Her Best Worst Mistake

by Sarah Mayberry

  “Thanks. But I’ve got it under control.” He took a step backward. “Have a good weekend.”

  “You too, Martin.” She gave him a faint, sympathetic smile before turning and resuming her walk to the elevator.

  He returned to his office, aware of more than one pair of eyes following him curiously. Once he had gained the privacy of his office, he let out the breath he’d been holding and loosened his tie.

  He’d fronted enquiries and negotiated with some of the most hardened players in the London legal fraternity, but that last five minutes definitely counted as among the least pleasant of his life.

  At the other end of the office, the carpet cleaning machine started up, the loud, throbbing sound cutting through the ambient noise. Still fired by the impetus that had sent him out of his office after Tammy, he grabbed his briefcase and coat and headed for the door.

  He hadn’t left work at five for months, possibly years, and he looked around blankly when he exited to the street. It was already dark, and he watched as people walked briskly past, huddled in their coats. Diagonally across the street was a small bar where many of the staff went for after-work drinks. He stared at its glowing windows for a long minute, trying to imagine the reaction if he suddenly appeared in their midst.

  Shock, surprise, a bit of smirking behind hands once what he’d told Tammy had done the rounds.

  He turned away from the bar and went to collect his car. He dumped his briefcase inside the door when he got home. He shed his coat, then wandered from room to room, trying to work out what to do with himself. Usually on Friday nights he did something with Elizabeth—dinner out, a movie, perhaps something at the theatre. He hadn’t spent a Friday night alone for a long time. A very long time, now he came to think of it.

  He shook his head at himself. He’d lost a fiancee, not his whole bloody life. He went into the kitchen and started opening cupboards. He’d make himself dinner. Not grilled cheese on toast like last night, but a proper three course meal. Something that would take time and concentration and effort. Then he would sit in front of the TV and crack a good bottle of claret and relax.

  The second cupboard he opened contained mixing bowls and baking trays—as well as the bottle of peach schnapps. He hesitated a moment, then grabbed it and twisted the plastic seal off in one smooth action. He reached for a glass and poured himself an inch or two.

  Sweet, fragrant heat hit the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste. He didn’t usually have a sweet tooth, but when he’d tried schnapps for the first time at a West End bar last year he’d discovered that there was something about the sweetness of the peach and the heat of the alcohol that appealed to his palate.

  He lifted the glass to his mouth again, then stilled as it occurred to him that Violet had been there that night, too, lolling against the bar in a purple sparkly dress that had been too short and too tight and too bright.

  And when she’d gone looking for a pity gift for him, she’d bought him peach schnapps, out of all the options open to her at the off-license.

  Which meant it was either a coincidence... or she’d remembered that night and how much he’d enjoyed the schnapps.

  He downed the last of the drink.

  It was probably a coincidence. There was no reason for her to remember such a small, insignificant detail about him. Certainly there hadn’t been anything special about that night to mark it in her memory—it had been a night like any other, one of many times he’d socialized with Violet for Elizabeth’s sake.

  Which is why you can remember exactly what she was wearing, down to her shiny purple stilettos.

  He froze for the second time in as many minutes, everything in him rejecting the thought that had just insinuated itself, unbidden, into his mind.

  So what if he remembered what she’d been wearing? She went out of her way to be noticed, hence her clothes were memorable. Everything about her was designed to be memorable—her perfume, her laugh, the outrageous things she said. The way she walked, the way she smiled.

  He reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink, almost filling the glass this time.

  As though he’d opened a floodgate within himself, a storehouse of Violet-tinged memories fell out. The fact that she hated escargot but adored truffles. The fact that she’d once queued for days to buy tickets for a George Michael concert. The fact that she absolutely refused to learn the names of any players for any of the country’s football teams, even though it required a concerted effort to forget the headlines and news reports focusing on the country’s national obsession.

  The fact that she rarely wore a bra, leaving her small breasts free to bounce with the sway of her walk.

  “Shit.”

  He gulped at his drink, but the heat in his throat didn’t take away the truth of his realisation.

  He felt as though the room had just tilted, as though up had become down, black become white.

  Violet drove him crazy. She stirred him up and got under his skin and made him grind his teeth with frustration.

  And, God help him, apparently some perverse part of him actually liked it.

  Violet slipped the tissue-wrapped scarf and hat into a bag and handed it to the waiting customer.

  “I hope it keeps you warm all winter,” she said.

  The customer smiled her thanks and headed for the exit. Violet followed her and threw the bolt, then returned to the counter and pulled the cash drawer out. Normally she liked to count the day’s takings and put them in the floor safe overnight, but she was tired and she’d stayed open an extra half hour to give her last customer time to vacillate between the blue and red scarf and beret or the green and grey set. A sale was a sale, but the day was well and truly over and visions of a cup of tea and toast soldiers with Marmite danced in her head. She would put her favorite flannel pajamas on and snuggle under a blanket and watch something mindless on the box while she got crumbs all over herself.

  Not a red letter night, but it was about all she was up for these days. So much for her reputation for being a wild, party-loving slapper. Martin St Clair would be so disappointed if he knew the most outré thing she’d done recently was wear the same T-shirt two days running. The scandal!

  She made a rude noise as she realized she was thinking about Martin again. Just when she thought she’d banished him from her psyche, he’d pop back up again. Which was annoying and possibly even a little disturbing.

  She emptied the takings into a plastic bag and stuffed the bag into her coat pocket. She flicked off the main light and the stereo, then locked the front door and let herself into the stairwell leading to the apartment.

  She threw her coat on the back of the couch once she was upstairs, kicking her shoes off as she moved into the kitchen. She was about to drop two slices of bread into the toaster when the buzzer rang.

  She grumbled to herself as she crossed to the intercom. If it was someone selling something, she was going to be very tempted to be rude.

  “Yes?”

  “Violet.”

  She didn’t recognize the voice and she frowned. “Yes. Who is this, please?”

  “It’s Martin. St Clair. Elizabeth’s...friend.”

  Violet stared at the intercom, nonplussed. What on earth was he doing here?

  “What do you want?” she asked. Rude, but she figured the gloves were well and truly off after their last encounter.

  “Can I come up?”

  Could he come up? Martin St Clair, in her apartment?

  She glanced around at her brown velvet couch with leopard skin cushions, her beaten up coffee table heaving with old magazines and discarded plates and mugs and wine glasses, the kitchen table loaded down with yet more newspapers and magazines and books and dirty dishes. There were no less than three pairs of shoes scattered about the room, discarded scarves draped over the back of the couch, the arm of her standard lamp, the radiator...

  Oh, well. It would give Martin something else to be horrified about. No doubt his apar
tment was clean enough to play host to surgery.

  “Sure. Why not?” she said dryly. She pressed the buzzer to let him in.

  She heard his footsteps on the stair treads and a ridiculous little dart of nervousness wriggled its way through her belly.

  “What is wrong with you?” she muttered to herself, but unfortunately she knew.

  A knock sounded at the front door and she lifted her chin and stepped forward. At the last minute, she fluffed her hair. Something she could give herself hell for later.

  After he’d said whatever angry thing he wanted to say and was gone.

  She pulled the door open and adopted her most disinterested, disdainful expression.

  “Yes, Martin? How can I help you?”

  He was wearing his black overcoat, naturally, with his suit underneath. His hair was rumpled and his tie was missing in action. His eyes were...different. And he didn’t look as haughtily superior as he usually did. In fact, he actually looked a little uncertain.

  “Can I come in?”

  Her gaze dipped to the open neck of his shirt. A few dark curls were visible there. She frowned, then looked away, stepping aside and making a sweeping gesture with her hand.

  “By all means. Since we’re being so polite with each other.”

  He brushed past her in the small space. She could smell the cold night air on his coat, along with something else. Something sweet and a little fruity.

  Belgian peach schnapps, if she didn’t miss her guess.

  Martin stopped in the middle of her living room, his gaze flicking briefly over the mess.

  She arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest and waited for him to throw the opening insult.

  “Why did you buy me schnapps?” he asked.

  Not what she’d expected.

  “You came here to ask me that?”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned. “Are you drunk?”

  “A little. Answer the question.”

  “I told you why I bought it. I wanted to let you know I was sorry about what had happened with E.”

  He dismissed her answer with an impatient wave of his hand. “Not that. Why schnapps? Why not brandy or whiskey or... I don’t know, chartreuse?”

  “Chartreuse? That’s that vile green glow-in-the-dark stuff, isn’t it? Why on earth would I buy you that?”

  “Why on earth buy me schnapps?”

  Violet shrugged, feeling defensive all of a sudden. “I don’t know. You had some that time we were at the theatre. You seemed to like it.”

  “That was over a year ago.”

  “So?”

  “That’s a long time to remember something.”

  “Maybe I just have a good memory.”

  She was starting to feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps exposed was the better word.

  “You have an appalling memory. You forget Elizabeth’s birthday every year.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  There was something about the way he was looking at her that made her feel even more nervous.

  “So? I remembered you liked the peach schnapps. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Isn’t it? I remember that you hate escargot. And that you refuse to see any movie with Kate Beckinsale in it. And that you have every George Michael album ever made.”

  She blinked. “Why would you remember all of that?

  “I don’t know. I used to think it was because you annoyed me.” He took a step toward her. “I used to think it was because you were always wearing short skirts and low cut tops and laughing too loud. I used to think it was because your perfume would get in my clothes and stay with me for days afterward, even though I’d barely brushed up against you.”

  He took another step toward her and something powerful and undeniable thudded in the pit of her stomach.

  “You hate me,” she said, staring at him, knowing she should put some distance between them before this became something it shouldn’t.

  “Do I?”

  He was so close she could see the tiny scar on the corner of his top lip. She stared at it for a moment. She’d always wondered how he got that scar.

  “Why did you lift your top the other night in my office? Why did you flash your breasts at me like that?” he asked, his voice very low, his grey eyes intent on her.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Liar,” he said, and then he closed the distance between them and his hands were cupping her face and his mouth was lowering toward hers and her heart was beating so hard and fast it was a wonder it didn’t explode.

  And then his mouth was on hers and there was nothing else in the whole wide world except for the warmth and the pressure and the rasp of his tongue and the taste of him and the press of his body against hers and the need surging through her blood like a runaway freight train.

  She grabbed the lapels of his coat and hung on as he deepened the kiss, tilting her head back, one hand sliding down her back to grab her backside and pull her more tightly against him. She felt his hard-on through the layers of his suit and her skirt and knew that if she didn’t have him in the next sixty seconds she was literally going to expire from need.

  She’d waited so long. So long.

  Not breaking their kiss, she reached for the waistband of her sweater and dragged it up. She pulled away from him long enough to wrench it over her head and toss it to one side, then she dragged him back to her and reached for his belt buckle.

  “Violet,” he groaned as she slid a hand inside his fly and found his cock, hard and thick for her.

  “I need this. Now. I need you inside me,” she said.

  He made a desperate animal noise and the next thing she knew she was on her back on the couch, her skirt around her waist, her panties pushed to one side as Martin slid his fingers into her moist heat.

  “Violet, Violet. You’re so hot. So bloody hot,” he murmured as he kissed his way down her neck to her breasts.

  He pulled her nipple into his mouth and she nearly came on the spot.

  “Now, Martin. Now,” she begged.

  He shifted for a second and she heard the crinkle of a foil packet and then he was pressing into her, thick and hard. She drew her knees high, hooking one over his shoulder, the other over his hip, arching herself toward him as he thrust deep inside her.

  Her breath came out in a huge rush as he filled her, stretched her, completed her. Her hands found his bare ass and she dug her nails in, denying him movement as she relished the satisfying fullness.

  “I’m sorry, I have to move. I have to. You’re so bloody tight. So good,” he groaned, his face distorted with need.

  He started to pump into her, long, powerful thrusts, the slap of flesh on flesh and the wet rush of their bodies moving together mingling with their ragged breathing. Everywhere she touched him he was hard as granite, as though every muscle in his body was straining toward completion. She’d never felt more desired, more wanted, more wanton or sexy in her life and she felt her own desire rising higher with every stroke.

  Then he lowered his head and bit her nipple, just hard enough to hurt, and she was gone, her body clenching around his as she came and came and came. Incredibly, he kept going, his neck corded with tension, his eyes closed, teeth bared in a grimace. More and more and more and she felt her own desire rising again.

  “Yes. Yes,” she panted.

  Then he was buried deep inside her, his hips grinding against hers has he shuddered through his release. She found her own peak again, throwing her head back, barely able to breathe as she pulsed around him.

  He collapsed onto the couch beside her, his chest heaving, his eyes tightly closed. Violet closed her own eyes and tried to hang onto the sheer freaking joy of the moment for as long as she could.

  But as her body cooled and her breathing slowed her brain came back on-line with a vengeance.

  And all she could think was what have we done, what have we done, what have we done?

  She slid
off the couch and headed for the bathroom. She shut the door, then pushed the toilet lid down and sat. She could see her forehead and hair in the mirror above the sink, but not the rest of her face.

  Good. She didn’t want to look herself in the eye right now.

  Elizabeth was her best friend. She had been Violet’s staunch supporter through everything. She’d been there when Violet had been sent home from school in disgrace. She’d been there when her parents had rejected her. She’d held Violet’s hair back from her face while she threw up from too much drink more times that Violet could count. She’d passed the tissues during every one of Violet’s break ups. She’d helped Violet find her shop and stayed up all night helping her price and display stock for the opening...

  She had always been there. Always.

  And Violet had just repaid Elizabeth’s loyalty and love and thoughtfulness and generosity by fucking her ex-fiancé on the couch.

  She felt sick. She felt like smashing something. She wanted to turn back the clock.

  But then you wouldn’t have just had the best, most explosive sex of your life. Then you wouldn’t have known what all those years of animosity and sniping were leading up to.

  She pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. E mattered. Their friendship mattered. That was all.

  She heard a door closing. She was almost certain it was the front door. Not a huge surprise. She knew Martin well enough to know he’d be flagellating himself for this, too. He prided himself on his sense of honor, on his private moral code.

  This would kill him, even though Elizabeth had been the one to call off the wedding. Even though he at least had the excuse of being drunk to salve himself with.

  She had no excuse. Nothing.

  She waited another ten minutes, just to be sure he was gone, feeling like a coward as well as a feckless, disloyal slut. Finally she slipped her arms into her robe and eased the door open, walking up the hall to the living room. It was empty. Relief washed over her, followed by yet more guilt.

  Her gaze found her phone on the coffee table. She forced herself to pick it up. She needed to call Elizabeth right now and tell her everything. No excuses, no glossing over anything. Pure, unvarnished truth. And if she still had a friend at the end of the conversation...