Sweet Deception (22 page)

Being careful not to spill any wine, I slowly manoeuvred my way up the little spiral staircase that led to the mezzanine level. It was a bit of a struggle, but when I got to the top, I felt secretly pleased that Richard had come up here. In a lot of ways, it was a much more romantic setting than the sitting room. I'd kept the lights deliberately low—“seduction lighting,” as Lindsay called it—and the pale moonlight filtered in through the skylights that took up one side of the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the space, so it was bright enough to see without being overpowering.

Richard was still studying my canvas. I'd painted the scene in shades of dark purples, which gave it a sinister feel—almost like something out of a Victorian steampunk story. I stood by, waiting for him to finish. He'd undoubtedly heard me come up, so he was clearly deep in thought. I sipped at
my wine, a way to stop myself from disturbing him. As the silence grew, my heart-rate sped up. I always found it nerve-wracking, having someone inspect my artwork, and combined with my other fears about making a move on him, I was beginning to feel like a full-blown panic attack was about to hit.

Finally he turned to me. His eyes were solemn, the way they always were when he had something serious to say. “You're very talented, Charlotte.”

I looked away. I never knew how to take a compliment. It always embarrassed me. “It's not finished yet.”

“Still, have you thought about going back to art school? I never really understood how you ended up getting kicked out.”

There was an unsaid question in his words, but it was one I didn't want to get into right now. I'd been drinking and partying too much, and kept missing deadlines for submitting coursework. Artists might be known for being temperamental, but it seemed there was only so much that the faculty at Saint Martins were prepared to put up with. To be fair, I'd been given several warnings, each of which I'd chosen to ignore. Did I regret it? Perhaps. Should I go back? Maybe. But I had no desire for this evening to turn into a discussion of my career plans. I had another agenda.

“Here.” I held out a glass of wine to him. “This is for you.”

Richard looked down at the glass in my hand, and then up at me, frowning a little. “What happened to the coffee?”

I gave a little shrug. “I thought this might be more fun.” I stretched my arm out farther, so the glass was closer to him, but he still didn't take it from me. I could see the wariness in his dark eyes as he studied me, trying to work out what I was up to.

“Can't,” he said shortly. “I'm driving. You know that.”

I took a step towards him. “I thought you could leave your car here, get a cab.” I looked up at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Or you could always stay the night.”

He went very still. If he'd been in any doubt before, there was no mistaking my intention now. I took a long sip of wine, and then put both of the glasses down.

My heart was beating even faster now. Richard still hadn't moved, so I took that as an invitation. I stepped forwards again, so I was only an inch or so away from him, and then, placing my hands on either side of his face, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him full on the mouth.

For a moment he resisted, and I half expected him to push me away. But then something seemed to shift within him. His head tilted down and his mouth softened, as he began to kiss me back.

I felt a surge of triumph, and something else, too . . . a tightening in my groin, which took me by surprise. I'd never been particularly into kissing. For me, it was just a means of
getting to the main event. The guys I was usually with were always drunk and sloppy, their technique more of an assault than a seduction. But Richard kissed with an expertise that left me breathless. His mouth brushed back and forth against mine, feather-light and teasing, as though he had all the time in the world. The tip of his tongue swept gently across my lower lip, igniting a million nerve-endings I hadn't even known were there. I considered myself to have a lot of experience, but this was a first for me. I might have been the one who initiated this between us, but there was no mistaking that Richard was firmly in control.

As his lips parted mine, deepening our kiss, a shiver of desire ran through me, something new and unexpected. Richard must have sensed my reaction, because his hands went to my waist, drawing me into his solid body. I could feel how turned on he was, and I pressed against him, urging him to take this to the next level. But instead of giving in like I'd hoped, his fingers tightened on me, holding me fast, a silent signal that he wasn't going to be hurried.

Irritation coursed through me. It was the usual battle of wills between us, and yet again I seemed to be losing. Most girls probably would have liked the fact that he was determined to take it slow, but this didn't suit me at all. I just wanted to seal the deal already. And I knew just how to do that. Slowly, carefully, so not to alert him to my plan, I let my palms slide over his buttocks, and then before he could stop
me, I snuck one hand between us and grabbed his crotch.

I felt Richard freeze, and then a split second later his hand snapped around my wrist, and he jerked away from me so abruptly that I stumbled backwards.

“Jesus, Charlotte.” I looked up and saw his expression, a mix of horror and confusion. Instead of moving things on between us, my crude overture appeared to have snapped him back to reality. “What the hell are you playing at? That's the last thing I wanted.”

“Really?” I felt my cheeks flush. “Because you seemed pretty into it a second ago.”

“Is that any surprise?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Christ, I'm only human! I'm a thirty-year-old, red-blooded male, and you're an attractive woman. Of course I responded. But that doesn't mean I want anything to happen between us.”

I sucked in a breath. It felt like he'd slapped me.

Richard obviously realised then what he'd said, and how it had sounded. He took a step forwards. “Oh, no, Charlotte. I didn't mean it like that—”

This time it was me who backed away. “Hey, don't worry about it.” I affected a casual shrug. “It's no big deal. I felt horny, and you were here. There was nothing more to it.” The words were pouring out of me. I didn't care how I sounded—I just didn't want him to know how hurt and rejected I felt. “Don't for one minute assume you're special. I
can get out my little black book and have a dozen guys round here in the time it takes to get a pizza delivered.”

Richard winced at my words, and I couldn't blame him. I'd wanted to defuse the situation, but unfortunately I hadn't been able to carry off the reference to my casual sleeping around. I think it had something to do with my new image—in my usual rock chick attire, I could face down anyone; no one could shame me. But the new, preppy me was a lot more sensitive. I had nowhere to hide.

I picked up my glass and took a slug of wine. “So?” I looked pointedly at my watch. “Am I getting rid of you any time soon? Because I'd like to get on with my night.”

His eyes went to the alcohol. “I'm not leaving you like this.”

Oh, great. This situation was going from bad to worse. The last thing I wanted was for him to be staying with me out of pity. Luckily, before I had a chance to argue back, we both started at the sound of a key in the lock. A second later Lindsay's voice rang out. I breathed a sigh of relief that we'd been interrupted. I don't think I'd ever been so pleased to hear from anyone in my life.

“We're up here,” I called down to my friend. Then I refocused on Richard. “See? Lindsay's home. You don't need to stay and babysit.”

“If that's what you want—” Richard said unsurely.

“It is.” I hoped he couldn't hear how over-bright my
voice was, or see my eyes beginning to water. “You can see yourself out, right?”

He hesitated for a moment. I could tell he wanted to say something, to make sure I was all right, or—worse still—to talk through what had happened. But I wasn't in the mood for platitudes.

“Please.” My voice cracked a little, my eyes pleading with him to listen. “Just go.”

He must have finally got the message that his presence was making this worse, because he said, “Sure.” He put a hand out and squeezed my arm a little. “Goodnight, Charlotte. And take care of yourself.”

I watched as he headed back downstairs, trying to ignore the feeling of emptiness spreading through the pit of my stomach. I'd been rejected before, but this was the first time that it had hurt.

“So what do you want to hear about today?”

I looked across at Dr. Milton, surprised at how comfortable I felt with her now. It was our sixth session, and from dreading coming here, I now found it one of the most relaxing parts of my week. The seasons had changed since my first appointment. From the early-autumn brightness, we were now in the dead of winter. It was six in the evening, but it had already been dark since mid-afternoon. Outside the wind howled, and the bare branches of a tree kept tap-tapping against the window pane, as if they were trying to get through. As usual, we sat facing each other in burgundy leather armchairs. She'd lit the real fire, and I could feel the warmth of the embers emanating from it. My hands were still red from the cold outside.

I was especially pleased to have this session tonight, because it took my mind off what had happened with Richard
on Sunday night.

After he'd left, I'd gone downstairs to join Lindsay, hoping to take my mind off what had happened. But she'd sensed that something wasn't right, and kept asking me what had put me in such a bad mood. I refused to tell her. I was supposed to be the liberated woman, the girl who didn't need a man—who hooked up with guys casually, and never expected them to call. How could I now admit to being hopelessly obsessed with someone I couldn't have? Especially after everything I'd said about Richard in the past—how I'd called him uptight and annoying.

I'd been dreading running into him at Davenport's that week, until I remembered that that he was away visiting the New York office. At least that gave me a reprieve from the inevitable post-kiss diagnosis Richard was going to force us to have. With any luck, he might have forgotten the whole sorry incident by the time he got back.

“Why don't we just pick up where we left off?” Dr. Milton said now, bringing me back to the present. “You were telling me about your family holiday?”

So far, this had been all we'd covered in the sessions. Each week, I'd talked her through various moments from that same summer we spoke about the first time—the summer I'd turned eighteen, when I was still the good girl Charlotte, and hadn't yet become Charlie. To be quite honest, I really didn't feel like we were getting anywhere. But Dr. Milton
seemed to feel that these reminiscences had a purpose, so I just went along with her.

“Oh, right. Yes. Our holiday in France.” I thought back. “The first week was fairly uneventful. But then my sister and her boyfriend turned up . . .”

Seven years ago

It was the pain that woke me. A throbbing in my ankle, where I'd fractured it running down the marble staircase of our villa yesterday. I'd fallen awkwardly in a heap, and had to be taken to the local hospital, and now—as my mother kept telling me—my clumsiness had ruined everyone's holiday.

I lay awake for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night. I could hear the cicadas, along with the sound of the waves rushing the shore. The place was so familiar to me. My parents had rented the same villa in the South of France ever since I was a child. We went there the first two weeks of August, every year. It had become a family tradition.

This year it had been just them and me for the first week. Toby and Kate had been away in Thailand, on a diving holiday. It was the first time ever that it had just been me alone with my parents, and I'd been surprised by how much I resented it. It had made me more conscious of my lack of friends, and it felt like there was something wrong with me,
an eighteen-year-old hanging out with my parents alone like this. I'd spent most of my time drawing and painting, and preparing for my art degree. My sister had joined us that morning, with Toby, but I hadn't seen much of them. With my ankle like this, I hadn't been able to go out and frolic in the pool with them, or go on their long early-evening walk.

The pain wasn't easing, and I knew I'd have to go downstairs and get the medication that the doctor had prescribed. My mother wouldn't leave the tablets by my bed, in case I took too many. Her reasoning was logical enough, although she'd failed to take into account that someone with a fractured ankle might not want to have to traipse down a huge flight of stairs to get pain relief—especially when those stairs were the reason she was in pain in the first place.

I managed to hobble downstairs, and made my way to the kitchen. I balanced on one foot as I got myself a glass of water, and took two of the painkillers that the doctor had prescribed. I was on my way back to bed when I heard a sound coming from the room that my mother used as a study. It sounded like a fox howling. At first I assumed that we'd accidentally left a window open, but as I got closer, I saw through the crack of the half-open door that it was my mother, sobbing as though she wouldn't ever stop.

I stood, unsure what to do. She was curled foetal-like on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest. On the floor in front of her, there was an old family album, with pictures of
us all enjoying holidays out here. It was lying open at a photo of my brother, Kit, back when he must have been only eight years old, smiling a toothy grin as he jumped into the swimming pool.

Seeing her like this, keening for her lost child, my heart contracted. We'd all cried for Kit over the years—even my huge bear of a father. But somehow seeing my usually controlled, collected mother like this, in the pit of despair, was worse than anything I'd experienced before. I wanted to go and try to comfort her, but somehow I sensed that she didn't want anyone to see her this way, that it was easier for her to keep up the pretence that she had dealt with her grief. But how could I just walk away and leave her like this?