Fast Friends

by Jill Mansell

  “Then you’re exhausted and broke,” Camilla told him, pushing an enormous glass of scotch into his hand and marveling that she could still talk to him naturally. “Let’s hope the check doesn’t bounce.”

  “Let’s hope the helicopter doesn’t either. Cheers.” He took a gulp of his drink and almost choked. “Christ, there isn’t any water in it. Are you trying to get me drunk, Cami?”

  “Of course,” she replied lightly, allowing her gaze to drop the length of his body. “When I’ve done that, I shall take compromising photographs of you and send them off to the Sunday Mirror. I hope you’re hungry, by the way.”

  “Ah.” He regarded her gravely. “You’ve drugged the food as well, to make doubly sure. Have I time for a shower before it’s ready?”

  “I should hope so,” admonished Camilla as she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. “You want to be nice and clean, don’t you, for the Sunday Mirror?”

  She was just putting the finishing touches to the steak au poivre when Nico returned wearing only a pair of white Fiorucci jeans and a loose, cotton shirt. She had turned up the central heating quite deliberately two hours earlier.

  He tweaked a strand of her hair as she poured the cream and brandy sauce over the tender fillet steaks. “That looks great, Cami. And you’re looking pretty good yourself tonight. Going out somewhere special?”

  Camilla shook her head and hoped that she hadn’t overdone it. She had taken great care to ensure that she looked “pretty good” rather than done up to the eyeballs, which was why she was wearing just a plain white silk shirt and a clean pair of ultra-faded jeans rather than anything deliberately glamorous. And Nico would have to be very close indeed before he could smell the subtle fragrance of the perfume she was wearing.

  Nico carried the plates through to the sitting room, where Camilla had laid a small table and lighted fat beeswax candles. She followed him with the bowls of buttered zucchinis, incredibly garlicky mushrooms, and golden sautéed potatoes. Two bottles of good Beaujolais, opened earlier to have time to breathe, stood at opposite ends of the table glowing ruby red in the candlelight. Not too obvious, she told herself reassuringly; Nico liked candles and often lighted them himself. Music, though, was a different matter. She had rummaged through his vast CD collection earlier and unearthed an Eva Cassidy CD, then had chickened out and hurriedly returned it to its case.

  The choice must be left to Nico, and she’d just have to pray that he wouldn’t choose something too earsplitting.

  “Now, what goes well with steak au poivre and Beaujolais?” mused Nico, surveying the stacks of records and CDs as he always did before sitting down to eat, and Camilla held her breath. If he played Eminem now, she wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

  She almost sagged with relief when Ella Fitzgerald at her most laid-back flooded the room with her sexy voice and the accompaniment of a slow, mellow tenor saxophone.

  “Good old Ella,” murmured Nico, sliding onto his chair and winking at Camilla. “Every time I hear her, she just makes me want to take all my clothes off.”

  The thought made Camilla’s skin tingle. She looked pointedly down at his bare brown feet. As Nico’s housekeeper, she knew only too well that he didn’t possess a single pair of underpants. “It wouldn’t take you long,” she observed drily. “Do you realize that you’re in the very worst position in the world to play strip poker?”

  “Or the very best,” he replied with a wicked smile as he heaped mushrooms onto his plate. “And you don’t have too much of an advantage yourself, Camilla. I may be young and innocent”—she pulled a face—“but even I can tell that you aren’t wearing a bra.”

  “Eat your steak,” instructed Camilla, wondering what Roz was doing at this moment and whether Nico would realize soon that she had disconnected the phone. How clever she was, she told herself, to have thought of absolutely everything. “Eat,” she repeated, “and tell me all about your new helicopter.”

  * * *

  Now what do I do, she wondered two hours later, praying that her courage wasn’t about to fail her.

  Here were the soft lights, the slow music, and the man and woman who were supposed to fall into bed together, but somehow she couldn’t quite find either the words or the way to get them there. Should she just say it? Just do it? And what if Nico howled with laughter at the craziness of the idea or—even more humiliating—rejected her with a polite smile and an awkward pat on the head?

  Don’t even think about it, she told herself fiercely, scarcely listening to Nico’s scurrilous account of the reasons for the breakup of one of the film world’s most famous marriages. She had to go ahead, carry out her plan, because she was jealous and somehow revenge would shrink that jealousy.

  An eye for an eye, a man for a man, she thought, boosted by the smooth, warm Beaujolais.

  Nico had brought women home for bed and breakfast before now and it hadn’t bothered her. Just because she no longer had a sex life herself, she didn’t begrudge the rest of the world from carrying on as if nothing had happened.

  But Camilla seriously wondered whether she could ever completely forgive Nico for sleeping with Roz. It was a form of betrayal, and although in her heart she realized the reason he hadn’t told her about his relationship with Roz was because he didn’t want to upset her any more, she was still furious with him. She felt foolish, uninformed, a child from whom grown-ups kept secrets. She could imagine Nico and Loulou discussing it together, deciding that it would be better if Camilla didn’t know. Well, this time it would be Roz who wouldn’t know.

  But first, she had to make it happen.

  “You aren’t listening to a word I’ve been saying,” protested Nico, jerking her back to the present. He stretched, catlike, and tilted the half-empty wine bottle toward Camilla’s glass. “And I shall be asking questions later,” he warned her, straight-faced.

  It occurred to him that there might be something on her mind. Cami wasn’t normally this quiet, and she seemed different tonight somehow, an air of recklessness when she did speak combining with her usual measured wit. And there were brief moments when she appeared almost awkward, as if she had something to tell him, but couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to come out with it.

  “Have you broken something?” he said suddenly, and Camilla frowned.

  “No. Why, do you think I should?”

  “Only if you really want to. You look a bit strange, that’s all.”

  She smiled, pretending to take offense. “How very debonair of you to say so. I cook you a brilliant steak, share your cheap wine, listen to your appalling gossip, and all you can tell me is that I look strange.”

  “You look very nice,” he teased her.

  But she looked better than that. Gorgeous was the rather old-fashioned word that sprang into his mind as he lay back against the gray silk cushions and surveyed Camilla through half-closed eyes. The silk shirt, shimmering in the firelight, was just transparent enough to reveal the darker shadows of her nipples. As Betty Grable and Marilyn Monroe had been gorgeous in their day, so was Camilla, thought Nico with typically Italian appreciation. Her body had real curves and her lightly tanned skin glowed, exuding warmth. Whenever Camilla threw back her head and laughed, revealing white teeth and a slender brown neck, Nico longed to take her in his arms, to run his fingers over that adorable body, to kiss her soft, smiling mouth.

  But Camilla, unfortunately, was off-limits. Her bruised innocence, her trust in him, and the recent drastic end to her marriage had forced him into a moral corner; they had a platonic relationship in which he took enormous pride and pleasure, since apart from Loulou he had never had a truly platonic friendship with a woman. Now he had two and he didn’t want to lose either of them, but Christ, it was frustrating to want someone like crazy and to feel impelled not to do anything about it.

  Besides, whereas it was perfectly OK to screw the au pair, somehow sle
eping with the housekeeper didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked idly to change the subject, and Camilla regarded him for several seconds, her long-lashed turquoise eyes thoughtful, before replying.

  “There is someone,” she said, breathing very shallowly, “whom I very much want to go to bed with. But I don’t know how to get them there. What if they turned me down?”

  Nico felt his heart thudding slowly and heavily. It hadn’t behaved like this since he was a teenager. What did she mean, someone? Was she referring to him? Was she telepathic?

  Perhaps she meant someone else, he thought wildly, but the way she was looking at him all of a sudden made him doubt it… Christ, what could he say?

  “Anyone who turned you down, Cami, would have to be crazy,” he replied, choosing every word with care. If she meant someone else, he would die. If she meant him, he would have to face the dilemma of choosing between the moral decision at which he had arrived months ago, and the burning need he had to make love to her right now.

  The silence deepened, broken only by the intermittent crackling of the fire. Nico could hear his own breathing.

  “So you think,” said Camilla at last, her voice catching slightly, “that if I just…went ahead and let him know what I wanted, he wouldn’t mind too much?”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t.” It was a struggle getting the words out. Desire flooded through him as he caught the expression in her narrowed eyes, and he had to force himself not to move toward her. Instead, Nico waited while Camilla apparently thought his words over, taking great care to digest each one. “You could just reach across and touch him,” he continued slowly, “and see how he reacts. Then you’d know for sure that he wasn’t going to reject you.”

  Camilla nodded, her hair gleaming in the half-light, her mouth still pensive. Then, just as he was beginning to think that she would never move, her hand stretched out, coming to rest upon his brown forearm.

  “Like this?” she murmured tentatively, and Nico swallowed hard before inclining his head in agreement.

  “Like that.”

  “And then, should I move a little closer?”

  Silently, holding his breath now, he nodded once more.

  “Like this?”

  “Just like that. Exactly like that…”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The situation was so erotic, so slow and hesitant and desirable that Nico didn’t know if he could stand it. He felt like a virgin now, both helpless and enthralled by the prospect of what lay ahead. He who was so experienced was the innocent one and Camilla, whom he guessed must be light years behind him as far as sexual experiences were concerned, was completely in charge. When the butterfly touch of her warm fingers insinuated slowly up his arm and she edged closer still so that he caught the first faint breath of her perfume, Nico could no longer help himself. Gently, he caught her other hand in his and pulled her toward him until his mouth was inches from her own.

  “Would it be right to kiss him?” she whispered, searching his face with an intensity that almost melted his soul.

  “I think that might be the very best thing you could do,” agreed Nico, hearing the unsteadiness in his own voice and aching with need for her.

  “Like this?”

  Careful, thought Camilla, pulling away at last. I’m on my way, but it does have to be my way. Keep control. Don’t even think about how wonderful it feels. I mustn’t lose the upper hand.

  Nico had a beguiling mouth and a clever tongue. It was almost impossible not to compare his kisses with Jack’s, and there really was no comparison at all, but then maybe Jack kissed differently when he was making love to Roz, as he had kissed differently when he had first made love to Camilla.

  But back to the present. Here she was with Nico, who was allowing her to make all the moves and who showed absolutely no sign at all of wanting to hurry the proceedings along. It was up to her to do something, and clearly, the decision to be made next was whether she should lead him up to his bedroom or hers, or make love to him right here.

  Until tonight, she had never done it anywhere but in bed.

  That was it then, she decided with a small smile. She was a changed woman, wasn’t she? So the floor it had to be.

  “Stand up,” she instructed, and when Nico obeyed, her fingers went surely to the front of his jeans, unzipping them with one long, slow movement. Their bodies touching now, she could feel the hard warmth of his desire for her against her stomach, the equally unyielding muscles of his chest and abdomen through the gossamer silk of her shirt.

  So, thought Camilla with relief, she was, after all, still capable of making a man want her.

  Moments later, her clothes slid to the floor to join Nico’s, and all that existed in the world were their warm, naked bodies and that magical desire.

  She had succeeded in bringing him this far; now it was time for Nico to take the lead.

  “Your turn,” she murmured.

  He smiled, running his index finger lightly along the sensitive line of her collarbone and gazing with frank appreciation at the splendid swell of her breasts. “You’re beautiful, Cami. You should go without clothes more often.”

  The tiny joke was ostensibly to put her at ease, she realized, yet she wasn’t in the least nervous. Bizarrely, it seemed that Nico was the one more in need of reassurance now.

  “Remember the first time we met?” she said, bringing her arms up to rest lightly upon his shoulders. “I was naked then, and I thought I’d die of embarrassment.”

  “You aren’t embarrassed now, though?”

  “How could I be?”

  And then his arms closed around her, properly, and she felt the unclothed heat of their bodies as they met fully for the first time. Shyly at first, his tongue probed her mouth, then his hands were upon her hips, pulling her gently against him in time with the rhythmic deepening of the kiss. Minutes later, he sank almost in slow motion to his knees, his mouth caressing her breasts, her taut stomach, and her thighs. The feel of him was almost too much for Camilla. She closed her eyes, willing herself to remain unmoved. It was vital that Nico didn’t realize how deeply he affected her. After all, he had done these same things with Roz. Then he drew her down onto the rug beside him and with one graceful movement rolled into position, taking his weight with his arms. She could feel him, ready for her, resting exactly over the most sensitive part of her body.

  She waited, holding her breath and unable now to look at him as he began to move back and forth over her, rocking himself gently against her until she bit her lip to stop herself crying out. She was so ready for him that the waiting was almost intolerable.

  “Camilla,” he sighed.

  Her fingers, digging into his smooth brown back, silently answered him. She lifted her hips a fraction and Nico entered her, filling her until, helplessly, she heard herself sighing too.

  And as soon as he began to move, slowly and deliberately and with perfect control, she knew without doubt that she would reach a climax. It would be impossible not to…

  It was the ultimate irony, she thought, that this time—when all she wanted to do was show Nico that he wasn’t perfect—it was actually going to happen.

  It never had while she was with Jack.

  Remember Roz, Roz with Jack and Roz with Nico, she told herself desperately. Think of anything, anything but this…

  But the spiraling sensations were increasing of their own accord, as if her body recognized a sensational lover even if her mind was determined to deny it. In desperation, Camilla stopped moving, but the exquisite pleasure of Nico’s body merely increased and she realized that her climax was inescapable.

  Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, forcing herself to remain immobile, Camilla gave herself up to the escalating pleasure flooding her like a drug. The need to cling to him, to move against him and cry out was u
nbelievable, but she forced herself not to admit by a single movement what he had made happen. Her breath was held, her body quite still. Please God, he mustn’t realize what he had done.

  Only when at last the ebbing circles of rapture had died away and she trusted herself to continue, did she reach for him once more and pull him deeper still inside her.

  “Don’t stop, Nico,” she murmured, and buried her face against his neck with great care to ensure that he would neither see nor feel the hot tears upon her cheeks.

  Despite the mounting, almost unbearable excitement within him, Nico controlled himself, taking pride in the fact that he was able to do so to give Camilla the time she needed. Women, he knew, weren’t like men in that respect; they required more time in which to allow the sensations to build, and plenty of careful stimulation to the different erogenous areas of their bodies. Their own pleasure was as important to him as his own. But not having realized until now quite how badly he had wanted to make love to Camilla and how very much he did want to please her, he began to be concerned when he realized that he was failing her.

  He had tried everything, and still she gave no sign of achieving that pleasure that he so desperately wanted to give her. Knowing that he couldn’t last much longer, he tried to think. What else could he possibly do…?

  “Tell me what you want,” he murmured, slowing down and brushing her neck with his lips, but Camilla ran her fingernails along the curve of his spine, pulling him closer and whispering “I only want you,” and Nico was lost. His breathing quickened, his back arched. The self-control, too long sustained, disintegrated as he cried out Camilla’s name…

  * * *

  “You didn’t enjoy it, did you?” he said later with a trace of sadness.

  Camilla, sunk deep inside the midnight-blue silk robe he had brought for her, gave him a forgiving look and for a brief moment despised herself for her treachery.

  “I never do anything I don’t enjoy,” she said reassuringly, stroking his arm, but Nico just looked even more upset.