Original Sin (72 page)

He gave a small smile before looking away in discomfort.

‘It was crass, I know, but I was in love with you. For three years I’d wanted to ask you to come home with me. I guess that last night I had to try. But I was right all along. I wasn’t good enough.’

‘Matt, it was never that. We were friends.’ Her cheeks reddened as she thought of her snobbishness, buried so deep inside her she hadn’t recognized it or chosen to rebel from it.

Time seemed to stand still as tension welled between them.

The snow was getting heavier. ‘We should get back,’ she said at last.

He nodded as they turned off the promenade. Matt flagged a cab down, and on the ride back to Manhattan Brooke was too embarrassed to talk. As the cab drew up at Matt’s apartment building, he turned to her.

‘I know you want to get back, but do you mind coming up for a moment? I just wanted to give you my wedding present.’

‘You are still coming to the wedding?’ she asked quickly, wondering if what had been said back in Brooklyn had changed anything.

‘I plan to,’ he smiled. ‘I’d just rather I gave it to you now.’

She shrugged. ‘Okay, but just for a moment. I really need to get back, and it’s probably not a good idea for me to be seen here, either.’

The building’s lobby was mercifully empty and they didn’t speak in the elevator, both avoiding the other’s eyes. He pushed the key in the door and, as it opened, Brooke knew it was a bad idea her being here.

There was just a single lamp casting low light around the room, and suddenly Brooke felt exposed and thrillingly vulnerable.

Standing in front of her, Matt took off his coat. His back was wide and muscular and his jumper had ridden up to show a tiny stripe of tanned flesh.

He turned round and they stood and faced one another.

‘Matt, I … ’ She stopped herself.
I want you
, she said silently.

As if he had read her mind, he took a step nearer towards her, his green eyes lingering on hers until he brought his hand to her cheek.

The air charged magically as their faces drew towards one another in unison until his lips brushed against hers. A voice of resistance yelled from somewhere deep inside her.
Stop!
Slow down!
her mind told her, wanting her mouth to protest. But this was what she wanted. This, and nothing else.

‘Was that my present?’ she gasped as he pulled momentarily away from her.

He gave a slow, sexy smile. ‘No. It’s a coffee machine, but hopefully you like this better … ’

His strong arm circled her small waist as he pulled her closer. His lips crushed down on hers once more and she felt powerless to resist. His tongue searched inside her mouth and she closed her eyes, every nerve ending igniting in pure liquid desire, as she felt unable to process anything beyond the exquisite pleasure of his lips on her skin.

Still entangled in his arms, she shrugged off her coat and he pulled her into the bedroom. The door shut and he pushed her against it. She grabbed the nape of his neck and probed her fingers through his short thick hair, feeling his hard cock push towards her through the fabric of his jeans. Separating for an instant, his fingers unbuttoned her blouse, letting the fabric flutter to the floor, while she pulled his jumper over his head, stroking her hand across his dark, wiry scrub of chest hair. He gave a low moan, before his lips stroked her neck and shoulders. Pushing her onto the bed he straddled her, cupping and rolling her breast in his hand. Her nipple flinched and hardened as his flesh touched the tight dark beige skin through the lace fabric of her bra. His hands pushed down her ribcage until his fingers could unbuttons her jeans. Involuntarily she parted her legs. He kissed the hollow of her neck, slowly moving his mouth down towards her tanned, taut belly, savouring every inch of skin until it descended into the deep V–shape of her unbuttoned denim. His lips sent a ribbon of fire to her hot, wet core. She felt drugged with desire. She wanted him inside her; she wanted him to taste her. She wanted to feel her hard, tight nipples between his soft lips, she wanted his tongue to stroke and suck her secret slit. His hands began to pull down her jeans. Her eyes half closed in lust, she looked at him, the strong familiar jaw line, the long lashes framing green intelligent eyes, his handsome features, and saw …
David.

‘
No
,’ she screamed suddenly, as a wave of guilt crashed over her, sucking her desire away like the ocean pulling sand away from the shore.

‘No, Matt, I’m sorry, we can’t,’ she gasped, rolling away from him and shaking.

‘I’m engaged, I’m getting married next week, this is
wrong
,’ she said with an emphasis she did not feel.

He rubbed his hands disappointedly across his lips. ‘Is it?’ he asked bitterly.

She swung off the bed and pulled on her blouse hurriedly, her cheeks flushing with shame.

Silence rang around the room. Matt was unsmiling. ‘Do you love him?’ he said finally.

She hesitated, not wanting to hurt him, but not wanting to lie to him either.

‘So the answer is yes,’ he pre–empted regretfully. ‘And are you going to marry him?’

Thinking of the wedding she felt a hollowness and detachment. She didn’t know what she wanted at the moment
. A few moments ago, all you wanted was Matt
, she told herself, shutting her eyes in grim helplessness.
What a mess.

‘How can I not?’ she said, her voice cracking with regret. ‘It’s a big oil tanker careering towards its final destination. How do you stop that?’ she asked, daring to wonder if she
wanted
to stop it.

‘You could come with me to Ghana.’

She gave a low, slow laugh.

‘Now
there’s
a solution,’ she said, looking at him. ‘Running away to Africa.’

She saw hurt flicker in his dark blue eyes and she understood why he was going to Africa: he was running away too. She didn’t know if he was tired of New York and the endless stress of the ER, or whether the truth was that he had never got over the death of his wife. She felt almost certain it had nothing to do with Susie, but maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with her.

‘Okay, if not Africa,’ said Matt, ‘how about Paris or London or LA? You said you loved it in LA.’

She zipped her jeans, not daring to look at him. ‘Matt, stop it please. I
do
love David.’

He stood up and took her hand, spinning her round to face him.

‘And I love you, Brooke, I always have. You never gave me the chance to show you how great we could be together, but it’s not too late.’

‘I’m getting married in six days’ time, Matt.’

‘So?’ he said, gripping his fingers into her arms. ‘Call it off. Do what
you
want to do. Not what everyone wants you to. Break the cycle, Brooke.’

She shrugged him off, suddenly flinching at his touch. Pulling open the bedroom door she grabbed her coat and bag, feeling the walls of Matt’s small apartment close in on her.

‘I have to go,’ she mumbled.

‘Think about it, Brooke. Think about it.’

But she was already out of the door.

CHAPTER SIXTY–ONE

Mary–Ann Henner was a drunk. You could see it and you could smell it. Her sixty–something face, obviously once very pretty, was now puffy and lined, her complexion rough and uncared for. She smelt of booze and bars and cigarettes, and so did her little home in Queens.

‘Come in, come in,’ she said, leading Jemma into her small living room. It was chintzy and neat and there were pictures of two children everywhere – on the walls, in silver frames lined along the shelves, even on the top of a kitsch trinket box on the sideboard, the sort of thing you could have made up at funfairs.

‘My two kids, Lauren and Jerry,’ said Mary–Ann. ‘They’ve long since flown the nest. Same can be said for their father,’ she added with a hard smile, directing Jemma to the red velveteen sofa. Mary–Ann used the remote to flick the television off, and Jemma noted that it had been showing
It’s A Wonderful Life
.
Ain’t it just
, she thought. There was a bottle of nail polish and tumbler of clear liquid on the coffee table. It looked like water, but Jemma knew it wasn’t.

‘So you work for Meredith Asgill?’ said Mary–Ann, picking up the tumbler. ‘I have to say Brooke’s done well for herself. Then again, she was always such a pretty girl.’

Mary–Ann Henner had been Howard Asgill’s PA for almost forty years, ‘retiring’ just before his death when her drinking was beginning to interfere with her ability to do her job. However, she was an obvious point of contact when Jemma had agreed to join in Tess’s investigation. Jemma had first called Olivia Martin’s sister but that had thrown up little beyond her theory that Olivia wouldn’t have taken her own life, and that she had clearly fallen into the river drunk and high. Howard Asgill was dead, so Jemma couldn’t talk to him. But his secretary was very much alive, and didn’t secretaries often know where the bodies were buried – perhaps literally in this case. Jemma had meant what she had said when she and Tess had quarrelled at the apartment. Her friend seemed to be chasing her tail in some futile search for the truth, and she feared that her life would come crashing down if she found it. So it was with mixed emotions that Jemma had volunteered to help when Tess had called her from Louisiana with the latest information she had found.

‘You worked for Howard for a long time, didn’t you?’ said Jemma.

Mary–Ann wiggled her scarlet painted toes and looked out of the window as if doing mental arithmetic. ‘Started when I was sixteen. I was the assistant to Howard’s PA back then, the assistant’s assistant,’ she laughed.

‘And did you go to his wedding?’

‘’Course I did,’ said Mary–Ann. ‘The most glamorous thing I’d ever been to. I’ve
ever
been to. Cary Grant was there, ferchrissakes!’

Jemma shifted uncomfortably in her seat. This was awkward, but Mary–Ann with her world–weariness and her vodka looked ready to talk.

‘Did Howard Asgill have an affair with Olivia Martin?’ she asked flatly.

Mary–Ann offer a weak smile. ‘Has that story raised its head again? Thought it might with all this wedding business. Papers, they can’t seem to write enough about Brooke and David, can they?’

She took a cigarette out of its packet and lit it, blowing out a smoke ring. ‘Police interviewed me about this at the time.’

‘I know, Mary–Ann, but it would help if you could remember anything about those days. For instance, was Howard having an affair with Olivia?’

‘As I said back in Sixty–four, I never saw anything that made me think Howard was doing the dirty,’ said Mary–Ann. ‘I sent flowers to Olivia from Howard – tiger lilies mostly, she really loved tiger lilies – and they met for lunch in New York, but she was an Asgill’s ambassador, so there was nothing that made me think it was anything other than work.’

‘Was Howard ever unfaithful to Meredith?’

After a few moments, she nodded. ‘Couldn’t keep his pecker in his trousers, if that’s what you mean. But then, aren’t most rich, powerful men like that? Most men, in fact,’ she added, casting a glance at a framed picture of her children,

‘Do you remember anything strange about the night of the wedding? Anything unusual? Did you see Howard with Olivia, for instance?’

‘Sure. They had a dance. Howard danced with all the Asgill ambassadors, showed them off in front of the crowd. He always did mix work with pleasure, even on his wedding day. I’m not sure Meredith liked it much, though. I saw her having quite a ding–dong with Olivia.’

‘Did you tell the police this?’

Mary–Ann looked sheepish and shook her head.

‘I was seventeen years old, honey,’ she shrugged. ‘It was my first job and I didn’t want to rock the boat. They asked me if Howard was running around with Olivia. I said no and that was the truth, but I wasn’t going to go digging up any more trouble. Still, he’s dead now,’ she said, blowing out a long stream of smoke. ‘I can say what I like.’

‘Where did Meredith and Olivia have this conversation exactly?’

‘Just across from the big fountain in front of the house. It was about ten p.m.’

‘You’ve got a good memory,’ said Jemma.

Mary–Ann snorted. ‘Big night for me, baby, it was the night I lost my cherry. You remember nights like that.’

‘I see,’ said Jemma awkwardly.

‘Should have been the most romantic night of my life,’ said Mary–Ann, looking wistful. ‘All that beautiful jazz music, the smell of the flowers in the rose garden – that’s where we did it,’ she whispered. ‘First night a man let me down, but not the last. Said he’d meet me at midnight for the fireworks. Son of a bitch never showed.’

‘Do you remember seeing Howard Asgill around midnight? Maybe after the fireworks?’

Mary–Ann nodded. ‘I remember that one because by then I was crying. Howard saw me and gave me his handkerchief. Must have been about twelve thirty, I guess.’ She reached for the tumbler and drained the last of the liquid. She waggled the glass at Jemma.