Nearly Almost Somebody (12 page)

‘You’ll be okay, Lib.’

The muscles in his arms tensed as he kissed the top of her head and when he released her, she focussed on her boots, unable to look at him. If she did, she knew what she was feeling would be written all over her face. It was official –
I fancy the pants off him.

‘Night.’ She walked away, reaching the far side of the garden before she dared to peek back. She’d intended to shout goodbye or thank you, but he was sitting on the swing again, his hands behind his head as he stared at her, frowning slightly. She stared back. Oh god, did he feel the same? Had she done it again, accidentally summoned the wrong man? Robbie was twenty-nine, ridiculously good-looking with the best eyes in the world, he’d been brutally honest and now, if his wife were having an affair, he was bordering on being single.

No, no, no.

Grounding. She needed to do the grounding exercise again and get back in-sync with... well, with whatever had gone so astray because Robbie was married and regardless of what his wife was doing, he wasn’t fair game.

* * *

Zoë took a very different view. Quite frankly, Libby had to be insane for not seizing Robbie by his belt buckle and screwing him until he forgot his errant, cello-playing wife. He could give Libby everything she wanted - the idyllic life in the countryside.

She drummed her nails on the steering wheel of her BMW. Her bloody clients were late. People who were selling a house were never late. People wanting to buy a house were never late. People who were too bloody lazy to look for a house themselves, like Jemima and Charlie Harington? They were always late. And tedious.

The week before she’d endured an eye-gougingly boring lunch, but in those hellish two hours of her life which she’d never get back, she’d grilled them on budgets, top lines, dream homes and absolute no-gos. And eventually, she had them nailed. Really, they wanted a house on millionaire’s row – the prime stretch of Windermere lake frontage, but their budget was half that of the cheapest property on the market.

It was a tall order, finding them something they could afford and persuading them it was the right property to shell out three quarters of a million on. But if she pulled it off, she’d earn half a percent of the final sale price – the best part of four grand. And Christ did she need it. What with Sparky’s rewiring bill to pay, and the repayments on her car, and how the hell had she managed to rack up a two grand Mastercard bill anyway? She’d read the balance twice before poring over every purchase, certain that someone had cloned her card. Sadly, they hadn’t. All genuine purchases, all her own work.

Maybe she should’ve sold the bloody cottage and kept the flat in Manchester. No. Why should she pay stupid amounts of money in tax when all she had to do was live in the middle of nowhere for a few months? It would all be worth it. She just had to keep her head above the poverty line until she was free to sell the cottage. Zoë narrowed her eyes, staring at the Victorian manor house before her. And this was the house that would do just that.

Highfield House is a beautifully renovated Lakeland country home surrounded by three acres of garden and woodland. The house dates from 1861 and has retained its period detailing.

Ideally located between the adorable Lakeland village of Hawkshead and Windermere’s West Shore, the property is set amongst the lower fells of the south-eastern Lake District with easy access to M6 and the west coast main line at Oxenholme.

But what really puts this place into a league of its own are its neighbours. To the north is a boutique hotel rumoured to be getting its first Michelin star come January – its clientele reads like a BAFTA guest list. But to the south–

A deep red Jaguar rolled onto the driveway. Jonathan? What the hell – was he checking up on her? Then again, who cared? This was her chance to wow him. And dear god, did she need to wow him. So far, seeking his advice, asking him about
him,
all
the usual tricks for making a man feel awesome, had done rock all to earn her anything more than a professional half-smile from him. Would it hurt for him to flirt, just a little? If she undid any more buttons on her blouse, he’d be able to see her navel, and twice she’d caught him checking out her arse. So why wouldn’t he flirt back?

As he walked across the driveway towards her, Zoë pressed her thighs together, enjoying the buzzing in her pants. The guy might be fifty, but he was put together beautifully. Perfectly cut grey trousers showed off his long, muscular legs and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his blue and grey striped shirt, showing how toned his arms were. If she ever got the opportunity, she wouldn’t play coy like Libby – she’d screw him in his office chair in a flash.

Carefully, elegantly and what she hoped was seductively, she swung her legs out of the car, taking the hand he offered to help her out of the car.

‘This is a surprise,’ she purred.

‘I was in the area and the Haringtons are friends. How are you, Ms Horton?’

Smiling, she smoothed her red pencil skirt over her hips. He watched. ‘I’m very well. They’re your
friends
?’

Laughing, he held up his hands. ‘Okay, they’re
acquaintances
I try to avoid wherever possible.’

Aside from today. Why was that? But the question would have to wait as the Harington’s blue Range Rover trundled into view. Game on.

‘Jemima... Charlie...’

Zoë kept the pleasantries to the bare minimum, everyone’s eyes already on the house. Disdain dripped from Jemima’s Harley Street nose, Charlie yawned and even Jonathan’s pleasant smile didn’t hide the doubt in his eyes. But none of it fazed Zoë. She confidently delivered her spiel, knowing she’d win them all over. Highfield House had a blinding card in its pack.

‘And to the south...’ Zoë paused, glancing over to her left where the chimneys of the nearest neighbour could just be seen over the tops of the ancient woodland separating the two properties. ‘A certain duchess’s parents have a second home. It’s not something many people know. It’s all very discreet.’

‘Do you mean–’ Jemima’s eyes lit up and she clutched Charlie’s arm.

Doing an imaginary power salute, Zoë nodded. ‘Apparently, William often puts the kettle on himself when the National Trust people are in doing maintenance.’

As Jemima and Charlie wandered around, enthusing over Highfield’s original cornices and the magnificent views from the drawing room, Zoë mentally paid off Mastercard, Sparky and bought herself a celebratory pair of heels. Maybe a pair from Hobbs or LK Bennett? From the flush in Jemima’s cheeks, there was a fair chance Zoë could talk them into putting in an over-the-asking-price bid, just to be on the safe side. Four grand commission? LK Bennett it was.

Thirty minutes later, the Haringtons drove away, a sensible offer of seven-eighty sitting with the vendors.

‘Well played,’ Jonathan said, leaning against a vast gilt mirror. ‘Was the duchess part true?’

‘Yes. It always pays to talk to the handyman.’ Zoë ran her fingers over the hand-carved Mahogany banister. ‘They know the flaws of a building and its highlights better than anyone. Did you doubt I’d find them the right house? Is that why you’re here, checking up on me?’

He tipped his head. ‘I know them. And when I heard you’d selected this house, I was a little... dubious.’

‘It’s just a matter of finding out what makes a person tick. And the Haringtons are appalling social climbers, right?’ Had she wowed him?

Jonathan nodded, clearly fighting a smile. ‘We should celebrate.’

She’d wowed him. With her confidence overflowing, Zoë fluttered her eyelashes. ‘And what did you have in mind, Mr Carr?’

His smile dropped. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Ms Horton. The doe-eyed schoolgirl routine might have other men jerking off over your glorious tits, but it won’t work on me.’

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What would he do, fire her? Mortified, Zoë walked up to the mirror and pretended to check her still immaculate make-up. Her hand shook as she opened her lipstick. ‘I have no idea what you mean. I’m no doe-eyed school girl.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Jonathan’s eyes raked over her body. ‘So stop acting like one.’

Hang on,
glorious tits
? Taking her time, Zoë applied a generous coat of Chanel
Pirate
before looking him in the eye. ‘What does work on you?’

Finally, there it was, a filthy smile that said he wanted to screw her right there and then. Slowly, he moved to stand behind her, looking her over through the mirror. It was all Zoë could do to keep breathing. What the hell would happen now?

‘Ms Horton, you use sex as a weapon,’ he said, standing so close, she could feel his heat, breathe his aftershave. ‘As a tool to get your own way. You just need to know what makes a person tick, right?’

If he didn’t like doe-eyed, flirty imbeciles... She fixed her eyes on his, her chin raised defiantly. ‘So?’

‘You’re a young, incredibly beautiful woman, Zoë. You’ve a power, a radiance most women don’t realise they possess until they’re much older, if they ever do. This will go one of two ways. The choice will be yours.’

Zoë stared at him, mesmerised. ‘Go on.’

‘I could lift up your skirt...’ His gaze drifted up from her knees, so slowly he may as well have been lifting her skirt for real. ‘What would I find?’

‘Black hold-ups. Red silk pants. If you went further, a matching bra.’

His breathing quickened. ‘I could rip those pants off and fuck you right here, up against this mirror.’

Oh god, yes.

Jonathan’s hand reached for hers, pressing it against her own stomach, pushing her back against him, against his hard cock. ‘I could bend you over, and fist your hair while I sink my dick into you.’

She needed to move their hands, for him to touch her.

‘Does that idea turn you on, Zoë?’

She nodded, biting down on her lip. If he didn’t touch her soon, she’d have to do it herself.

‘I could do that, Zoë. I am so hard for you, aching for you, and I have been since you first kept that button undone so I could see your tits.’ His hand pushed hers a little lower, making the ache almost unbearable. ‘But tell me, Zoë, would you really be happy to let me fuck you, how I like, when I like, where I like?’

Her eyes narrowed.

‘Because I see something else in you.’ He leant closer, his lips hovering beside her ear, his erection swelling against her backside. How big was that guy? ‘How would it feel to get yourself off, to make me watch, to make me stand here powerless and unfulfilled as you come?’

What?

‘Does that idea turn you on, Zoë?’

Turn her on? Her pants weren’t wet; they were soaking. What would it be like to exert that much power over someone, to control their every move? To deny and grant them the permission to come?

‘You can lift my skirt,’ she said, her voice unsteady, ‘and you can undo my blouse. And then... you can watch.’

Through the mirror, he smiled, his fingers tugging up her skirt. ‘You’re no doe-eyed school girl. You’re an Amazon goddess, a queen. I want to worship you, to touch you when you want to be touched, to fuck you when you want to be fucked.’

Oh to have his cock inside her... It’d be good, but not nearly as good as making him walk back into work still hard for her.

‘But later?’ she said, her breath coming fast, as his fingers brushed over her pants, lingering, pressing. ‘You’ll fuck me. On Max’s desk.’

‘Whatever you want.’ Jonathan’s hands moved up, slipping under her blouse to cup her breasts. ‘However you want.’

‘I want it hard and rough.’

‘If that’s your choice, but tell me... have you ever tied a man to your bed and stood over him with a whip?’

Groaning, her head fell back against his shoulder as her fingers slid inside her pants. She wouldn’t be keeping her date with Mr Coffee Shop at five o’clock. If it were low to go on a date while you were still saddle sore from shagging a different guy the day before, then to go on a date while you were still dripping with your own come from getting yourself off with a different guy a few
hours
before... that was just immoral.

Even for her.

* * *

A week later, Libby arrived at the Low Wood Farm with no roots, no purple streaks and a new, Grace-like fringe. Thick and long, it fell into her mascara-laden eyes, and when Robbie met her at the door, smiling, she held her hands together in a pantomime angel pose. She peeked out from under the fringe as he looked over her Metallica t-shirt, black denim jodhpurs and dark red nails.

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘You can’t do angelic.’

She faux-karate kicked him, but couldn’t temper her grin. Since the second grounding exercise, she’d had no inappropriate thoughts about Robbie and their working relationship continued as if the hug had never happened. He’d still be uncommunicative and grumpy in the morning, but at five when she headed into the kitchen to drop off the key, he’d be waiting with a glass of wine. They never mentioned Jack or errant wives, keeping their chat to the health and well-being of the horses, but on her two days off, she’d more than once wished she could pop round for a five o’clock glass of wine. She’d missed him.