The Morning After the Night Before: Love & Lust in the city that never sleeps! (18 page)

‘Nothing else?'

Silence fell around them as her hair fell around her face when she was making love on top. Like a private little cocoon. She let the silence grow as they walked. Harry gathered her hand up in his and tugged her closer to him.

‘Have I upset you?' he ventured, certain he'd gone too far.

Her face screwed up again. Izzy's concentration face. ‘No. But you've made me think. Now I'm trying to figure out exactly when I stopped being happy. And why I didn't notice. I was ecstatic when I went to Trenton, and then uni. I finally had the life I'd always wanted.'

‘Maybe you didn't set your childhood goals high enough. Maybe a steady job and a full fridge weren't all that you thought they were going to be?'

She turned bleak eyes up to him. ‘But that was everything to me. I gave things up for that.'

What things? he wondered, feeling no small relief that he wasn't the only one keeping secrets.

The shadows behind her eyes dug straight in between his ribs. But not because bad stuff had happened to her, though it had. More because those simple words dripped with self-blame.

‘Hindsight is twenty-twenty,' he murmured.

How much could he tell her?

‘I've walked away from a thing or two in my life,' he finally said, curling his hand through hers.

Her whole body changed shape as he offered her another titbit from his past. Just scraps, really, but she practically fell on them and he felt like even more of a jerk. She deserved to know everything.

Screw it.

He could just turn to her and tell her, right now, while they were already speaking seriously.

Actually, Iz, there's something you need to know…

He took a deep breath, ready to just blow all his past caution out of the water. Practically buoyant with relief.

‘I didn't know what to call you with Tori,' she blurted.

The confession died on his tongue. ‘I noticed.'

‘You called yourself my…'

He hedged, unaccountably nervous to even use the B-word aloud again. Because of the power that gave her.

‘I registered you with building security,' he sidestepped.

Her beautiful eyes flared. ‘Did they have to write up the margin-edge to fit me on?'

‘Hand on heart, Izzy. I've never put anyone else on the door.'

And he could leave it right there, leave her with that hopeful gleam at the backs of her eyes. Except it wasn't in his nature to be anything but honest. With one glaring and increasingly awkward exception. ‘Everyone else had to buzz up.'

A half-dozen people turned their way as Izzy's beautiful laugh ricocheted off the old market walls. ‘Thank you, Harry. I think.'

‘Not saying it can't be undone. You know, if you start getting difficult to manage.'

Her pretty jaw dropped open. ‘To
manage
?'

‘When you start getting high maintenance.'

But she was totally up for a bit of verbal foreplay. Of course she was; she was Izzy. ‘I'm flattered you think that I haven't yet started.'

He slung his arm around her as they commenced walking again. ‘Remember, I've seen Quickdraw in full flight.'

‘Fighting words, Mitchell. Do you really want to invoke the P word?'

‘I don't mind being your prince, actually. It's
healthy to reinforce our comparative social stations.'

Her eyes glittered enticingly. ‘You being so far up the mid-management food chain and all?'

He'd been so close just a moment ago.

But if he had told Izzy, how would he ever be certain that she was interested in him and not his name and what came with it?
He
wanted to be responsible for that appreciative gleam in her eyes right now, or for the gasp as his fingers learned her body. Even for the more complex and intriguing hope-filled look she failed to hide from him now and then.

Him.

Not Harrison bloody Broadmore.

And it wasn't enough knowing that she'd entered into a relationship with Harry Mitchell. He wanted her to
stay
in it because of him.

Was ‘girlfriend' not going to be enough with this woman?

And just like that Izzy got a second promotion in as many minutes. Most of which she'd spent insulting him. Who would have thought he'd find that appealing?

But those vulnerable moments when she let him in, he lived for those. And every sass she shot at him made him twitch with interest.
Which pretty much meant he was walking around with a permanent erection these days.

Twenty-two days seemed a ridiculously small sample on which to be basing something this momentous, but he'd known her a lot longer than that. Sleeping with her that first time had hardly needed a decision; he'd been wanting to taste her for twelve months.

Maybe he'd grown too accustomed to immediate gratification.

Or maybe he just knew right when he felt it.

And he was about to screw that up with a spontaneous confession in the middle of a public market where she'd be totally unprepared for the information? But of course that brought with it the tricky little issue of when
was
a good time. How long would be long enough? A couple of months? A year?

Exactly what kind of a timeline did you put on trust?

They moved towards the ornate market exit and Harry bent to speak more closely to her ear. Desperate to put things back on a footing that he best understood. Comfortable and exciting.

Uncomplicated.

‘If I dress up as Prince Harry tonight, what will you wear?'

That was definitely a smile she was struggling to hide. ‘My regular clothes.'

‘Well, that's dull. How about a wench outfit at least?'

‘I lack the cleavage for a convincing wench.' ‘Lady of the Lake? That diaphanous, wet shift…'

‘Are you turning kinky on me, Harry?'

How was it possible for a single sound to wind back the clock? To erase past hurts and heal over old scars? Yet Izzy's gentle larksong laugh seemed to have that peculiar side-effect. It anchored him in the here and now and it made him start looking forward—where he never looked except to think about his career.

‘Just so you can ruin it, tearing it off?' she teased. ‘I don't think so.'

‘I put you on the register,' he reminded her.

And that wasn't nothing. Not in his world.

‘Tell you what,' she compromised. ‘If you happen to have some kind of princely attire lying around that draughty tower of yours, I'd be prepared to swoon a little and need to be carried to the sofa.'

And they both knew the amazing things that happened on that sofa.

‘You're on.'

‘I think
you're imagining things, Izzy.'

‘It was him. I swear.'

‘Maybe he's a fellow Royal Shakespeare aficionado. London's full of them.'

‘And is London full of Portishead fans because I know I saw him at their reunion gig, too. The man from your building.'

Something closed down in Harry's face. ‘Coincidence.'

‘This is London,' she pushed. ‘Eight million people. Coincidences don't happen here.'

‘Well, he's gone now, so you can relax.'

Relax.
Right. While that whole waiting-for-the-shoe-to-drop thing whooshed around in her brain. Every day she spent with Harry, the
sensation intensified. Like something was not quite…right.

‘How did you get opening-night seats?' Izzy asked as they left the art deco West End theatre. ‘It's been sold out for ever.'

‘A friend in the business.'

That was right up there with, ‘It's not what you know, Izzy…' And the classic hedge, ‘A man never reveals his dating secrets.'

Sheesh—who did a girl have to sleep with to get trusted around here?

Trying to tease some truths out of Harry had stopped being fun weeks ago. She'd never before met anyone who was quite so good at saying nothing. Nothing meaningful, anyway. He was tighter than a drum when it came to any but the most general facts about his life and every time he vagued out on some detail about his life, it left the distinct odour of
intention.

As though it wasn't necessary to share himself with her. Because she wasn't going to be around for long. Or because she wasn't worthy.

Or a little from both columns.

Not that she wasn't grateful for the acrobatic sex life. And not that she wasn't thrilled at her growing list of ‘done that' fine restaurants and London sights. And she could really grow used
to not having to move money around between her credit cards to pay for something.

Mostly she was annoyed because she was
investing
in Harry. She'd taught him to appreciate the wonders of the London transport system. He'd shared his morning boat for one with her and she'd gone along just for the pleasure of seeing his hair get all mussed up on deck before rumpling up his expensive suit a little with her kisses and tubing it back home again. She'd dragged him along on a mini-break up to Scotland to meet her new clients that he'd predictably dubbed ‘the Puffin people'.

Yet, despite all his mystery and in spite of all the caginess, Harry still seemed hungry to fill the space she was trying hard to give him—them—and there was a level of intensity to the time they spent together that she'd never experienced before.

Again—as if he knew it wasn't going to last.

And so, every step he came closer, she took a small one back.

Letting herself fall for him wasn't an affordable luxury. Like most of the things in her life now. Yes, he was fabulous. Yes, he was a man she could reasonably expect to be equal with and,
yes, the sex was compelling, but if he couldn't share with her there must be a reason.

Was he neck deep in organised crime?

Did he have a wife and family back in Australia?

Witness protection?

Until she'd worked out what that reason was, then her priority had to be protecting herself. Which meant while he rigidly avoided discussing the past, she steadfastly refused to talk about the future.

End result? They both spent a lot of time talking about right now.

The growing animosity between Poppy and their new roommate, Isaac. Tori's ongoing dramas with Mark. Alex's latest shenanigans.

Occasionally Harry would talk about a work problem or a friend she didn't know, but he never talked about his family and if she asked he always answered in the most careful terms. Almost scripted.

Which brought her full circle to just not quizzing him anymore.

A girl could only take so much emotional rejection.

‘Mine?' he asked. ‘Or yours?'

Which really meant ‘sex or no sex?' Harry's
bed was the size of the living room at the fire station. And so amazingly comfortable. And it came with a life-sized hot-water bottle in the form of a radiating man.

And no one did naked heat quite like Harry.

She adored him extra much for the fact that ‘no sex' was an okay answer. Spooning him to sleep might not be the fastest way to a happy ending for her heart, but nothing made her sleep as deeply as when she was wrapped around Harry's hot back.

Tonight, though, she needed the distraction and the physical workout of hot 'n' heavy with Harry infinitely more than the metronomic rise and fall of his ribs against her skin. Because nothing made her feel more worthy and more certain of their future than that moment when Harry filled every cranny of her body.

And denial was such a warm and cosy place to be.

‘Yours,' she sighed.

Sex. The great equaliser.

Was it enough? No. Was it something?

Yes.

Something that needed no discussion between them, no interpretation. And it came with no agenda. It was just good.

Really good.

‘Are you purring?' he queried as she guided him onto the underground at Oxford Circus.

She cleared her throat as she shook her head. ‘Something caught…'

No. She'd been gurgling with anticipation. She just hadn't meant to do it out loud.

She made it her business to grind back into him much more than was necessary as he wrapped her in the protective circle of his arms during the four-stop run to Vauxhall. His half grin told her he knew exactly what she was doing, but he certainly didn't protest. On the contrary, he held up his end several times by feeling her up in the dim, blown light patches of underground tunnel.

Whether the other train passengers hanging from overhead handles were fooled was anyone's guess.

She felt sure it wasn't the first dry hump ever performed on the underground.

They tumbled through the train's doors the moment they opened and then practically ran to the escalators. People who didn't know how to keep left blocked their way so they couldn't dash up two steps at a time and had to wait,
patiently, barely touching each other until the moving stairs tipped them off at the top.

More running, more waiting—this time at traffic lights—and then some forced decorum in the foyer of Harry's building and then,
finally
, they were alone.