Just Friends (39 page)

CHAPTER 26

He ought to have passed out by now. Why the hell hadn’t he? Jack slopped more whisky into his glass and raised it to his lips. The smell made him nauseated. He slammed down the glass and paced up and down the library, kicking errant scraps of silver ribbon and crackly paper out of his way. He was so . . .
angry!

His first impulse had been to leave—to jump in the car, drive straight to the airport and go home. To hell with Freya and her family and this stupid wedding! But the car keys were in Freya’s purse upstairs; returning to the bedroom was too humiliating to contemplate. Instead, he’d tramped around the dewy gardens for the better part of an hour, irritatingly shadowed by an inquisitive Bedivere, who clearly hoped that Jack was going to reveal the whereabouts of his bone-hoard. But his efforts to calm his mind and exhaust his body had proved futile. All he’d gotten was wet feet. All he’d seen was the sordid debris of the party—extinguished flares, gusting napkins, the litter of cigarette butts and burst balloons. All he’d heard were the sounds of a couple copulating in a hay barn; their moans only increased his frustration.

He
hated
her, yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Freya running down the beach in her bikini, long legs gleaming with seawater. Freya dancing in her mermaid dress. The feel of her in his arms, the look in her eye when he’d retrieved the karaoke disaster, the tender lift of her chin as she’d raised her head to kiss him. And the kiss itself. That kiss! . . .

Jack groaned aloud and circled back toward his drink. Thank the Lord for alcohol. When at length he’d returned to the house, he’d remembered the couch where Roland had sat in state, big enough to sleep on, and the tray of drinks at his elbow, and found his way here. Now he slumped onto the worn cushions and sank his head in hands. He needed to sleep. But he couldn’t. Resentment boiled inside him. How could she do that to him? Not once, but
twice
. What did the woman want?
Come here, Jack. Go away, Jack. Isn’t this fun, Jack? No, don’t be ridiculous.
Push, pull, push, pull, until he was dizzy, exhausted, frustrated, and furious. When he thought of how he had put himself out for her, abandoning his work, flying thousands of miles to take part in this ridiculous charade, and she couldn’t even—! He tugged at his hair. And why bring Candace up at a moment like that? He hadn’t even thought of Candace since he’d been here—not once!

Jack jumped up from the couch and began pacing again, looking for distraction. The room was full of books, rows and rows of them—clothbound, leatherbound, jacketed; stamped, scrolled, foxed, and frayed. Oh, for the solace of literature, to take possession of his mind and lead it into pastures new—or at least send him to sleep. He peered at the magisterial volumes—Horace, Byron, Pepys, Boswell—and was uneasily reminded of his own novel. He moved along the shelves, looking for something taxing and intricate, which required his full concentration. Ah, Henry James:
The Golden Bowl.
That should do it. He placed the book ready by the couch, then collected all the cushions he could find for his sore head. Grunting, he bent down to unlace and remove his damp shoes. The bottoms of his trousers were wet, too. Maybe if he hung them over a chair to dry, he could use those huge wedding-present bath towels as a makeshift covering. He was starting to unzip his fly when the sensation of being watched made him turn around sharply.

A woman was standing in the open doorway. For a moment he thought it was Freya, come to beg his forgiveness, and almost threw Henry James at her. Then the figure stepped out of the dimness and came into focus.

“Can’t you sleep either?” said Tash.

Jack gave a noncommittal grunt. As she strolled over to him, he saw that her feet were bare and her dark hair loose and tousled. She was wrapped in the pink thing she’d worn this morning.

“Ooh, lovely, you’ve found the booze.” She gave him a conspirator’s smile.

“Uh, yes.” Jack realized that he must present a slightly peculiar spectacle, alone here among the wedding presents, with his shoes off, his pile of cushions, and the Penroses’ half-empty whisky bottle. “I’m afraid I helped myself. Hope that’s okay.”

“ ‘Course it is, Jack! You’re practically one of us. What’s ours is yours.”

“Thanks.” Her friendliness was cheering. At least somebody liked him. “Here, let me get you a glass.”

He poured her a drink and sat down. Tash clambered onto the other end of the couch and relaxed with a small sigh, tucking her legs beneath her. She raised her glass in a playful toast.

“Here’s to my last few hours of freedom.”

“Freedom,” echoed Jack. Yeah, he’d drink to that.

“Just think: by tomorrow night I’ll be Mrs. Swindon-Smythe.” Tash giggled. “It sounds frightfully grown up.”

“Yep. You’re a brave girl.”

“Don’t say that! I’ve got butterflies in my tummy as it is. Still, I suppose Roley’s got the essentials, so what the hell?” She gave a larky grin.

“And what are the essentials for marriage—so I can be sure to avoid them?”

“Loads of dosh, for a start.”

“ ‘Dosh?’?”

“Honestly, Jack. Call yourself a writer, and you don’t know a simple word like that? Lolly. Dough. Bread. Holding-folding. Roley’s father practically
owns
some entire railway thingy.”

“Oh, money. That old stuff. And what else?”

“Well, he adores me, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And . . . he’s
very
good in bed.”

Her wide eyes gazed cheekily into his. She was a sexy little number all right. Jack was pretty sure she didn’t have a stitch on underneath her robe. Lucky Roland.

“So tell me, Jack. What are you doing down here all alone? Has she chucked you out for some frightful misdemeanor?”

“Who, Freya? Nah.” Jack waved a casual hand. “I just . . .”

“You just what?” she asked teasingly. “Forgot your condoms?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t get it up?”

“No!”

“Don’t tell me: you attempted something more exotic than the missionary position, and she freaked.”

Her outspokenness embarrassed him; irritated him; excited him. His eye fell on the navy-bound volume by his side. “Actually, I came down to get a book.”

“A book! Golly, what an exciting sex life you two must lead. Do you always take off your shoes before reading aloud to her, you kinky thing?”

“Shut up, Tash,” Jack growled.

“Oops, sor-ree.” Tash shrank herself into a kittenish ball. “Do I detect a lovers’ tiff?”

“No, you don’t!” Jack banged the arm of the couch. “We’re not lovers!”

There was a long pause.

“Really?” Tash’s voice sharpened with interest.

Jack passed a hand across his aching head. He didn’t have the strength to pretend anymore. “I may as well tell you.” He put down his whisky glass. “Freya and I are just friends. We’ve been friends for years. She wanted someone to come over here with her, and I agreed. End of story. We’ve never—” he broke off.

“What, never?” Tash smiled incredulously.

Jack shook his head.

“But you tried tonight, and she slapped you down?”

Jack looked away, saying nothing. It was humiliating to realize how he’d demeaned himself: the haircut, the smart clothes, buttering up Freya’s family, following her around like a lapdog, pretending to go upstairs to bed together, then sleeping separately. Revealing his humiliation to this warm-blooded, uninhibited young girl made him feel like an impotent old fool.

“Poor old Jack.” Her voice was like molasses. “Perhaps you need some . . . cheering up.”

Jack turned his head and looked at her. She was eyeing him over her glass. She really was very pretty, with her shiny dark hair tumbling around her face, and soft skin flushed like a ripe fruit. He could see the swell of her breasts at the opening of her robe, and the nipples that pressed through the thin, shiny material.

Tash put out the pink tip of her tongue and slowly licked the rim of her glass. She circled the smooth, curved edge, back and forth, watching him with dark, dreamy eyes. Suddenly he was conscious that his trousers were still half-unzipped beneath his loose shirt. It would look foolish to zip them up now. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he could.

“Don’t tease,” he said.

“Why not?” Her full lips pouted. She stretched out one smooth, bare leg and inched it across the couch and onto his lap. Her robe fell away, exposing a creamy thigh.

“Because I’m tired of games.” Jack gripped her foot.

“I love games,” Tash said huskily. “It was me who put your name down for the karaoke, to see how you’d . . . perform. You were good, Jack.”

He could feel her toes stroking him, pushing his zip wider and wider. His body began to hum. “Why are you doing this, Tash? You’re getting married tomorrow.”

“That’s why. One last, lovely taste of freedom. With lovely, lovely Jack.” Tash put down her glass. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she loosened her robe and wriggled it free of her shoulders. Her breasts sprang toward him—warm, soft little puppydogs with pink tongues hanging out, just asking to be stroked. She arched her back and smiled. “What do you think?”

Jack was beginning not to think anything much. “I think . . . you’re a very naughty person.”

“It takes one to know one.” Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “Come, on Jack. No one will find out. It can be our secret.”

The tiny corner of his brain that was still functioning told Jack that this was unusual behavior for a bride-to-be. Still, if she wanted to, who was he to argue? It was just sex. He liked sex. He loosened his grip on her foot and let it roam, up and down and around. His fingertips slid up the inside of her leg. When he reached the soft, incredibly silky skin of her thigh, she let her legs flop apart, and leaned back. Jack pushed aside the last concealment of her robe. He could see everything. He could smell her. His heartbeat began to accelerate. He’d been badly treated. He was owed.

Tash put one hand out to her glass and dabbled her middle finger in the whisky. When she took it out, he could see the liquid running down and gathering in heavy, golden drops. “I hope you like whisky,” she said.

Maddened by her teasing, Jack launched himself on top of her. He heard her give a little crow of pleasure, and felt her hot little hands slip under his loosened trousers. They pushed at the last resistance of his zipper and reached around to capture him—squeezing, stroking, tickling. Her head was tipped back on the edge of the couch, hair brushing the carpet.