The Gift (30 page)

‘I think you still want me,’ he said. ‘I think that you don’t regret anything, because you’re too strong a woman for that. I think you still desire me, even now that you know I’m a Forbes.’

‘So what if I do?’ she flung at him. ‘I don’t have to do anything about it, do I?’ She was playing with fire, yet she couldn’t seem to turn away from it. ‘I’m not a slave to my own sex drive. I can just ignore it. And you, for that matter.’

His eyes flashed like polished steel, as sharp as a blade, and within a single breath he was in front of her, looming like a bird of prey, staring down at her. Panicked, she started to push her chair back, afraid of what she’d started, but, before she could, he sank down onto his knees, with a visible grimace of pain, and pushed the wings of her robe apart, baring her.

Gripping her thighs hard, he parted them, drew in a great breath then laughed, low and bitter.

‘Can you really ignore this?’ he asked, closing his eyes for a second and rolling his head slightly, like a gourmet or a wine connoisseur. ‘You smell beautiful. You need sex. You need me to satisfy you.’

‘What I need – what I want – is an orgasm. Not you. Any willing pair of hands, or mouth, would do.’

But they wouldn’t, of course. Probably never would again. The last man on earth she should have allowed to get to her had ruined her for all other men.

‘Fair enough,’ snapped Jay. His voice was taut and combative, but in his eyes there was more, desperation and remorse.

He released her thighs and plunged in with his fingers, delicately working his way through her pubic hair and peeling apart her sticky labia. With what sounded like a sigh, or a gasp of regret, he dove in, finding her clit instantly with his tongue, and began to lick and work at her in fast angry strokes. When he’d settled into his rhythm, he reached beneath her, holding her buttocks, lifting her and feasting on her, punishing her with lashing relentless stimulation.

Sandy grabbed for him, wishing his hair was as long as it’d once been so she could dig her hands into it, grip it in hunks and pull it to punish him. As it was she could only claw at his shoulders, making tiny red marks amongst the bigger ones of his scars. She threw her own head back, no longer able to look at him, and started to growl and grunt as the sensations spiralled, not caring if she sounded like a she-beast in heat.

She didn’t care what he thought of her. She didn’t care about him. All she wanted was his skilled and hungry mouth, giving her pleasure.

And pleasure it did give, fast and rough and unremitting. Battering her with his tongue, he forced her at breakneck speed towards an orgasm that seemed to tear her into little pieces. It had come too soon, and was so violent that it was difficult to differentiate it from pain.

Climaxing, she cried out, clutched at him, forced her crotch against his mouth, demanding more. And when he gave more, she wanted even more than that. She wanted him in her.

Shoving him away, she slithered down onto the floor, threw apart her legs and reached for him. His eyes were on fire, and the bulge at the crotch of his elegant trousers was
enormous. He wanted her, but in his moment of hesitation she realised he probably didn’t have a condom. For once she didn’t care, but he did, and he was about to say something, his face still full of wrath, when a tinkling trill of bell-like sound broke the spell.

Sandy sat up and looked around. It was the same distinctive ringtone that she had, but her phone was in the bedroom, on the sideboard.

Jay refastened the zip he’d begun to tug down and rose to his feet. As he headed for the table by the window, Sandy noticed a mobile phone there that she hadn’t seen before. He must have brought it with him. Was he expecting a call this late? Or early? It must be close to dawn.

Despite her anger and her pleasure-fuddled state, she got up and moved to the other end of the room, respecting his privacy. She slid behind the counter and pulled out the bottle of whisky she kept there for the occasional and totally unlicensed alcoholic coffee for favourite customers. After pouring some into the nearest glass, a tumbler, she knocked back a belt of the fiery spirit. She didn’t normally drink like this but, hell, what more extenuating circumstances than these could there be?

Slowly sipping a second small measure, she returned her attention to Jay, and got a shock. He was talking in low tense tones. His back was to her but she could see it was rigid with some kind of powerful emotion. It was a little as he’d appeared earlier, when she’d first happened upon him at the window, but different, so different, as night from day.

‘All right,’ he said, hard, flat, but not emotionless, ‘I’ll be with you in a couple of hours.’ There was some kind of retort from the caller, and Jay almost rocked back. ‘All right then, three or four hours. Of course I don’t want to fucking
well total another Aston. I can drive fast and still be safe. I’m not a complete bloody idiot!’

He snapped shut the phone and just stood there for a moment, looking shell-shocked, as if he were processing information that had come to him from another planet. As tall and strong as ever, he looked oddly deflated, as if he had literally had the stuffing knocked out of him. But then, the moment was gone and he stalked across the room towards her. For a second he glanced at the whisky bottle, then he scowled, shoving his phone in his pocket.

‘Look, I don’t want to go like this. But I have to.’ His beautiful mouth worked for a moment, as if that inability to compute still remained. ‘My father has had a heart attack and I must go to him. I knew he wasn’t well. I should have stayed. But he made me so bloody angry and … and I had to see you again as soon as I could.’ He grabbed her by the shoulder, his expression fierce and conflicted. ‘Look, I’m sorry … about everything. But I must get on the road as soon as possible.’

‘Of course. And, um, I’m sorry too.’ She wasn’t quite sure what for, but somehow she felt guilty. She’d raged at him, and not really given him the chance to explain. Now she probably never would get that chance. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

By unspoken agreement, they were already returning to the bedroom, where the rest of Jay’s clothes were, and his car key, the Aston’s fancifully named Emotional Control Device.

‘Yes,’ he said, turning as he entered the room. ‘Just don’t hate me too much.’ He reached for his shirt, shrugged into it. ‘I never meant to be the enemy, and I never wanted to lie to you. I just, well, I just had to have you and there was no
other way. I wish there had been.’ He was shoving his feet into his socks and loafers as he spoke, and when he straightened up, he stood staring down at her for a second.

But just a second. Sandy could feel them all ticking by just as Jay no doubt could. He had to go, and go now. Who knew how serious the older man’s condition was. He might have to drive at breakneck speed again to reach his father’s side before he died.

He took her mouth again in a swift brutal kiss. It was as hungry and desperate as it was fleeting.

Kiss it better
, thought Sandy over and over again as he put her from him, finished dressing and strode away towards the door to the landing. She made to follow, perhaps to steal a last chance to touch him, but he shook his head, made a chopping gesture. He seemed unable to speak, but she understood him on a deep level she found it impossible to quantify.

Kiss it better
, she thought again, standing exactly where he’d left her as the Aston’s powerful engine roared into life in the yard below.

We could probably never kiss it better ever again.

A tear rolled down her cheek as the car-growl faded to nothing, leaving silence.

‘Galleria? What Galleria?’

‘I don’t know. But at least it’s not an all-day coffee fun pub. I suppose we should be grateful for that.’

Confused by what she was seeing, Sandy glanced at Kat. They were standing outside the rapidly transforming site of the old Bradbury’s supermarket, staring at a billboard that had just gone up. And after what seemed a lifetime of speculation and fretting, the signage had finally confirmed once and for all that the new development wasn’t a fun pub, but a mini mall-type shopping centre called The Galleria, with over a dozen distinct units, all fashioned within the existing shell of the large old store. The Chamber of Commerce jungle drums had hinted as much, but details had been sketchy, hush-hush.

Now it was all official.

‘Well, why the fuck hasn’t your boyfriend told you all about it?’ demanded Kat. ‘After all, it’s his company that’s building the thing.’

Sandy sighed, suddenly deflated. ‘He’s not my boyfriend. And when we’ve chatted on the phone, we … well, we had an unspoken pact not to talk about developments
and pubs and business or anything. Just casual stuff.’

She frowned, staring at the plan. The names of some businesses were already marked in with whatever they sold or did. But one prime location, right by the entrance, where everyone would pass, was simply marked ‘café’.

Great, you’re just building another café instead of a pub, you git.

It was true, they’d spoken only of trivia. Of day-today minutiae. Television, movies, funny incidents over Christmas and at New Year parties. She’d discovered details of Jay’s father’s health progress, which was good, because, even though Forbes Senior was an old bird, he was as tough and bloody stubborn as nails, just as his son was. Sandy didn’t know Jay’s dad and, since the news of the supermarket sale, she’d heaped many a curse on his name. But she was glad to hear he was recovered, if only for Jay’s sake.

Yes, it had been a strange, almost mannered communication at best that had passed between them, especially after the raw intimacy they’d shared, but to her dismay, she still clung to it like a starving woman scrabbling after stale bread crusts that’d been thrown to the birds, sifting it for stray scraps of possible hope.

Pathetic. Absolutely pitiful. And this is the end of it. This is a dirty trick too far, you conniving bastard. Just business or no just business. Fuck you.

The trouble was, she didn’t really feel that way at all, just a little sad, and confused.

But the next morning, the day after the billboard went up, a letter arrived that only added to her confusion. Sandy stared at it for a long while, as if she needed a Rosetta Stone to decipher it.

What the hell does it mean ‘lease negotiable’? And why a Sunday afternoon of all times?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Shazam!

The key code worked and the gated entrance to the Galleria site sprang open. Sandy consulted the plan, still surprised she’d been supplied with access codes to what amounted to a building site. The letter had said that she could look around the proposed café, sticking only to that area for safety reasons, in order to assess the facilities. With a view to purchasing the lease.

I can’t afford this. It’ll cost a fortune. He’s probably doing this as a courtesy, out of guilt or something.

Oh, but the café unit was fabulous though. Perfect accessibility. Perfect position. Perfect ergonomic design. It would be a pleasure to work here. And the ‘soul’ of the Little Teapot could happily dwell and thrive in a new home like this. Sandy did a rapid review of all the possible sources of finance she had access to, and wondered and wondered if there was any way at all she could swing it.

The kitchen to the rear of the serving area was gorgeous too. Small, but efficiently laid out, with a professional range already installed and a big central unit for prep.

A short passage to the right led to a cloakroom. Bigger than the one in the Teapot, fully fitted out for accessibility. Everything perfect. She turned the tap. The water was already on.

The mirror above the sink made her shudder as memories rose up. Her own face in a mirror as Jay worked her from behind, his own face harsh, scarred, but still beautiful to her.

He hadn’t meant to jeopardise her precious café. It was business, just business. Like
The Godfather
, but without the
guns, the horse’s heads and the cold-blooded murder. He’d been the wrong man at the right time. Or the right man at the wrong time. Or just the wrong man at the wrong time. She’d probably never see him again and the calls and texts would peter out sooner rather than later.

Her phone chimed, announcing a text.

How do you like it? Good bathroom?

She pressed the key to reply, started tapping in a ‘y’, then an ‘e’ – then she stopped and cancelled the message. How the hell did he know she was in the bathroom?

Sandy stormed out of the loo and ducked back into the kitchen.

Jay was leaning on the main prep counter, waiting and watchful like some dark predatory beast. He gave her a quirk of a smile, but didn’t speak straight away, almost as if he wasn’t sure what to say – which well he might not be, given this latest stunt: luring her to a deserted half-finished mini mall on a Sunday afternoon.

In the few seconds before she found her own words, Sandy drank in the sight of him, devoured it, feasted upon it.

Hell, he looked good!

Black suited him, and he wore it now, head to foot. Boots, jeans, shirt, one of his very good, very expensive casual jackets. He appeared just as she’d last seen him, but somehow very different. His hair, for one thing. The semi-shaven crop had grown out over their couple of months apart, and his hair was thick and very dark and brushed straight back from his face in a hawkish sort of way that really suited him. He was still clean-shaven, which she realised she liked better than the beard, but he had a bit of a down-and-dirty stubble thing going on which made her
blood race. Or race even more than it already was. Even his scars looked a little faded, a little mellowed. She wondered momentarily how he was doing with the pain.

‘So, I suppose it’s no coincidence you’re here,’ she said cautiously. There was no point raging at him. What would she be raging about? He’d made no promises when he’d left, and their communications had been friendly but strictly non-committal. Seeing him today was a bonus, and she supposed she should view it that way.

‘No, it’s no coincidence. I wanted to meet you here. I set it up.’ He had the grace to look uncomfortable.