I run like every horned devil in hell is after me. I am breathing hard and laughing as I grasp the doorknob. An iron-strong embrace crushes me, still laughing and breathless, into a big male chest. My eyes travel upwards and collide with his. His are magnificent, dancing with laughter and mischief. Nice mischief. And a wicked, wicked sliver of desire. His scent is like a sweet mist around me. Hot fingers tease my nape. Other fingers are at my skirt, dragging it upwards.
‘Don’t you dare,’ I warn breathlessly, but my voice is fluttery, lacks any real conviction.
‘No woman should go and see her mother-in-law without a little lick.’
I groan, ‘No,’ and try to wriggle out of his hold.
‘Or yes, that feels good.’
I stop wriggling. ‘This is a bad idea. You’re going to muss up my clothes,’ I scold, even though, like a starved little thing, my sex is already yearning for his tongue.
He laughs, the sound deep and coconut-scented. ‘It’s the best idea I’ve had all year. No one will ever know,’ he purrs silkily.
My skirt climbs steadily. Fuck it. He is going to have his way. I know it. I can taste it. I can sense it searing in his blood… And mine.
‘I can’t let poor pussy go to a chilly hotel suite with the air conditioning turned up too high. Poor thing, all alone, and barely covered.’
I crack a smile and lean back against the door. ‘Good job, Barrington, dragging me kicking and screaming to exactly where I want to go.’
The wandering hand arrives at my inner thigh. His palm is warm on my bare skin. Suddenly he is no longer over and above me, but underneath my skirt. I throw my head back and laugh. I’m not going to be laughing for long. Fingers creep under the gusset of my knickers and pull it to one side. Other fingers part me open. A warm mouth latches onto my cleft, and sucks me out as if I am an oyster, raw and about to lose its insides.
Oh, yeah.
See? Told you I wouldn’t be laughing for long.
Radiant heat glows between my legs. I close my eyes and allow the never-stopping, never-easing shimmering magic to work. He doesn’t mess about and I crest quickly.
He licks up the juices, replaces the material over my slit, and comes up, lips wet and smiling. Wonderfully warm and glowing, I stretch languorously and smile up at him mistily.
‘Now that’s how a girl should be sent to see her mother-in-law.’
‘Blake?’
‘What?’
‘What if she doesn’t like me?’
He shrugs nonchalantly. ‘And so what? You’re not married to her.’
‘She’s not going to like me, is she?’
‘Why do you need her to like you?’
‘I don’t know. I just thought it might be nice. Nobody wants their mother-in-law to hate them.’
‘Well, my darling, just remember what I told you. The less you try to placate her, the more chances you have of being “liked” by her.’
‘Do you think this dress makes me look like a municipal flower bed?’
He smiles. ‘You look like a prize-winning mixed seed packet blooming in summer.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘You bet it is,’ he says and opening the door gently pushes me into the corridor.
Nine
I ring the bell of her suite and a woman in a mannish suit and a brisk efficient air opens the door. She invites me into the suite with a professional smile and introduces herself as Ann Rivers, Helena’s personal assistant. The air conditioning has been turned up so high I shiver slightly. She leads me into the dining room. A Thai waitress waiting by the sideboard bows from the neck and puts her palms together as if in prayer.
I return the gesture and look around me to a table that has been set to the nines. There are all kinds of cutlery and all kinds of food that I don’t recognize. There is also a sideboard full of dishes in covered stainless steel warmers. I bite my lip with consternation.
Of all the settings Helena could have picked, this I consider the most intimidating. As I am standing there she walks in from the opposite doorway. She has timed it brilliantly and I look at her with some awe. There is something very commanding about this beautiful woman. She has what my mother called star quality. As soon as she walks into a room she dominates it utterly, the way a full moon dominates the entire night sky.
She is wearing a classic tan and black hounds tooth suit over a black turtleneck sweater, and her hair and face are immaculate. Her choice of a turtleneck sweater in this climate surprises me a bit. She smiles at me. The smile carries genuine warmth in it, and I smile back. Maybe this will turn out all right. Ann retreats unobtrusively.
‘Do have a seat,’ she invites and points to a chair at one end of the table. The table is large enough to seat six. Helena then takes her place at the head of the table.
The Thai waitress pushes the chair in as I sit down, and whipping a napkin open, lays it expertly across my lap.
As the waitress does the same with Helena I look nervously at the utensils around me. Why on earth did I imagine that this was meant to be a casual tea, some finger sandwiches, warm scones and a few slices of cake?
‘Well, this is nice,’ I say. My voice sounds higher than normal.
‘Yes, quite. I thought we should get to know one another,’ Helena tells me. Her voice is soft and friendly, far more so than yesterday. ‘I want to know all about you and how you met Blake.’
Oh no, you don’t, I think, but I smile politely. ‘We met through a mutual acquaintance.’
‘Ah, of course. Who was it?’
‘Rupert Lothian.’
She tries to frown, but the Botox stands in the way. ‘Never heard of him. Who is he?’
‘I…er…worked for him.’
She looks at me. ‘That’s nice.’ There is an expression in her eyes that makes me suspect she knows exactly who Rupert is, and exactly how I met Blake.
She picks up a small white jar that is near her right hand. I notice that I, too, have a similar jar to my right hand. Mine contains milk. I watch her pour the milk in her jar into what I had assumed was a fingerbowl. She fills it to one-third and looks at me. Her expression is almost quizzical. She smiles, as if she can’t understand why I am not doing the same.
I smile back, and, quickly lifting my jar, copy her. I cannot imagine how the milk will be used. Perhaps we will be dipping something into it.
When I look at her again, she is still smiling, but her smile is cold and hard. You are not one of us, no matter what you do, wear, et cetera—we will sniff you out, her eyes tell me. She bends and puts the bowl of milk on the floor. Straightening and meeting my eyes, hers shining with malice, she calls out, ‘Constable, here, boy. Milk.’
Fiery heat rushes up my neck and cheeks. For a second, I am frozen with horror at the vindictiveness with which she has deliberately tricked me. Blake was right. I should never have tried to be accepted by her. And then I straighten my shoulders and smile, the kind of smile I never thought I would be able to accomplish. Coldly. Their kind of smile. Something changes in her eyes. How quick she is to recognize a worthy opponent.
Constable, a small, white handbag dog, is noisily lapping up the milk. For a little while there is only the sound it makes and the low hum of the air conditioning.
Then, I reach for a tiny morsel of food. It is round and blue. I do not recognize it, and I do not care. I pick it up with my fingers and daintily pop it into my mouth. Beyond the first impression of it being warm and soft with some sweet filling, I do not register anything else. Chewing steadily, I meet Helena’s eyes, and hers are surprised and slightly horrified by my uncouth manners. Oh, but, I’m not finished yet, Helena. I turn to the woman in the starched outfit standing by the sideboard.