by Nancy Warren
Of course, she’d checked it out pretty carefully the first couple of times she’d come through here and there were no bugs, or sign of rodents or anything disgusting. She suspected, with a sense of sadness, that it was cleaned periodically. There were no cobwebs as thick as carpet, no mysterious casks or strongboxes. The air was musty and a little dusty, the corridor was narrow and not very high and there was no light. Otherwise, it could have been any corridor.
But, even though she suspected Wiggins came through here once a quarter with a vacuum cleaner – she was sure he wouldn’t let any of the staff in on the secret – she still got a thrill every time she came through here.
Naturally, knowing who was at the other end of the tunnel was part of the thrill. The tunnel of lust, the corridor of sexual power, the – abruptly her clever musings were cut off when she bumped into a body.
Chapter 11
Warm, solid and breathing, but the man struck her so suddenly that she screamed and would have jumped a mile if shock hadn’t frozen her in place.
“Max, it’s me.”
“Oh, God, George. You scared me.”
“I thought you must be able to hear me. I could hear you coming down that tunnel like the three o’clock train from Croydon.”
“I was thinking.”
“Ah. Thinking about me, I hope.”
He reached for her and pulled her against him, so her robe fell open and she pressed against him in nothing but a tiny slip of silk and lace that had cost about ten British pounds per inch. He wasn’t wearing much more. His torso was bare, and he had on nothing but cotton pajama bottoms that were warm from his body.
“I like the feel of this,” he said, running his fingertips over the lace and silk scraps that criss-crossed her breasts.
“It’s new,” she whispered, feeling a little breathless as he teased her.
“What color is it?”
“Antique gold. Here, I’ve got a flashlight. You could see it.”
“No. Put your torch away. I rather like it in here. It’s very private, isn’t it?”
“So are our rooms,” she said, but she didn’t urge him back to hers or onward to his.
“I don’t know. I’m terrified that Simon will come barging into your bedroom banging on about some sodding production problem or Wiggins will burst into my room because desperate criminals are destroying the estate.”
“Desperate criminals? Is that what he wanted?”
“Oh, yes. Three ten-year-olds and a twelve-year-old. They were caught trying to pinch the trampoline from the adventure playground.”
“Oh, no.” She knew it was serious, and criminal tendencies in kids that young weren’t a good sign, but she still had to stifle a snicker. “What happened to them?”
The gardener caught them and, instead of letting me deal with it, as he should have, the bloody fool called the local constable.
“But—“
“The trouble is, the parents of two of the boys work on the estate. It’s hideously embarrassing for them, excruciatingly so for me.”
“But what would you have done?”
“Oh, I expect I’d have had the gardener haul each of them home to their parents and have worked out a fitting punishment. Make them pick up all the litter from the public grounds for a few weekends, or something. Officially, I’d have known nothing about the incident. Now, there’ll be all the awkwardness. Ah, well,” he sighed and leaned in, kissing her hair, “Can’t be helped.”
“I think,” she said, rubbing her nose against his sternum, “that you make a very good earl.”
“I’m still so new at it. I wish my father were here so I could ask him. Though, of course, if he were here, there’d be no need. He’d be the earl and doing a far better job of it.”
“You miss him.”
“At times like this, I do. And…” He stopped.
“And?”
“I’d have liked him to meet you. He’d have adored you.”
She was touched. “I’d have liked meeting him, and your mother, too.” She felt as though she knew them, his folks, since she’d spent so much time researching them, looking at old photos, hearing the stories.
They stood quietly for a moment. The darkness was blanket-thick, both cover and comfort. When he touched her it came as a surprise.
“Your skin feels so smooth, so soft,” he said, running his hands over her shoulders and down her arms. They skimmed her waist until his hands rested on her hips, orienting himself to her. Anchoring her.
Oh, how she would miss this, not just the sex, but the way he brushed her skin with his fingertips, as though it was a fresh experience every time. The way he’d talk to her. Those charming little compliments that slipped from between his lips, like sighs.
Waiting to be together tonight had been dragged out so long, and they were both so desperate, and yet, still, he took things slowly.
She felt the slight friction of his fingertips against the silk, felt the warmth of his skin through the sheer fabric, and wanted more.
She reached for him, finding his shoulders, putting her arms around his neck and pulling his head down until she could kiss him. She tasted toothpaste and a hint of scotch. As his mouth moved against hers and their chins brushed, she could tell that he was freshly shaven.
How thoughtful. All the parts of her that wouldn’t be getting chafed through close contact with his stubble, tingled in anticipation. She opened her mouth to him, tasting him, nipping his lower lip. And all the time his hands continued stroking her, exciting her through the silk. He traced the long muscles of her back. “You’re muscles are tight. You seem really tense.”
“It’s been a long day. And that last hour was hell. I thought I’d have to drug Simon’s drink to get away.” She moaned softly as he began kneading the knots in her shoulder. “Then my boss in L.A. wanted to chat. It’s late afternoon there and he wanted to talk about new ideas for programming. While all I could think about was finding you and getting naked.” She kissed him. “All I could think about was this.”
“I know,” he said, his slow, soothing hands in odd contrast to the barely-restrained need she recognized in his voice.
Even though her belly was growing heavy with desire, and she ached to have him inside her, it felt so good to have him massaging away the day’s tensions that she leaned into his hands, like a cat being stroked. He spent a long time on her shoulders and her back, and then he moved – very sneakily in the dark – and she felt his hands at her stomach, so warm and sudden that she gasped. He stroked her belly as he had her back, long, soothing strokes that left her quivering and wanting. It was like the Kama Sutra of massage therapy.
It was so quiet here, so still and so dark that her senses were abnormally heightened. Without sight, she was aware of subtle sensations. The sound of their breathing, the slight rustle as her gown brushed her skin, the smell of George’s shaving cream on his freshly-shaven face, the feel of the ancient wooden wall at her back, and the firm warmth of George at her front.
When his questing fingers reached her naked thighs, he said, “You’re trembling.”
“I want you so much.”
“It’s different, now, isn’t it? Now that I’ve declared myself.”
She smiled in the darkness. Such an old-fashioned expression, but it suited him.
“It’s partly knowing how we feel, I think, and also knowing we won’t see each other for a while. We have to make enough memories to last.”
“How long?” he asked, running his lips along her jaw line.
“A few weeks.” She clutched at him. “Shorter if I can manage it.”
“I don’t think I can bear to be away from you. We’ve barely begun to know each other.” His hands were urgent on her, tracing her thighs.
“I know.” She was so empty, so hot for him, waiting.
“Maybe I can come up and you can sneak me into your hotel room at the next location.”
She could barely take in his words. If she didn’t have him ins
ide her soon, she’d explode. But the meaning finally sank in. “You’d do that? You’d drive all that way for one night?”
“I’d drive twice as far. You haven’t even gone yet and I miss you already.”
She smiled against his chest, “I know. I feel it too.”
His hand was moving higher, and she parted her legs to give him ready access to where she wanted him most.
“Your skin is so soft here, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so soft.”
“It’s arousal,” she panted. “Blood’s rushing to the capillaries.”
“Really?” His fingers paused, no doubt in surprise.
“I produced a documentary on sexual arousal one time. It’s amazing the facts you pick up.” She laughed softly.
“Let’s see if we can find any more signs of arousal,” he said in a low, teasing tone letting his hand sweep higher.
She wanted to open up for him but her legs were shaking and she thought she might topple. He seemed to understand her dilemma, for he raised her knee and draped her leg over his elbow. She felt the air wafting across her privates and was so sensitive that even the slight movement of air felt like a caress. The narrowness of the corridor only increased the intimacy.
Then he touched her and she let out a moan of pleasure. His fingers explored her with a deft, light tough, making her squirm.
“You’re so wet,” he whispered.
“I’m so desperately horny, you have no idea.”
“Oh, yes I do,” he said, and pushed a finger inside her.
“I want you,” she cried. “Can’t wait.”
He didn’t say anything, but she heard the rustle and tear of the condom package, then he grabbed her hips and hoisted her up. She opened her legs, wrapping them around his waist and he pushed up and into her, shoving her against the cold wall. The shock of the cold wood paneling against her back was in sharp contrast to the heat coming off George. He took her fast and hard and she took him right back, spread so wide that she felt the shock of impact right through her with every thrust.
Shudders rocked her. She felt that she was floating, with only the solid walls of the historic mansion and the solid arms of George holding her to earth.
When he came it was like an explosion inside her.
He staggered a little and she clutched at his shoulders, wondering if they’d topple to the ground, but he recovered enough to let her down slowly.
They stood there, panting, leaning against each other until she whispered, “Your place, or mine?”
“Let’s start in your bed and end up in mine.”
“Good plan,” she said, and led him back the way she’d come.
Her room seemed overbright when she flicked on a lamp. Her nearly-packed suitcase sat by the door, a reminder, if they needed one, that this was goodbye for a while.
Sure, they’d be able to visit, but it wasn’t going to be the same. The fairy tale quality of living in his ancient manor house and creeping to his room via secret passageway each night was almost over. The next stage of their relationship wouldn’t happen because of circumstance and convenience, they’d have to make a deliberate and extraordinary effort to keep seeing each other.
Would they? She wondered. As strong as her feelings were, she wondered if she’d get to the next site, throw herself into the next program, or series, or concept and discover sooner than she could imagine that George was a sweet and erotic memory.
Then she felt his arms come around her, leaned against the solid warmth of him, and knew it wasn’t ever going to be like that.
“I’m in love with you.” The words, spoken aloud, surprised her even as she said them.
“I know,” he said. When she turned and gazed at him she found all the understanding she could have wished for in his face. He did know.
He kissed her softly, and the last of her barriers fell. She loved him. She’d owned up to the feeling she’d hoped would disappear, or at least turn out to be false. But it wasn’t. She’d lived long enough, known enough men, to recognize that this was the real, till-death-us-do-part thing.
This time, when they made love it was in the light. With gazes fixed and the passion slower, but deeper. With the truth out, their bodies could express the love they’d finally admitted.
She wanted to imprint this moment and carry it around her neck in a locket forever, so she could take it out and look at it every once in a while, when she was lonely or far away or simply irritated with life.
When he entered her, she felt herself open as she never had before. Love was scary, she realized, it made you utterly vulnerable. Except this didn’t feel scary, it felt right.
His skin was warm and smooth against hers. There was a smatter of freckles on his shoulder that she’d never noticed before and which filled her with such tenderness she wanted to weep. She didn’t. She kissed them, those pale, almost unnoticeable sun freckles. And she kissed the place where she felt his heart beating, and then she kissed his lips and was lost.
Chapter 12
They lay with their hands clasped, heads close together on one pillow, legs entwined.
“This situation, as you Brits would say, is bloody inconvenient.”
“It is.”
She sighed, and gazed at the gorgeous room, with enough antiques to remind her of where she was and who he was. “If you could change your circumstances, would you?”
“As you Americans would say, in a New York minute.”
“Really?”
He traced her nose with a finger. “I was an architect in London, as you know. And, a pretty bloody good one, if I do say so. I could have met you at a club or a party, or maybe your firm would have done a bit on Britain’s sexiest architects.”
She made gagging noises, but he merely grinned and carried on.
“And we’d have met. I’d have fallen all over myself trying to impress you.”
“You’d have succeeded.”
“And we’d have gone to dinner. Walked around Hyde Park, I’d have taken you on the London Eye like the tourist you are, we’d have gone to the theatre. And when you went home, I could have followed you.”
“Would you really? What about your job.”
“A job you can get anywhere. A woman like you comes along once in a lifetime.”
She glanced at him sharply. Was he making a point? That she should quit her job and move to England to be with him? But he didn’t seem to be hinting. She thought he really was contemplating his own life. He was right, though, this kind of love didn’t hang around on street corners waiting for you to bump into it.
“And then your father died.”
“Yes. I’d always known he would, of course. And I’ve always known this would one day be my life. My duty.”
“Duty. Such an old-fashioned word. An important one, though.”
“I could hire somebody and then leave the place for a good portion of every year.”
“But you won’t,” she realized. “And maybe I wouldn’t love you if you were the kind of man who could. The estate needs you. I can see how much good it does for you to be here, a part of it, trying to bring it back to prosperity.”
“Yes. I suppose so. It’s ironic, really isn’t it? I’m a sort of Robin Hood in reverse. We charge the tourists money in order to hang onto a symbol of ancient wealth.” He shook his head.
“There’s so much potential here, too. You could expand the wedding business and add more holiday options.”
“We rent two of the former laborer’s cottages,” he said. “We’ve got them fixed up for self-catering holidays. I’ve designed half a dozen more, and if I ever get the money, I’ll build them to add more revenue streams.” He looked at her apologetically. “But this is still a private home. I don’t want to live in a hotel, or operate a caravan park or a zoo or something.”
“No, of course not.” But there were ways. She could see there were things that could be done to improve the bottom line. What this place needed was someone with some fresh ideas. Someone w
ho had ties to the United States. Someone, in fact, like her. If she wasn’t already employed.
She’d imagined they’d make love most of the night, but as it was they talked. Silly, intimate stuff. What scared you when you were a kid? (Him, the dark. Her, the fear of getting lost.)
“What scares you now?” she asked.
“I would have said losing Hart House. But now, I very much fear it’s losing you.”
Oh, how her heart leapt at those words. “We’ll work this out,” she promised. “I’m not sure how, but we’ll work it out.”
He nodded. Maybe a little sadly. Well, it wasn’t like he could do much. She was the one who had to make a decision to change her life – or not -- they both knew that.
“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your biggest fear?”
She took a deep breath. “Failure.”
“But you’re amazingly successful.”
“Yeah, well, now you know why. I’m terrified of failing, I think that’s why I’m so driven.”
“I suppose then, that a lot hinges on your definition of success.”
“And failure.”
Sometime in the night they fell asleep.
George woke to the ominous sound of a zipper. He wasn’t certain why it was ominous until he opened his eyes and realized that it was the zipper on Maxine’s travel case. And that it meant she was leaving.
He flopped to his back and watched her. He didn’t know what to say, only no. Please, no. Please don’t go. But, of course, he didn’t. Instead, he watched her gather her things together and then turn. She started slightly when she saw his eyes were open and on her and the expression of longing he’d caught was quickly zipped away along with her makeup bag.
But he’d seen it. Recognized it. Inside herself, he knew she was saying no to their parting, too.
He had to say something, but they appeared to have run out of words. Good morning wouldn’t do it. It was a shit morning. She was leaving. Have a nice trip? He hoped she had such a rotten trip she was back here within a fortnight.
