by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
She’d call him tomorrow. Apologize.
And then what?
Her mind cycled through the arguments all the way home. Before Emile’s injury, she’d thought they were friends with benefits. Exceptional benefits, admittedly, and somewhat mismatched friends, but it had worked.
Tonight had proved they couldn’t go back to that. They were just too different. Theresa’s friends didn’t play poker with piles of fifty pound notes casually tossed onto a table in one of London’s most exclusive bars. Theresa wouldn’t dream of drinking alcohol against doctor’s orders. She didn’t hang out with models and superstar footballers. It wasn’t her world, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to be.
Shouting matches in public bars. Weeping in hospital rooms. Ice cold spears of jealousy. And yes, all right, crazy skyrockets of happiness at the football match. Intense passion like she wouldn’t have believed possible when his hands were on her skin.
It was too much. It was all too much.
She wouldn’t call.
It would be better to pull away now, while it didn’t hurt. Or at least, while the pain was bearable. He was just too tempting. Too good at flirting. Too good at making her believe that he really cared about her. Too dangerous, too wild, too much.
She wanted to call him. To blurt it all out and tell him how he made her feel and how that scared her and apologize for running out and beg him for another chance.
Maybe she would have done if they were in a normal relationship. One that didn’t have a pre-determined end sealed into a legal contract. But it was no good wondering about hypotheticals.
Theresa let herself into her own little house, grateful for its cool silence. She switched the kettle on and opened up her laptop. She really did have work to do. And if she switched her phone off, that was a good way of making sure she wouldn’t be distracted.
Chapter Ten
For six weeks, she didn’t think of him at all. She worked, she ate, she slept. On Saturday nights, she dragged Julie out to clubs where she could dance until Sunday mornings. She’d barely spoken to her parents and bitten off her assistant’s head for making a polite comment about being with family for Christmas.
It almost worked. So long as she could fill her conscious mind with complex legal issues or empty it of everything but the beat of the music, she was okay. It took a lot of effort, and occasionally, she slipped up. She’d hear a French accent or get caught out by a wide, wicked grin that wasn’t his. She’d forget to switch off the news program before they got to the football reports. And then an hour would be gone, lost in thoughts of Emile. She wondered how his foot was healing. Was he in physiotherapy yet? Had he rested long enough? Inevitably, she wondered how he had coped with the long days of doing nothing. Had the next nurse been as pretty as Ivonna? Had that even mattered to him, so long as she was there and willing?
She’d shake her head, forcing the unwelcome thoughts out. It was none of her business now. Never had been, not really. When she’d first suggested her crazy scheme, she’d promised him he could still have sex with anyone he wanted. Stupid to get so jealous when all he’d done was to take her at her word.
She was stupid at work, too, checking her phone several times an hour in case he’d texted. She was more distracted now than when he’d been flirting with her, which was ridiculous. They’d never had a serious relationship. Not really. They’d enjoyed each other’s company, but she hadn’t meant it to be more than that.
And yet, she missed him.
No one else in her life checked whether she’d eaten lunch or chided her for staying late at the office. She didn’t have anyone to notice when she was tired and put strong arms around her that helped her sleep. There was no one who made her laugh as much as Emile had, even when she was cross. Especially when she was cross, charming her out of her bad moods. She even missed their bickering. It had been a way of dealing with the sexual tension they’d had, and God only knew how much she missed that.
She’d made an excuse when her mother asked if they would both be coming down for Christmas. Boxing Day was the biggest day in the football season, and although Emile wasn’t playing, it was easy to pretend he still had obligations to the club, which meant he couldn’t be there for Christmas dinner. She wondered what he would have thought of the Chartley traditions. Somehow, she couldn’t picture Emile sitting patiently through the vicar’s sermon or wearing a crumpled tissue-paper hat over lunch.
She arrived on Christmas Eve, in time to help peel the sprouts and make the bread sauce to go with the turkey. She put her parents’ presents under the small, artificial tree and accepted the glass of sherry her dad gave her. For forty-eight hours, she would do her best to be the daughter they wanted. She owed them that much.
Melanie always got up at six on Christmas Day to stuff the turkey in accordance with the timetable. Theresa came down at eight, wearing her dressing gown and a pair of warm socks.
“Morning, Mum.”
“Good morning, darling. Happy Christmas.” Melanie, sporting striped oven gloves with her toweling robe, proffered a cheek for Theresa to kiss.
“Happy Christmas.”
“Can you set the table, dear? We’ll need to be quick.” Theresa checked the schedule on the fridge door. Breakfast was allocated forty minutes, allowing them time to shower and change for church afterwards. She laid the table, found the croissants, and put them on a tray to warm in the oven.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks.” She took the cup that Melanie poured and leaned back against the counter to drink it. “Why are you adding another place setting?”
Her mother gave her a surprised look. “There are four of us, dear. Did you forget?”
“Forget what?”
The doorbell rang.
“That’ll be him now. Well, go and answer it, Theresa. Don’t just stand there!”
Putting her coffee cup down, she went out into the hall. She ran a hand casually through her hair and checked that her belt was securely knotted before she undid the bolts and pulled the door open.
She hid it almost immediately, but Emile had noticed the smile on her face and in her eyes when she’d seen him. Mrs. Chartley had kept the surprise, as he’d asked her.
He’d been furious when Theresa had left him in the bar, but it hadn’t taken long for the rage to subside, to be supplanted with a loneliness that was all too familiar. He missed her, damn it. And yes, there were thousands of other women in London, many of whom were doubtlessly funny or clever or beautiful.
But there was only one Thérèse.
So when her mother had invited him to join the family for Christmas, he’d seized the chance. He’d even brought a present, though when he’d looked at it again this morning, he’d realized it was entirely the wrong thing. He’d liked the vivid colors of the graded pink sapphires. He hadn’t noticed it was an eternity ring.
She was watching him with caution, holding onto the doorframe as if it were a riot shield. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “May I come in?”
“What are you doing here?” She wasn’t going to make it easy, then.
“Your mother invited me. And your father told me to come.”
“But…”
Emile nodded. “I know. It is not real and it is not even much of a pretense at the moment.”
“You haven’t got your crutches.”
He grimaced at the reminder. He was making progress but not as fast as he’d hoped. “I don’t need them anymore.”
“That’s good.”
“May I come in?”
Slowly, she nodded.
“Thank you.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Happy Christmas, chérie.”
She led him through to the kitchen, where he greeted Melanie with kisses on both cheeks and shook her father’s hand. They both seemed pleased to see him again, despite his appalling behavior at their first meeting.
“I thought I told you Emile had to work today,” Theresa said.
“No one shoul
d have to work on Christmas Day,” Melanie said. “Of course we wanted him here, even if he has to leave early.”
“Quite right.” Ian nodded. “Christmas is for family.”
Emile tilted his head in Theresa’s direction and winked. She visibly bit back her instinctive reply. “But you could have told me you were coming.”
He gave an expansive shrug. “The surprise is better, no?”
She pulled at the croissant on her plate, making crumbs rather than eating it. “I don’t know.”
“I did not know until last week,” Emile explained. “I have not been keeping secrets for long.”
“Hmm.”
“Theresa, you are being most ungrateful,” Melanie said. “Emile’s come all this way to spend a few hours with you on Christmas Day. Your first Christmas Day together. You ought to be pleased.”
Emile grinned at his unexpected ally.
Theresa managed a brief smile. “Yes. Of course. I’m going to shower now, okay?”
He caught her hand as she walked past him. She glanced down at him, and he raised an eyebrow in silent plea. She sighed and gave a slight nod. He raised her hand and brushed his lips against it. She was giving him a second chance.
This time, he’d play it on the defensive. Because this time, he was going to win.
“I’m excused from church because of my foot.”
Emile was in her room, lounging on her bed when she returned from the shower.
“You are excused, too, if you want to keep me company.” He winked. “I think your mother is giving me time to talk you into a good mood.”
“I’m in a perfectly good mood. Why wouldn’t I be in a good mood? When my husband turned up to surprise me at my parents’ house on Christmas Day?” She could hear herself practically screaming by the end of that sentence. Apparently, she wasn’t in that good a mood after all.
She’d been shocked to see him on the doorstep. Shocked, but also delighted. Six weeks hadn’t changed anything. He still made her feel things beyond all reason. He still made her want things she daren’t have. And that made her furious with him. With herself. With the world.
She’d put her suitcase on the blanket box that had always stood at the end of her bed and still held some of her favorite toys and dolls. She opened the case and extracted bra and knickers. She’d hung up the dress she planned to wear the night before, to let the worst of the creases fall out of the rich purple silk velvet.
Emile’s gaze was hot and unwavering when she dropped her towel. She should have escaped back to the bathroom or made him leave. Too late now. Serve him right to have to look at what he couldn’t have.
She dragged on the underwear and took the dress off its hanger. It dropped over her head, and she slithered into the sleeves. But when she twisted her arms back to reach for the zipper, her hands were brushed aside.
Her heart thumped as Emile’s warm hands held her steady, and she caught her breath when his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back as he pulled the zipper upwards. He went slowly, as if he was reluctant to cover her, and when he was done, his hands rested on her shoulders.
“I miss you, chérie.”
Her breath rushed back in one, shuddering gulp. “You can’t,” she managed to say when she should have told him she didn’t care.
His mouth was so near to her ears that she could feel the warmth of his breath before she heard the words he spoke. “But I do.”
“We didn’t have anything worth missing.” How the hell did he do this to her? Moments ago she’d been furious, and now all she could think was how good it would feel if he touched his lips against the nape of her neck.
“We had this.” He ran a finger down the back of her dress, pressing through the soft fabric so that she could feel him. When he reached the base of her spine, his hand curved around her hip. “We had this between us.”
“Sex.” She tried to make it sound like it didn’t matter. “It was just sex.”
He chuckled. “That, too.”
Her heart flipped. Oh, hell. But she couldn’t help asking, “What else?”
“I miss talking to you.”
“Flirting with me, you mean.”
His other hand was round her waist, resting lightly on her stomach. Theresa couldn’t resist covering it with her own.
“That’s what it was, Emile, admit it.”
“I suppose so. But I miss the conversations we might have had.”
He’d always known how to make her laugh.
“I miss that.” He nibbled at her earlobe. “Do it again.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I miss you telling me off.”
She laughed again.
“There you go. You have a beautiful laugh, chérie.”
It would be so easy—too easy—just to let him. His clever hands could have her naked in seconds. She could be lying underneath him or on top of him moments later. He’d do it, and he’d make her love every second of it. Her body was screaming out for him, and it would be so easy to give in.
“Emile.”
“Mm hm?” He was exploring the junction between her shoulder and neck and he didn’t pause when he answered. The vibrations of his voice skittered across her skin deliciously. She gritted her teeth desperately.
“Emile, listen to me. What are you doing here? What do you want?”
He took his hands off her and stepped back, leaving her bereft. She put her arms around herself in an instinctive attempt to hold on to the protective warmth he’d taken with him.
“I want what we had before.”
Her breath hitched. Did he mean… What did he mean? What they’d had when they were flirting and having fun? Or what they’d had when she’d wept over him in the hospital? That moment when he’d told her he needed her and wanted her to stay?
“We had fun together.”
Right. “Right.”
“I’d like more of that.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “But don’t worry. I’m not looking for anything serious.”
She turned away to gaze out of the window. Outside, she could see the manicured grass of the golf course and a couple of men in the distance, playing even on Christmas Day.
“My terms have changed,” she said. “I want exclusivity. If you want to see someone else, it’s over between us.”
She heard him let out a long sigh. “Prada. I am sorry, Thérèse. I do not know what else to say.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“No?” He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her gently to face him. “But you were so angry, chérie. And I know that was my fault.”
“I was angry,” she admitted. “But I overreacted when I saw her on your lap.”
His lips quirked into a smile. “I thought lawyers were always supposed to be completely rational.”
“Yes, well. I wasn’t at work.”
“But you were right, Thérèse. I should not have permitted that.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’d agreed that you were free to sleep with anyone you wanted to. You are free to sleep with anyone you want to. You hadn’t done anything wrong.” Emile’s eyes hardened. Theresa put a hand on his arm to reassure him. “Truly. It’s okay.”
“So,” he said in a cold, distant voice she didn’t like. “You don’t care whether I slept with Prada or not. In fact, you care so little that you haven’t spoken to me for six weeks.” He looked her up and down with a hard, assessing gaze. “You don’t care at all. Do I have that right?”
She ought to say yes. She ought not to care. But under his steady gaze, she couldn’t lie. “No.”
Emile nodded. “I prefer you honest, Thérèse.”
That hurt, like a kick to the guts. She’d always thought of herself as an honest person. But since she’d met Emile, she’d told lie after lie about him, to him, to herself. He had good reason to doubt her.
She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. “I care about you, and I’m not good at sharing. I never have been.” That was as close as she wa
s prepared to get to the truth that she was insanely jealous where Emile was concerned.
He nodded. “Nor have I. So, if I were to promise no other women, I would expect you to promise no other men.”
God, he wasn’t supposed to be saying that. He was supposed to shrug and say that wasn’t the deal. He was supposed to be the playboy in this marriage.
But he was holding her gaze without blinking. He meant it. The fire in his eyes told her just how much passion he’d been storing up for her.
“For how long?”
“Until we both decide it’s over. Or until the contract is up. ”
She wished she’d never suggested that bloody contract. What if they could just throw caution to the winds and try…what? Being married? Falling in love?
Emile was looking down at her with a slight frown. “That is how you want it, no?”
Theresa took a deep breath. The last six weeks had been utterly miserable. “Yes.”
He stepped forward and cupped her face between his hands. “Joyeux Noël, ma belle.”
“Happy Christmas, Emile.”
He smiled as he kissed her. Slow and soft, savoring every single inch of her until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She slid her hands up into his hair and pushed his lips open with her own. He hadn’t kissed her for six weeks, and she needed this. Here and now. Emile was here and now he was kissing her.
“You’ve only just got dressed,” he said, while his hand gathered up the velvet of her skirt to slip beneath it.
“I don’t care.”
He grinned. His fingers had found the waistband of her panties, and he’d started to tug them down.
“Your parents are due back from church soon.”
She glared at him. “Do you want this to stop? Because, I assure you, talking about my parents is the quickest way to kill my mood.”
He laughed. “If you’re not in the mood, chérie, perhaps we should leave this until later.” He pulled her panties back up and smoothed them into place, lingering over the silk and lace.
“Very funny.” She turned and presented him with her zipper. “You can do the honors.”
