by Jill Mansell
Touched by his kindness, and suddenly overcome with a fresh wave of loneliness, Camilla shook her head and gave him a wry smile.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said quietly. “I’m really not looking for a man at the moment.”
“Good,” said Laura with great firmness, as if that settled the matter. “That’s always the best time to find one.”
Several minutes later, Loulou returned.
“I’ve looked everywhere, even under the beds upstairs,” she said, shivering like an overbred greyhound and spilling most of the champagne Camilla had handed to her. “Mac isn’t here yet. Which would be best—should I be flirting with someone gorgeous when he arrives or standing alone looking soulful?”
“Most of your problems with Mac have been caused by you fraternizing with other men,” protested Camilla, panicking slightly as she realized that either way she was going to be abandoned. “And if you’re on your own it’ll seem as if no one wants to talk to you. Why don’t we stick together, then I can discreetly back off when he comes over?”
“You’re a gem!” Loulou hugged her, at the same time glancing over Camilla’s shoulder and locking eyes with a dissolute boy with a wicked mouth who was lounging against the white marble fireplace. Not a day over twenty-two, she thought, blowing him a kiss. And I’m not even going to speak to him because Mac’s here, Mac’s here, Mac’s here…
* * *
“Bloody hell,” said Mac, feigning surprise. “The farther away from London I go, the more often I seem to bump into you. Is nowhere sacred?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” retaliated Loulou affably, her confidence bolstered by several glasses of champagne. “You knew I’d be here for Christo’s engagement party.”
“And I came anyway,” he riposted. “Despite the fact that you’ve probably got a dozen reporters hiding in the woodwork. What the hell possessed you to do that story in the paper, for God’s sake?”
“Me!” screamed Loulou, her silver-gray eyes flashing like marcasite. “I thought you’d organized that…I’m going to kill that worm when I get my hands on him…and where’s Cecilia tonight, anyway?”
“France and you bloody well know it,” retaliated Mac. “And if you start getting any ideas…”
Camilla made a strategic withdrawal. Their helpless sparring, the undeniable explosion of attraction between them, was more than she could cope with. Neither of them were even aware that she was there, and the realization only enhanced her own unease. Nothing would please her more than if Loulou and Mac could somehow be reconciled, but at the same time it left her conspicuously alone and suddenly very, very lonely.
Escaping through the front door, she made her way toward the tent, from which incredibly loud rock music was pounding. As she approached the enormous blue-and-white tent in the darkness, taking care not to let her high heels sink into the springy turf, she encountered a solid object with her toe and almost tripped, losing her shoe in the process.
“Ouch,” protested a male voice.
She ground to an uneven halt.
“I’m not a tent peg,” he protested.
Camilla giggled, blinking in the darkness and crouching down in search of her shoe.
“You sound nice,” the voice continued. “How would you like to share my picnic?”
“You have a picnic out here?” Relieved to be spoken to, she paused, only just able to make out the dim silhouette of his body close to hers, stretched out lazily on the grass.
Next moment, a bottle splashed into her lap. “Bollinger. It’s all a midnight feast needs. Who are you?”
“Camilla.” Emboldened by the darkness, she retaliated, “Why, who are you?”
“Piers O’Donoghue,” replied the voice that had a sensual touch of Irish in it not unlike Christo’s. “And are you pretty? I only buy champagne for girls who are pretty. Otherwise, it’s lager.”
“Thank goodness it’s dark,” said Camilla, raising the bottle to her lips and wondering how Loulou and Mac were getting on. Then she jumped as a warm hand touched her cheek, lightly tracing her profile.
“You’ll do,” said Piers O’Donoghue with a smile in his voice. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“I know Christo…” began Camilla, but he interrupted her.
“I mean here on this grass, talking to a complete stranger. Had a row with your lover?”
“I’m being discreet.” And, for something to say, she explained about Loulou and her hazardous love life. As she talked, she breathed in the expensive aroma of Dolce & Gabbana aftershave and newly mown grass, and after a while, her eyes became more accustomed to the summer darkness. Piers O’Donoghue had black curly hair, dark eyes, and a deep tan that showed against the whiteness of his shirt. If she deliberately didn’t concentrate on the amused, Anglo-Irish voice she could almost imagine that he was Matt, which was quite absurd but made him easier to talk to.
“Two lost souls, then,” he declared, reaching for her bare arm and caressing it with lazy sensuality. “Our bottle’s finished. Do we stay out here like the babes in the wood or go in search of more to drink and risk being disappointed when we each see what the other looks like?”
Camilla trembled, suddenly afraid to break the spell. “Let’s stay,” she said and saw Piers’s white teeth gleam.
Laughing, he stood up and helped her carefully to her feet. “You’re either very, very ugly or enchantingly modest,” he told her, so close now that his mouth brushed her hair. “But you smell gorgeous, and I’m far too curious about you now to wait any longer to find out. Listen, they’re playing our song. We have to dance.”
Camilla realized that she was holding her breath as they entered the vast, elegantly lit tent. All of a sudden, beset by self-doubt and all the old insecurities, she was terrified that Piers would take one look at her and exclaim in horror “Christ, you are ugly” before disappearing into the night.
Instead, he pulled her around to face him, leisurely surveying the length of her body for several seconds before giving a low whistle of approval and reaching out to remove an imaginary pair of spectacles.
“Why, Miss Jones, you’re beautiful. Why on earth have I never noticed before?”
Coloring, Camilla glanced down at the ground. Piers O’Donoghue was devastatingly attractive, and she was at a loss for words.
Fortunately, he suffered no such inhibitions. “Come dance,” he said again, his tone gentle as if he were coaxing a nervous puppy onto his lap. “I adore women who blush. In fact, I didn’t know there were any left who still could.”
As they stepped onto the dance floor, alive with whirling couples, the band slowed down and started playing a moody, sexy version of “Every Time You Go Away.”
“Please don’t,” murmured Piers, his warm hand lightly caressing Camilla’s shoulder blade.
Startled, she met his eyes, which were brown instead of dark blue like Matt’s, but otherwise uncannily similar in shape. “Don’t what?”
“Go away.” He smiled, revealing those incredibly white, very even teeth once more.
Thinner than Matt, an inch or so shorter, and probably five years younger, he nevertheless reminded Camilla of him so intensely that she couldn’t stop staring at him. The dark, curly hair and the narrowed, perpetually amused eyes fringed with thick lashes were what really did it, she realized as they moved around the dance floor in graceful unison, scarcely noticing the other couples around them.
“You don’t live in Bath,” he stated matter-of-factly. “If you did, I’d know you. You told me that you know Laura’s fiancé, so I’d say at a guess you’re from London. That means you have to return there…but I don’t want you to go. And I do mean it,” he added, his expression serious. “This isn’t a line. It’s a coup de foudre, Camilla. Do you understand what I’m saying to you now?”
* * *
Mac was still privately wondering i
f he had gone mad. Did people know when that happened to them, or did they just carry on in blissful ignorance of the world around them?
He had been horrified to hear himself accepting Christo’s invitation to the party, knowing—as they both did, although it had remained unspoken between them—that Loulou would be there.
He had been even more disturbed to find himself ringing Cecilia at her hotel in Paris and mentioning casually that he was going out to dinner that night with an old photographer friend.
And, driving down the M4 toward Bath later that evening, he had finally considered the possibility that he might benefit from a few sessions on the psychiatrist’s couch.
Was he destined, he wondered now, to spend the rest of his life racing down to Gloucestershire for frantic, fated reunions with Loulou?
At that moment, however, the object of his madness returned from her search for Camilla and the familiar longing mixed with love and exasperation hit him hard in the stomach—as it always did. She was like a wayward child, always thinking she knew best, and plunging into predicaments with bright, hopelessly misguided optimism. But, at the same time, he couldn’t help admiring her resilience. The newspaper feature, of course, was what had finally clinched it. Whether or not that ambitious young reporter had realized what would happen, the fact remained that his exposé had been more than instrumental in reuniting him with Loulou. Her secret longing to see him, whether true or not, had gripped him with a need equally as fierce. No longer the ice queen, her exposed vulnerability had affected him more deeply and effectively than anything else could have done.
And now that she had finally dropped her guard, allowing her deepest feelings to surface, she was utterly irresistible.
“I saw her,” she said breathlessly, “dancing with a divine man. The pair of them wouldn’t have noticed if the Seven Samurai had burst into the tent, they looked so besotted with each other. I’ll ask Christo to tell her later that we’ve gone.”
“Where are we going?” said Mac, unable to prevent himself from reaching for her hand. Loulou gave him a look that was so wicked his knees went weak.
“A hotel,” she whispered. “Bath’s finest. I want us to sign in as Mr. and Mrs. Smith, so that everyone will know what we’re up to.” Tugging at his arm and at the same time draining her glass of champagne, she pulled him toward the front door. “Come on, I want to be so sinful and naughty that you’ll never forget me…”
“Don’t worry,” said Mac, following her and praying that nobody could see how distorted the front of his trousers had become. “Whatever else happens, I won’t ever be able to do that.”
* * *
“If there’s one thing I absolutely adore,” drawled Piers, pulling Camilla to him, “it’s an insatiable woman. And oh, I’ve made you blush again. If there’s one thing I adore even more than an insatiable woman, it’s one who blushes at the same time.”
In the coppery glow of the subdued lighting, Camilla admired the sheen of Piers’s bare chest, splaying her fingers between his collarbones and trailing them slowly down toward his taut stomach.
“I don’t know why I’m like this. I really don’t make a habit of it. You’re almost my very first one-night stand, you know.” She deliberately refused to allow herself to remember Nico.
Putting a finger against her lips, Piers silenced her. “I’m not a one-night stand. We’re going to see a lot more of each other than this. Coup de foudre, I told you.”
She dreamily kissed his tanned chest, willing herself not to think too hard, or to hope too much. But it was hard not to hope when their lovemaking had been so exhilarating, so totally perfect.
“I’m going back to London in the morning,” she murmured, testing him. “You live in Bath. It’s too far away.”
Piers rolled his dark eyes and laughed, hugging her against him. “Camilla, you’re incredible. Most women at this stage are saying, ‘You will ring me, won’t you?’ and ‘I will see you again, won’t I?’” He imitated a falsetto whine with devastating accuracy. “And here you are, at the very beginning of our great love affair, doing your damnedest to put me off. I’m coming up to London on Wednesday to see you, OK? And nothing you say is going to stop me.”
* * *
“Fancy meeting you here,” purred Loulou, flinging her arms wide and wondering if it were really possible to be this happy. She giggled as Mac poured an effervescent trail of chilled Dom Perignon over her stomach and thighs and proceeded to lick it off with exquisite skill and slowness. “Aren’t you glad you came?”
He paused, leaning on one elbow and glancing up at her. “You’re a witch,” he said slowly.
Loulou gave him her most sublime smile. “But I can make you laugh,” she said, tickling his hip with her big toe. “You don’t look as if you’ve laughed much lately. Was Cecilia useless at telling jokes?”
Observing her use of the past tense, Mac replied carefully, “She has her good points.”
“But mine are better,” murmured Loulou seductively, all her ideas of playing it cool forgotten now that she had finally enticed Mac back into her bed. “What do you call a man with no arms and no legs who swims the Channel?”
Mac bent and kissed her exquisite navel, then shrugged. “I couldn’t begin to guess.”
“A clever dick,” said Loulou, smiling and reaching for him once more. “And since this hotel is bloody expensive and we really should make sure we get our money’s worth, you can show me again just how clever you are…”
* * *
Camilla still found it hard to believe that she could feel so deliciously wanton and free of guilt. Not only had she spent the entire night making love to someone who was virtually a complete stranger, but she had done it in Roz’s bed, where presumably in the past Roz had slept with Jack. With Nico too, she realized belatedly and thrust that particular thought with great firmness from her mind.
And I feel alive again, she thought, sitting up in bed and basking in the warmth of the sunlight that streamed through the open windows.
Perfect peace, thought Camilla, pushing her hands through her hair in a lazy attempt to loosen the tangles. Peace and happiness and a kind of giddy weightlessness had enveloped her, and she was finding it ludicrously difficult to stop smiling. And to think, she recalled idly, that I never thought I could feel properly happy again.
* * *
Later, trailing downstairs in her white silk robe because getting dressed might break the spell, she found Piers in the kitchen making breakfast and whistling “White Christmas.” He was naked apart from a black velour towel slung around his hips, and Camilla felt her stomach disappear with longing.
“I adore women with wet hair,” he said, handing her a warm croissant and kissing her collarbone where droplets of water from the shower still clung like warm beads. Into her other hand he thrust a mug of strong, aromatic coffee. “Let’s go outside. I wanted to make love to you on the grass last night. Maybe this morning I’ll get lucky.”
“The grass will be damp,” protested Camilla, following him to the door.
He grinned. “Even better. I adore women with wet bodies.”
“And Loulou could be back at any moment.”
Piers regarded her sternly. “Are you making excuses?”
“Of course I’m making excuses,” said Camilla, wincing as she sat down on the wooden bench beneath a bower of honeysuckle. “I ache in every muscle and I don’t even have the strength to walk straight. My poor old body isn’t used to all these…attentions.”
“Oh God,” he groaned, collapsing beside her with an air of defeat. “Enforced celibacy. I don’t know whether I can stand it.”
“It’ll be good for the soul,” Camilla said comfortingly and Piers laughed, his gypsyish dark eyes narrowing just as Matt’s always had, an unexpected dimple in his left cheek enhancing his smooth brown features.
“I’m more interested in
good bodies than good souls,” he said, tucking his free hand companionably between her knees where the white silk had fallen away. “But since your poor old body is clearly off-limits, we’ll just talk instead. Tell me all about yourself. Tell me about your love life…before me, of course.”
Normally reticent to the point of abruptness, Camilla marveled at his power to relax her. Leaning back so that the sun’s rays warmed her cheeks, she said, “Until last night, the only men I’d ever slept with were two husbands and a single one-night fling.”
And instead of laughing or saying, “Whose husbands were they?” as some men might have done, Piers leaned across and kissed her earlobe.
“How delightfully innocent and refreshing,” he murmured. “You make me feel very honored. Now tell me all about you. I want to know everything about you, from the very, very beginning.”
* * *
“Is this a joke?” demanded Loulou, stiffening and drawing back like an angry, bewildered animal.
Mac saw the snapping, fiery light in her silver-gray eyes and knew at once that she was beyond reasoning with. Nevertheless, in desperation, he tried.
“Look,” he said gently, “we both know now that we should be together. I want you; nothing’s been right for me since we split up, but because I had to carry on somehow, I did. I’m living with Cecilia and—”
“You said last night that you didn’t love her!” hissed Loulou, edging still further away from him.
“And it was the truth,” he continued. “I’ll tell her it’s over between us; I swear I will. You and I can be together again. We can even get married again if that’s what you want…” He hesitated, then added firmly, “But I can’t tell her just yet.”
“Because it’s her birthday next month?” yelled Loulou with vicious mimicry. “What kind of bullshit is this! Everyone has fucking birthdays, for Christ’s sake…you hardly ever remembered mine when we were married.”
