind. Then, after a few seconds, she pushed him gently away.

‘No. Not like that. It's got to be my way.' She put a finger to his lips.

‘Chrissie, for God's sake. Stop farting about.'

She made a clicking noise with her tongue and walked out along the landing to the bathroom, returning with a dry towel and a bottle of baby oil.

‘For the massage,' she explained.

He narrowed his eyes.

‘Trust me.'

She spread the towel on the bed and helped him to remove his polo shirt and trousers.

‘God, those bruises,' she hissed, turning him round. ‘I can't believe they did this to you.'

He lay on his front and she manoeuvred his arms until they were stretched out by his head. Then, using the oil as a lubricant, her hands kneaded at his knotted muscles with a skill that surprised him. As she worked her way down the sinews of his back, carefully avoiding the parts that had been beaten, he felt his body begin to relax for the first time in a long time.

‘You're supposed to use aromatic oils for stress,' she murmured, trickling more oil onto his shoulder blades. ‘Lavender, hyssop, that sort of thing.'

She smoothed the unction round the curving spars of his ribcage and along the sides of his muscular back as if moulding a pot on a wheel. A tenderness was taking over in her touch. Less therapeutic and more sensual. Her
breathing became shorter and uneven. Then, abruptly, the massaging stopped altogether, her hands holding on to the sides of his body as if drawing on its energy.

‘Sam . . .' Her voice had become husky. ‘It mustn't be
me.
You understand? Oh God,' she sighed, ‘don't make me explain. Just tell me that you won't think of it as
me
here.'

‘Chrissie . . .' he growled.

‘Not
me,
Sam. Not Chrissie. Just say yes, lover.'

‘Yes.'

Her hands left him and he heard her fingers fiddling with the buttons of her blouse. Then the snick of her bra strap disconnecting and the purr of the zip on her skirt. He began to turn over to look at her but suddenly her arms were alongside his, her breath warm against the back of his neck. He wanted to face her, to lock their mouths together and press his erection against her belly, but her weight held him where he was. He felt her bare nipples brush lightly against his shoulder blades, moving in loving circles against his oiled skin. In his mind he let himself drift back, pretending the break in their relationship had been a dream, a nightmare.

‘Feeling your body like this . . .' she whispered, close to his ear.

He could feel her heart thudding against his ribs. He pulled one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it with the strength of a bite.

‘Sam . . .'

Her voice sounded like a plea. But for what? To sate the hunger he knew would be as strong as his own by now, or a plea for him to take her back? He needed to know. To see the answer in her eyes. He tried to turn over, but the pain in his kidneys and her weight on him stopped him.

‘Not yet, lover,' she insisted, breathlessly. ‘You have to promise me something.'

‘What?' he croaked. What now?

‘That you won't look at me.' There was an edge of dread to her voice.

‘This is getting stupid.'

‘No. It
has
to be that way. It can't be
me,
Sam. I've told you that.
Please.
I need you to think of this as just some woman with you.
Any
woman. No identity. No past. No future . . .'

He understood at last. For all the time he'd known her she'd pretended things weren't what they were. And she was pretending still. If what they were about to do had no more meaning for him than if he were doing it with a whore, then it would be okay. Her promise to her husband would somehow remain intact.

No more meaning than with a whore. But no less either. And that would be enough for now.

‘Okay,' he breathed. ‘I'll keep my eyes closed.'

‘No. Eyes closed is not enough.' Her voice had a tightness about it that he knew well. She wanted him inside her now. Wanted the rush of orgasmic blood that would blind her to all reality. ‘I have to cover your eyes,' she told him.

A blindfold. Could she have suggested that if she'd known he'd spent the past ten days with a hood over his head? What game was this? What extraordinary game of self-delusion was she involved in?

‘Whatever you say,' he mouthed.

She bent down to the floor and picked up the hand-towel she'd used to dry the splashes he'd made after his wash. Then she slipped it under his head and tied it behind his neck.

‘Now, turn over,' she whispered.

As he rolled onto his back, he reached out for her shoulders but felt his hands pinned down onto the bed.

‘Please,' she breathed. ‘There's a massage underway here. I have to do your pectorals.'

Giving in reluctantly, he felt a trickle of oil on his sternum, then her hands spreading the liquid over his chest, avoiding with delicate care the blisters from the cigarette burns. Her fingers brushed against his nipples and circled them.

Deciding the time had come for him to take control, he reached a hand up to the back of her neck, forked his fingers through her hair and pulled her mouth down to his. As his tongue sought out hers, she breathed in sharply and squirmed against him. After a while she pulled back. He felt for her breasts, locating the bud-hard nipples, then raised his head and took one in his mouth. It had the sweet taste of the oil she'd used on his body.

‘Oh shit,' she gasped, clasping his head to her. ‘Oh
God
how I've missed you!'

Then she broke away again. He heard her get off the bed and remove her pants. He had an urge to rip off the blindfold and let his eyes gorge themselves on this body that he knew so well and loved so much. But he sensed that to do so would wreck their deal. He raised his hips and pushed off his own shorts. Feeling her weight back on the bed, he held his breath, anticipating her mouth on his erection. Instead he felt a trickle of oil.

‘Jesus . . .' he croaked.

She spread the unction down his shaft.

‘Now,' he insisted. ‘For Christ's sake . . .'

As she straddled his legs, he reached between her thighs, exploring her own warm, wet readiness with his fingers, he pulled her towards him. She guided him in and, as he penetrated her body, she let out an anguished cry. She rocked her pelvis, slowly at first, then with an increasing vigour, emitting little mews of pleasure as she did so. Finally with a moan of ecstasy she gasped his name as he unburdened himself deep inside her. She shuddered with her own climax, then fell forward on his chest.

He held onto her with his fingers through her hair in that deliciously peaceful way she'd always loved. For a few seconds she lay very still as their pulses subsided. He felt her lips move against his shoulder and knew she was smiling. Then, stiffening as if hearing a noise, she lifted herself off him and stood up.

‘Remember, still no peeking,' she told him.

He heard her pull tissues from a box on the child's dressing table to dry herself, then realised she was hurriedly putting clothes on over by the window. Enough of this bloody nonsense, he decided. He lifted the towel from his eyes. She had her pants on already and was pulling up her skirt, standing side on to him.

Then he saw.

Her stomach was indeed fuller than it used to be. So, he suspected, were her breasts. And this wasn't the sort of weight gain that came from dinners out with husbands.

She caught him looking and guiltily zipped up her skirt. Then she turned away from him, reaching behind her back to hook up her bra.

‘How many weeks?' he asked, shocked.

‘Don't know what you're talking about.'

For a moment or two she made as if she hadn't heard him properly. Then he saw her straighten up as if deciding she would after all have to face the confrontation she'd gone to such lengths to avoid. Her face was flushed when she turned, but her grey eyes were pewter-hard.

‘Twelve,' she told him defiantly. She held his look. She knew what he was calculating. ‘No,' she told him simply. ‘It's Martin's. I'm quite sure of it.'

She
couldn't
be sure. Couldn't possibly be sure the baby wasn't his. He and she had made love more than once in the week before the break-up nearly three months ago.

‘Chrissie love . . .'

Suddenly she jumped. There
was
a noise outside.

‘Quentin's back,' she exclaimed, peering through the window. She hurried over to the bed, organising him. ‘The towels . . . you'll have to stand up.' Her voice was brisk, devoid of all its softness.

She took the towel they'd been lying on and the one she'd used for his blindfold and hurried them back to the bathroom with the baby oil.

‘I have to go now,' she told him, re-entering the room. ‘I'll be late for my flight to Heathrow.'

‘But, hang on a minute. We need to talk about this.'

‘No. There's nothing to talk
about.
The baby's not yours, Sam.'

But the brimming of her eyes told him differently. For a moment he thought she would come to him, but she bit her lip and turned away, closing the door behind her.

He swung his legs to the floor. He heard voices downstairs. Urgent voices, as if Mowbray had returned from the embassy with information that had changed things.

Nothing to talk about, she'd said. Pretending again. Making things out to be not what they were. Numbly, Sam picked up his polo shirt and pulled it over his head, his body smelling of her sex.

Damn you, Chrissie, he thought. Damn you and whatever game you're at.

As he pulled on his trousers over the shin dressings he heard the front door go. He hobbled to the window and looked out. Mowbray was hustling Chrissie to his car. They drove off at speed.

He was alone in the house.

Chrissie was pregnant. And she'd conceived in June.

He looked round the little bedroom. Bunny wallpaper. Cuddly toys in the corner. How apt. How sickeningly bloody apt.