The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (24 page)

Marianne made coffee and pondered. She had more than the
plight of the Innishmahon villagers on her mind, she had to decide what she was
going to do with her own career. Were bridges to be built there, or left
abandoned and a new direction taken? It was a strange feeling, this time on her
hands. She felt becalmed, the internal wind that whipped her up and drove her
on had dropped. She felt as if she never had time to think things through,
always acting on instinct, taking a chance, hoping that wherever she ended up
was where she was meant to be. Now all was quiet, the whistling in her ears
silent, the whirring in her head stilled.

“It’s quite liberating, you know,” she told Monty as he
followed her out of the kitchen into the study, “this thinking time.”

She absent-mindedly picked up her mobile, checked it had
charged, and flipped it on. There were two new answer phone messages, the first
from Jack, half-heartedly apologising for his behaviour the previous evening.

“Sorry, Marie. Isabelle says I came across as rude, didn’t
mean to. Not in the best form. Come over and see us again soon. It’s Jack, by
the way.” As if the gravelly tones could be anyone else.

“To listen to your next new message, press one.”

“Hello, this is a message for Marianne Coltrane. Ryan
O’Gorman’s PA, Lisa here. I’m trying to organise an update re. the script
you’re editing for Mr O’Gorman. He’s in the UK next week. Could you possibly
call me back with your availability and we’ll fix something up? Thanks.”

Marianne nearly dropped the phone.

It was one of those freak
snowstorms which often appear in the middle of a mild stretch, warning of
severity to come, a flash of frost and ice and shivering. The earth suddenly
covered in a hurried blanket of white, the whole landscape, a confusing blur of
softness and silence, holding the world suspended in a brief winter wonderland,
a fabulous tease of the highest order, and quite beautiful. Marianne marvelled
as the humongous false-eyelash snowflakes threw themselves on the windscreen of
the car, blinking flirtatiously before melting clean away.

She had no clue where she was going, and trusted the newly
purchased SatNav implicitly. All she had picked up from the Internet was that
she was heading for a small, yet fabulous, country house hotel called Meredith
Lodge. Not far from Newbury, in Royal Berkshire; it had been the hunting lodge
of a Tudor prince who had gifted it to his mistress on his untimely death.

Lisa confirmed the date and time in a voicemail: ‘Please
arrive dressed for dinner, this will be a two-day editorial summit, all
expenses will be taken care of, after dinner on the first evening, relaxed and
informal work wear will suffice. Ask for Mr Pickering’s suite, he will look
after you.’

That was it. Nothing in writing. In fact, no further
instruction at all. No mention of Ryan. Would he even be there? As Marianne
drove, she became aware of a gnawing in the pit of her stomach, a strange
fluttering, a touch of anxiety and the merest smidgen of fear. She could feel
it building quite nicely, higher and higher it broiled inside her. What was it
called now? Ah, there it is – excitement! What a glorious feeling you are, she
told her tingling fingertips as she swung into the swirling, white oblivion
that was the car park of Meredith Lodge.

Lamps burning either side of the studded oak doorway
beckoned her through the blizzard, and if she had looked up from beneath the
hood of her voluminous velvet coat, she would have seen, through the golden
glow of a leaded upstairs bay, a figure standing perfectly still, a glass of
amber liquid in hand, as he scowled the snow-covered driveway for her arrival.

The liveried porter rushed out to take her bag and escort
her in, and as the door closed behind her, the figure in the window stood back,
putting his glass down and breathing a small sigh of relief. He clasped his
hands together, his fingers too were tingling and, though he had meticulously
set this honeytrap of seduction, scene by scene, he was trembling with anxiety
and as nervous as a schoolboy. Ryan O’Gorman took the handkerchief from his
dinner jacket pocket, and dabbed his upper lip. His armpits were prickling. He
went to knock the whiskey straight back but the door opened behind him and he
froze, staring out across the glittering snowstorm, desperately trying to think
of something cool and witty to say.

Marianne had taken the sweep of staircase up to ‘Mr
Pickering’s’ suite two steps at a time. She recognised Ryan’s large loopy
handwriting in the hotel register and her heart leapt, she longed to see him
and prayed with every step, holding the folds of the full length fabric up to
her knees, that the aforementioned ‘Mr Pickering’ was really the actor, Ryan
O’Gorman.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she hissed, as her heel caught the hem
of her coat and she hopped inelegantly into view. “Bugger!” She tried to enter
the room but the fabric had trapped as the door closed.

“If you are going to cause trouble as usual, I will send you
back out into the snow.” The warm Irish-American lilt surprised her, she had
not noticed him standing at the window, half-hidden in the flickering shadow
thrown by the many candelabra scattered around the room.

“Well at least give me a hand,” She struggled to free
herself from her coat and the doorway. He moved across the room, opening and
closing the door to release her, then eased the heavy fabric off her bare
shoulders.

“Always making an entrance.” His eyes twinkled as he pushed
his nose against hers in greeting. “Great to see you.”

“And you.” She grinned at him and, for a moment, they were
back on the beach at Innishmahon, the time that had elapsed, dissolved, and
they were, once again cohorts, compatriots, brothers-in-arms.

“Well,” she said, as his eyes swept appreciatively over the
dark green off-the-shoulder velvet gown, cut daringly low to the back; an
investment piece the sales assistant had said. An investment in what, she had
wondered at the time. “Who else is joining us for this editorial conference?”
She took in the fabulously appointed suite, blazing fire in the baronial
fireplace, flanked by large curved sofas, strewn with fur throws and velvet
cushions; the table in the bay window, with only two place settings. In the far
corner of the room was a desk littered with paper. A laptop’s standby light
blinked intermittently. A huge carved bureau stood in another corner, housing a
flat screen entertainment centre. Soft jazz oozed from invisible speakers.

“Just us,” he said softly.

“Lovely.” She took the flute of champagne he offered,
feeling the blush of excitement on her chest. If she were to be seduced, this
is how she would want it to be. This would be how she dreamed it. She put the
glass down. He did the same.

“Okay?”

“No. Sorry, can you excuse me for a moment? I’ve left
something behind, er, in the car.”

“Of course.” He opened the door and she charged through it,
picking up her coat as she left, flying down the stairs as fast as her heels
would allow. At the bottom, she caught sight of herself in a huge gilt mirror.
She stopped. Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright, heart pounding. I can’t do
this, she told herself, I can’t let this happen, be seduced, allow myself to be
swept off my feet, fall in love. She watched as her eyes glittered. Anyway, how
dare he? How dare he assume I am interested, that I will fall for his undoubted
charms, that I am his for the taking. Oh shit, but I so am.

A porter appeared from nowhere.

“Madam, can I help you? Is there anything you need?”

She took a deep breath, yes there is, she thought, and it is
waiting for me up those stairs.

“No. No, thank you,” She took another deep breath and,
smiling at her reflection, turned to slowly mount the staircase.

He was standing in the window when she returned.

“Okay? You didn’t go out to the car?”

“No, silly, I had it after all. By the way, which is my
room?”

“Straight across the hall, shall I show you? I’ve asked them
to light the fire and put your luggage there.”

“No, not now. That’s fine. Just so I know for later,” she
said, more to herself, pleased there was an exit strategy, glad he had not
taken anything for granted. She took up her glass, visibly relaxing. She noted
his beautifully manicured hands, expertly cut hair, the grey disappeared. His
Savile
Row
dinner jacket fitted his frame to perfection, all hint of paunch toned
away.

“You really do look like an International all-action spy
hero, you know?”

“Of course I do.” He twirled, preening. “But that’s only the
day job and it’s not long term either, three movies, then I’m out.”

“Will the three-movie deal fulfil all your heart’s desires?”
She sipped her drink, the bubbles tickled.

“I’ll be very well-heeled at the end of it, anyway. Heart’s
desires? Well, that’s a different subject altogether.”

He showed her to a seat and rang for room service. He had
pre-ordered their dinner of lobster, fresh asparagus with wild mushroom
risotto, and a Belgian chocolate sour-cherry mousse.

They chatted easily as they ate; Marianne was fascinated to
learn how a major movie is made, the sets, the costumes, the scheduling. Ryan’s
stories were captivating, animated, scurrilous, hilarious. Laughing, she lifted
her napkin to her lips to dab away drips from the butter-drenched asparagus.

“May I do that?” he asked, and before she could answer, he
leaned across the table, his mouth hovering millimetres from hers, and
proceeded to lick her lips clean of the warm oil. Shocked, she drew back,
staring at him. He calmly returned to his seat and continued his meal. He
looked up then, eyes questioning. She struggled to regain her composure,
stilling the butterflies in her stomach. There was only one course of action.

“Like to taste the wine?” she asked. And before he could
answer, she took a drink and, putting her mouth against his, pressed the wine
through his lips. He sputtered, as the liquid dripped from his chin.

“Good vintage.” His eyes were fixed on hers.

“Like some more?” she whispered, leaning towards him. He
dropped his napkin and, rising from his chair, walked round the table to take
her by the hand. He pulled her gently to her feet and, clasping her shoulders,
drew her mouth to his. They kissed with every fibre of their being. She had
never been kissed like it, ever. He had never given so deep and loving a kiss.

 “Please let me make love to you, Marianne. I’ve wanted you
ever since I first laid eyes on you. Please,” he whispered hoarsely.

Heart thumping in her chest, Marianne stood back and slowly
unzipped the back of her dress. It fell to her waist. She stepped out of it and
threw it aside. She stood before him in the most beautiful lingerie she owned,
silently delighted that she had not opted for the comfort of her big pants. 

He stripped quickly down to his dress shirt and boxer
shorts. Pulling her to him, she slowly un-buttoned his shirt, pulling it back
from his strong shoulders and broad, smooth chest. Then naked in the candle
light, they fell upon each other. Collapsing to the floor, they rolled together
before the fire, kissing and laughing, pushing each other away to feast on
their nakedness in front of the flames and then pausing briefly, they locked
eyes and silently agreed their desire.

He took her quickly and urgently, until she shrieked with
delight and he groaned with ecstasy into her hair as he pushed hard inside her.
Sighing and kissing each other repeatedly, until their mouths and tongues were
sore, they finally lay glistening in the candlelight, their breath slowing in
unison, as the sweat dried on their bodies and their skin cooled.

After a time, Marianne stretched out and, taking the remains
of the champagne, unceremoniously poured it over him, laughing as he squealed.
Then pushing him onto his back, she licked him back to fullness before climbing
astride, tearing strips off the abandoned lobster and feeding it to him piece
by piece, rocking rhythmically backwards and forwards, until he exploded inside
her again.

Dessert was eaten off her breasts, the chocolate mousse
coating her nipples as he sucked her clean, stroking softly between her legs,
teasing her to such a shuddering final climax with his fingers, she almost wept
with pleasure.

With the feasting over and all desire spent, he took a
wolf-skin throw from a chair and wrapped it around them as they nestled
together in front of the dying embers, softly dozing in each other’s arms.

“You okay, my darling?” he asked her, holding her tightly.

“Mmm...” was all she could manage.

“Sleep tight, my heart’s desire,” he whispered, as she
slept.

Dawn was breaking when Marianne woke. The fire had been
rebuilt and was blazing. She pulled the throw about her as she went to the
window, the snow storm still swirling outside. She pushed open a door, a huge
four poster bed draped in red tapestry and silken fringe dominated the room, a
smaller fire burned in an elegant hearth. She could hear water running. She
followed the sound to a white marble bathroom the size of a ballroom. A former
chapel, it featured paintings of saints and bible stories along the walls,
sealed in glass frames against the moisture. The roof was a dome of sapphire
blue adorned with faded silver stars.

She could see his body outlined through the glass of the
shower. She hesitated, the only thing assuring her it had not all been a dream
was the soft burning between her legs and the sweet soreness of her nipples
against the throw.

He saw her and stepping out pulled her to him gently,
letting the water spill over them both, as he carefully began to soap her hair
and wash her body, kissing her throat, moving down to the scars on her
shoulders and back, as he worked his hands all over her. He pulled away the arm
she held against the scar that dissected her lower torso, and ran his fingers
along the fine white line.