“I tend not to come in here very often,” he observed, moving behind Kris and kissing her softly on the back of her head. “I’m not usually allowed.”
He had placed his hands on her shoulders and she could feel his erection stirring slightly against the small of her back through the thin cotton of her pyjamas. Normally this would have caused a flowering in her, but she was still trembling slightly as she concentrated on slicing mushrooms and onions. “Are you okay?” he asked, feeling the tension in her arms.
“I’m fine,” she told him, smiling briefly. I guess I’m nervous about invading Anna’s domain as well.”
This made him laugh and he moved to the high bar, pulling the front of his gown across his thighs and abdomen lazily. He looked relaxed and was evidently enjoying watching her, then a thought crossed his mind.
“Have you seen my phone?” he asked casually, looking around him as he spoke. “I thought I left it in the hallway.
“No,” she lied. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, just one day without work would be good for you. Surely even your associates don’t work on Christmas Day.”
“You’d be surprised,” he muttered. “No, you’re right, A break from those shits will do me good.”
Her hands were shaking slightly as she made a bacalhau and she burnt the eggs and vegetables slightly. Her grin was lopsided and apologetic as she placed it before him, pouring an orange juice to accompany it. “Sorry, it’s slightly burnt. You’ll be glad to get Anna back.”
He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her between his legs, the gown parting as he did so and his erection stirring against his thigh. “I shall, but not because you burnt my breakfast.” His eyes were looking up at her lustily while he spoke. “There’s much more I can do with you when Anna is around to take care of my other physical needs.”
She rapped him on his arm with the spatula she carried. “Concentrate on eating, Mister Stone. I need you to keep your strength up if we’re going to enjoy this day properly.”
He cried out with mock pain and rubbed his elbow. “Look!” he told her ruefully. “You hurt me!” There was the very faintest of red marks on his skin.
“You big baby,” she told him, her own eyes flashing for a moment. “You can take much more than that—I know you can.”
“Promises, promises,” he laughed, and then forked the eggs hungrily into his mouth. “Not bad,” he said, one eyebrow raised. “Not bad at all, Miss Avelar.”
“Not to your usual standards, I’m sure. Don’t worry, you’ll get your precious Anna back the day after tomorrow.”
“What!” Daniel howled, dropping the fork and raising his hands in a parody of despair. “You mean I have to endure this cooking for two days? What kind of Christmas is this going to be?”
She slapped him, a little harder than she intended, and he burst out laughing, leaping up and fighting off her hands with easygoing gestures. She could not help but laugh herself, and when he bent her over the high surface and pulled down her pyjama bottoms, slapping her pert buttocks as she squealed and cried out, she was already so wet that by the time he slipped into her an orgasm began to build almost immediately.
It was an hour later when they finally managed to evacuate the kitchen, Daniel leading her by the hand into the room beside the pool. Outside there were a few clouds in the sky, but it was still clear and bright. As he walked alongside her, Kris would steal glances sideways, looking down at his thickness that was sticky with her own juices, her own sex quivering slightly at the thought of how they would spend the rest of their day.
He pulled out the bags he had brought and placed them in front of her. “Okay,” he said as he passed them to her. “I have a confession to make, in that I got the assistants in the store to wrap them for me.”
“And no doubt you had an assistant to choose them for me,” replied Kris somewhat archly. When she saw the hurt expression on his face, she immediately regretted the comment and shook her head. “They’ll be lovely, I’m sure.”
The first she drew out was a Dior dress, simple and light, perfectly suited to the warmer climes of Portugal even at this time of year, and her mouth opened in a surprised gasp as she felt the soft texture of the fabric. Her eyes were glistening gratefully as she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly and kissing him again and again. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“I see that I’ll need a neck brace if we continue with this level of gratitude,” he told her, smirking as he spoke.
She tapped him lightly on the arm, then pulled out the second gift, unwrapping the large, flat package to reveal a frame and light flashing on glass. When she moved it, a black inked crow sitting among a room of prostrate animals appeared. Kris held it with a look of adulation and mild horror on her face.
“Is it...?” she began to ask.
“Yes,” he said. “There was a limited series of prints. Took me quite a long time to get hold of this one, I can tell you. I’m afraid Edward Avelar’s work is even harder to find, or I would have helped you build up your own collection, but in the meantime I hope that a Rego will do.”
Kris’s eyes were becoming more and more blurred as she looked down at the harsh, ragged lines of the crow, glaring beadily at the intruders in his domain. She hated to think what the cost was of the artwork in her hands, and felt guilty that such a thought had even crossed her mind. More than this, however, she understood just how deeply personal the gift was—and how it put her own for him to shame.
“There’s one more,” he said, gently prising free one of her hands from the frame and placing a small, dark blue box into her open palm.
She had to wipe away a tear before she could open the box. Inside, the silver band glittered, and the bright blue stone shone in the light.
“I know the others were too much, but sapphires match your eyes and I wanted you to have at least one.” He kissed her very gently on the cheek.
She wanted to burst into tears but held them back. “Thank you,” she smiled, her eyes watering as she looked at him. Lifting one hand to his cheek, she stroked him very softly. “Thank you.”
“Do you recognise what it is?”
“A... a ring.”
“An engagement ring.”
“Oh!” Words failed her, and she threw her arms around his neck, falling onto him and kissing him again and again. His own hands moved beneath her top, warm skin against her waist and up her rib cage, his strong fingers so soft and gentle on her as he held her close to him.
“I love you!” she almost howled between kisses. “I love you, I love you.”
“And I love you,” he told her as his lips were freed from her tender bondage. “And I want no one else. Forgive me, forgive me everything.”
“And forgive me as well.”
This made him pause and he looked at her a little strangely. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, his tone of voice querying, his eyes watching her. Looking into their depths, she could not face what she saw and closed her own, pressing her mouth to his, reaching inside him for the forgiveness she so desperately craved, her hand searching down his abdomen, grasping him as with her other she pushed down her pyjamas, desperately seeking the absolution she craved.
“Wow!” he said when they had finished, lying beside each other on the floor next to the sofa. She had ridden him furiously, high upon his body, her breasts hanging down, pleading for his fingers to dig into her flesh. “I must say, if this is how Christmas is going to be, I suggest we start celebrating every day.”
She laughed at this and pinched his nose. “Wait there,” she told him. “I have your other present. I just need to get it from upstairs.”
Getting the painting to Cascais had been a feat in itself. The canvas measured four feet long by three and she had placed it in the largest portfolio case she could find. That alone had almost made her call Jorge, but after what had happened with the Gosselin woman she could no longer trust him. Her desire to paint something new for him had fallen flat when Ma
ria had surprised her in the apartment, but in any case she knew the perfect gift for him. The Rego print had thrown her, she had to admit, but she was sure that he would be more than pleased with something by her own hand. She stared at the abstract colours for a moment, tracing one finger across the mottled surface and remembering fondly another day, another orgasm. She smiled and picked up the canvas, carefully making her way downstairs.
Like her, he was still naked, but now he was standing beside the drawer where she had placed his phone. This was now in his hand and he was staring at it, frowning. When she saw him there, his body clearly tense, like a rock sculpture of muscle, her heart froze inside her.
“Is... anything wrong?” she asked tentatively.
When he looked up, his eyes were so hurt, so pained that she could not breathe for an instant. She wanted to throw the painting in her hands to one side, to rush across the room and take the phone out of his grip, to open the window and fling it into the pool. It’s all lies! she screamed silently. Lies! None of it’s true.
“Nothing,” he said at last. “It’s nothing.” He placed the phone down on the side and gestured with his head, a curt nod in her direction. “Is this my present, then? Let’s take a look.” His words were so cold, so brutally casual that she almost failed at that moment. Instead, she took faltering step after faltering step and eventually handed him the canvas.
He took it in his hands, staring down at it like a connoisseur being shown the work of a mediocre artist for which he was being asked to pay a great price. “Interesting,” he said, his voice even and cool. “Almost Kandinsky like, though not as playful.”
His words cut through her and she felt so small there. His shoulders were set resolutely across from her, and his thighs were parted slightly so that his posture was more erect and firm. His cock had shrunk down, she noticed strangely, but all the muscles of his body were standing out, the sinews of his neck bulging slightly. Next to him she felt small and pathetic, and her arms went across her chest protectively.
“Do you like it?” she asked at last.
“Of course,” he said, smiling at her. But when she looked into his eyes they were dead, unsmiling. Like a shark’s, she thought. “It’s Christmas time,” he suddenly announced with mock cheeriness. “We should celebrate with a drink.”
He placed the painting down on the table, coolly and efficiently, and walked out of the room. His phone still remained where he had left it, and for a few minutes Kris stood there looking at it, waiting for him to return. But he didn’t, and at last she picked it up. Now it was unlocked.
The message was an email, long and extensive. She did not need to look at the address to know who it came from, and as she read the first few lines she began to cry. She wanted to throw it down, to smash it beneath her feet, but instead she read, in excruciating, crystal clear detail, an account of her night with Maria, every act they had performed, everything that had been done to her. Her eyes were filling with tears and by the end she could hardly read. Instead, her body was wracked by sobs, her chest and shoulders heaving as she saw what was in front of her.
“Is it true?” He was leaning in the doorway, a glass of amber-coloured liquid in his hands.
She couldn’t speak for a moment but instead just choked back her sobbing. “Daniel,” she said at last. “Please...”
“Is it true?” The shout was so loud, so piercing, that it shocked her out of her tears and she looked at his face, twisted in anger, with utter fear inside.
“I... I don’t...” Words utterly left her and she had no idea what to say. He simply watched her, taking a sip of his whisky and staring at her with ice-cold eyes. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t like what he’d read, that these described only physical actions, not the locked up emotions inside, her disgust and fear afterwards.
“For the third and final time,” he said, his voice lower now but even more ominous, more terrifying. “Is it true?”
She hung her head in shame, her hand dropping beside her, still clutching onto the phone. “Yes,” she whispered.
He strode across the floor into the room and she flinched, wondering what he would do to her. But instead of coming up to her he grabbed the print and dress he had bought her and flung them onto the floor. The glass of the Rego print shattered as it hit the floor, clear shards scattering over the malevolent face of the crow.
“Those you can keep, but you don’t deserve the ring. Get your clothes and get out.”
“Daniel...” she began to say, her tears returning as she lifted her arms towards him.
“Get out!” His voice was harsh and brutal. “Get out and don’t come back!”
For a second her mind filled with accusations, of how he had hurt her, questions of what he had been doing in New York all those nights he was away from her. Maria’s words filled her head with poison—you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. But a mixture of fear and the realisation that this was the defence of cowardice made her hold her tongue.
With a snarl, he moved towards her and she flinched again, but he simply lifted her hand that held onto the phone and prised it from her grip. With a few quick movements he was by the door that led outside and had opened it. She felt the cool, crisp air on her skin as she watched him lift back his arm and throw the phone into the pool.
When he turned back to her, his face was calm, impassive. “Go upstairs and get dressed,” he ordered her. “I’ll get Jorge to take you back. I don’t want to see you again. It’s over.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The New Year was the most dismal she had ever experienced. For the first few days she had simply remained in her apartment, crying. She tried to call Daniel, to tell him how sorry she was, but the number she had for his mobile was unavailable, and when she had spoken to Anna she had been told, somewhat sadly, that Senhor Stone had decided to sell the villa and that she was not to phone again. She did learn, however, that Jorge had been sacked as soon as he had driven Kris back to Alfama, though as to the reason why Anna could not say. She and Joana were to be given good references and Senhor Stone had already arranged work for them, as well as Filipe.
For New Year’s Eve itself, she forced herself outside to participate in the festivities. She was growing to hate her apartment, and wherever she looked she was taunted with her smug memories of how this was to be a home. Daniel had insisted that she bring the Rego print back with her, as well as the dress, but she had thrown the latter away as soon as she could. She could not bring herself to destroy a work of art, but looking at that malignant crow and the bad luck he had brought her made her sick to her very soul.
Not that it was the crow’s fault, she thought as she slowly trudged down the narrow, cobbled streets that led from her house to the river front. Crow is as crow does, and it was she who had been the liar. She didn’t even hate Maria after a few days: her passion for Daniel, a burning, unfulfilled passion for seven years, was clearly a madness. Crow is as crow does.
She did find herself wondering about the other five, however. What had become of the banker, the lawyer, the teacher, the one whose career she didn’t know, the financier? Where were their emeralds, pearls, garnets, opals and amethysts? Had Daniel loved them as well—how much had he loved them? How successfully had Maria been in destroying these relationships, for she was sure the French woman had an evil purpose in breaking up any happiness Daniel might encounter, and how had he never suspected?
She had no answers and realised, with a huge pang inside, that she would never know what had happened. One afternoon she had realised with disgust that Maria’s number still remained in her phone, and to her horror she realised that she wanted to call, to demand some answers to her questions. Yet she could never give Maria Gosselin the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she had hurt her. She had paid for the blood she had spilt, mere drops, and the price she had paid was greater than any she had ever known. She deleted the number: that door should be closed to her as well.
And so, as she slowl
y put one foot before the other, following the steep pathway that threatened to pitch the heedless traveller down the treacherous steps, she finally realised that everything was gone. She was broken, utterly. Part of her told herself that it was stupid, of course. These things happen all the time, and yet the world continued to spin on its access, and night followed day as day followed night. Stoicism was not for her, however. Her quietude was that of despair, not resilience. What had given her more strength than ever before had been taken away, and now she was so fragile that she feared a single tap on her skin would shatter her into a million fragments. A single word could do it, the wrong thought even.
It was already dark as she reached halfway down the hill. Pausing for a moment, she looked around. Tall buildings rose on either side of the cobbled street, some of them dark and silent sentinels, monoliths that blacked out the sky, others with lit windows open onto balconies, sounds of life and laughter emanating out into the night air. It was cool rather than cold, and the occupants of the city were gathering for their midnight celebrations, with lights visible along the harbour front and across the river. It had been a hard year for many of them, she thought to herself a little guiltily: jobs lost, financial woes and the strains of making do, and yet here they were gathering together to celebrate an old year finished and a new one coming in.
A couple walked past her, descending the hill with greater speed than she. She could hear them laughing and she stood to one side. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, she repeated the mantra to herself as they passed, but it did not stop one of them, a handsome young man with his love holding onto his arm, glancing across at her. His face clearly expressed his shock as he saw her, though he also smiled sympathetically.
She had an idea of what he must be seeing. She had not bathed or washed for a week, and her hair was already starting to tangle into a matted mess. Her jeans were filthy and her shirt and sweater was becoming grubbier by the day, but she wore them as a penitent. She rarely slept and could not eat. With a wry smile she pondered what someone had told her once: he prefers them taller and thinner. She could not increase her stature, that was for sure, but soon she would become a stick-thin model, a paper crow to fly away on any breeze.
Fragile Crystal: Rubies and Rivalries (The Crystal Fragments Trilogy) Page 19
