Secrets

by Galia Ryan

  Seeing the darkened windows of the apartment she breathed a sigh of relief. As much as she loved Olivia, there would be plenty of time in the morning to rationalise why she had brought Giancarlo home.

  “Coffee? Or I think there’s some wine.” She was fussing in the kitchen. She had no idea why she was so angry with him. She was even angrier with herself.

  He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her back went rigid. “Do you want me to go?”

  For a moment she was silent. Did she? “No.” She hung her head.

  “Then what do you want, cara?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  He guided her to face him and tilted up her chin. When he placed his lips on hers, they were gentle. “Better?” He smiled.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really want coffee?” he asked quietly.

  “No.”

  “Me, neither.”

  He lowered his lips to hers again.

  She led him to her bedroom and felt an unexpected frisson of excitement when he firmly closed the door behind them. It was as if he was sealing off her escape. “Now I can call you amore.” He smiled down at her.

  His mouth was on hers, and she was lost in the fragrance of his cologne and the roughness of his day-old beard. She tasted the alcohol he had drunk in the pub. She didn’t care that he was holding her so tight she could hardly breathe. Her fingers were in his hair, and she was clinging to him as though she couldn’t get enough of him.

  Suddenly she pulled away to search his eyes. There was something she needed to know. Something that had never worried her before.

  She had to believe it was her he wanted. That this was not just a random goodbye fuck.

  Without flinching he held her gaze. For the briefest of moments she thought she caught a flash of wonderment, but before she could be sure he had pulled her back and was kissing her again. His tongue meshed against hers, and then he broke away to trail his mouth down her neck. She gasped when his hand found her breast and his fingers dug into her oh-so-willing flesh.

  She had to get rid of her t-shirt. It was too restrictive. He couldn’t get at her properly. She struggled out of his arms and in one fluid movement pulled it over her head. The bra had to go, too.

  She was panting like a bitch in heat as she fumbled to unclasp it. Then she stopped. He was having as much trouble breathing as she was. With a mischievous smile she lowered only the straps from her shoulders.

  “Take it off,” he demanded.

  “Only if you take off your t-shirt.”

  His skin was tanned and smooth. Had she truly never noticed how broad his chest was or how flat his stomach? A line of soft, dark hair started just below his belly button and disappeared down into his jeans. She wanted to follow it with her mouth.

  He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and dragged her back a second time. In less than a moment, both the button and zip had been undone, and his hand had slipped inside the silkiness of her briefs. She almost screamed in pleasure as a finger found her clit, and she forced his mouth against hers to fight for the little breath they shared.

  When he withdrew his fingers they were slick with her juices. He put one to her mouth, and almost desperately she sucked on it.

  Then they were tangled upon her bed, and she was tearing at his jeans, desperate for the hardness trapped inside. When his cock sprang free she grasped it, sighing in pleasure.

  He was attending to her breasts, his touch energised and excited. She felt his mouth on her neck once more, and the delicious pain of his teeth trapping her skin. She arched in need, unable to wait any longer. He was dragging her jeans off. Then he tore away the delicate scrap of her underwear and parted her legs.

  “Yes, oh yes,” she murmured over and over when he lowered his head to her wetness. She was going crazy as he licked her clit, slowly drawing it into his mouth and releasing it, as if he knew the sensation would be too intense for her. Then he was pushing his tongue into her hole. She gripped his hair to keep his head against her until it was all too much.

  “Now. Do it now.” She pulled him up her body until he was lying on top of her.

  “Are you sure?” He was teasing a nipple with his fingers.

  “Yes. Fuck me, please fuck me.” She was almost incoherent.

  “Who do you want to fuck you, cara?” he whispered.

  “You, Giancarlo. You.”

  She felt her legs lifted, and knew he was gazing down on the body he could once only dream of possessing. Then he was inside her, filling her, completing her. When he withdrew, she cried out. When he plunged back in, she moaned in pleasure. She wrapped her legs around his waist, as if to ensure her complete ownership of him, and heard herself calling his name over and over, begging him to love her. Lost in the intensity of it all, she cupped her sweat-slick breasts and tugged her nipples mercilessly. Then she was speeding towards her orgasm.

  The sight of her frenzy must have pushed him towards the edge, too, for he suddenly gave a hoarse shout and thrust violently four or five times. When he expelled his seed she felt a wonderful, searing heat deep inside her womb.

  She was caught up in a cataclysmic mix of emotions as they sank down together. She heard words murmured into her hair and knew he was speaking of love.

  She wept softly, with no idea why.

  For some insane reason she had agreed to accompany him to the airport. It was a decision she bitterly regretted. They were waiting in the departure terminal for the arrival of the two other aid workers.

  She should have just let him go earlier that morning. A clean goodbye would have been so much better.

  She stole a glance at his profile. So strong, so Italian. Her heart beat wildly.

  Waking just before dawn they had made love again. This time it was tender. He took her slowly, playing her body as if it was the finest instrument. Her pleasure was drawn out with an expertise she’d never known.

  Afterwards, they lay together quietly, with no need for words. She was deliciously content. More than content, even. At peace. She placed the lightest of kisses on his chest. He murmured soft endearments.

  Now, surrounded by hordes of travellers, she almost laughed out loud.

  The whole thing was ridiculous; Olivia wouldn’t believe it when she told her. Giancarlo? Poor, naive Giancarlo, who she had manipulated and rejected in Bologna? They would laugh together, and thankfully that would put it all into perspective.

  “Cara, they are here.”

  He acknowledged the two men walking towards them with a nod.

  “You did promise to write,” he reminded her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the tip of her nose.

  She could hardly speak. To her horror a solitary tear was making its way down her cheek. She brushed it away angrily. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” she said quickly. “I can’t stand airports. It’s not you.”

  “I understand.”

  She glared at him. Was he laughing at her?

  “You’d better go,” she managed.

  “I will see you in a year?”

  She was already walking away. “Perhaps,” she called back over her shoulder.

  She just had to get out of the place.

  Chapter 16.

  Stephanie threw herself into her language studies and busy social life. She deliberately put aside the episode with Giancarlo. After all, nothing could come of the relationship—their personalities were at odds, for one thing—and immersed herself in one long round of parties and night clubs.

  And it was fun, she had to admit. Especially when she caught the eye of an aging rock star. She had no idea who he was, but his fawning entourage piqued her interest.

  “Darling, he was really big in the seventies,” Olivia told her.

  “Do you remember him?”

  “I should do,” was the cryptic reply.

  Meanwhile she had no shortage of lovers.

  There was the industrialist who treated her like his long-lost daughter—at
least until they were in the bedroom—and the high-powered financier with a weakness for submission. She had discussed the latter with Olivia, who couldn’t see the problem.

  “Darling, just give him what he needs.”

  “But what does he need?”

  “To be treated like shit.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Tell him how worthless he is. Tell him his prick’s too small to be of any use. Make him grovel. He’ll enjoy it.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. It’s what I do. Works every time.”

  Stephanie burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it.

  At first unsure, she soon discovered a talent for gentle domination. Not that she would ever go so far as to call herself a dominatrix, but it was extremely gratifying to stand over a lover and make demands of him.

  And always there were gifts, mostly jewellery. She kept a few select pieces—a Cartier watch, a Chopard bracelet. Other pieces she returned in order to establish not only her credibility, but her mystique. Thanks to Olivia she knew the value of keeping her lovers at arm’s length. Besides which, it wouldn’t do for anyone to think she might be a gold-digger. Most gifts, though, were sold to fund her lifestyle; after all there were clothes to buy and beauty treatments to enjoy if she was to maintain the standard of perfection expected of her.

  “Ghastly, darling. Paste, of course.” Olivia was examining a particularly ostentatious necklace Stephanie had been given the night before. “Probably his mother’s. I wonder if she knows the family jewels have been raided?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So, tell me, how is darling James?” Olivia put the offending item to one side.

  “Darling James is as self-centred and arrogant as ever. I really don’t know how much more I can take of him.”

  “Anyone else in his circle with any appeal?”

  “Not really.” Stephanie fell onto the sofa and picked a tiny piece of lint off her jumper. “Did you say Jeremy has asked you to go to Martinique?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said. “Only for a week or so. Just long enough to escape this dreadful weather. He’s really far too busy to go at all. Not sure whether it’s a good idea or not.”

  “Well, if you do, I might pop home for a while.”

  “That would please your father. Especially with Christmas only a month or so away.”

  Stephanie looked up, her face set. “Families aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

  “I’m sure they’re not,” Olivia replied and tactfully changed the subject.

  She had already decided she’d had enough of London when her stepmother called. The truth was, she was bored again and needed something new. She was even bored with the sex. Not only that, she hadn’t spent all those years studying to waste her degree. It was time to move on.

  She would never remember exactly how Amelie broke the news. In any event it hardly mattered. What she had to say shattered Stephanie’s world.

  Her father and Charles had been returning from a business meeting. There had been an accident. Her father had been driving. No one knew whether another vehicle had been involved. Perhaps he had swerved to avoid a truck too far over the centre line. Perhaps he had just been going too fast. “You know how your father loves—loved—to push the speed limit,” Amelie said in a dull monotone.

  Whatever the cause, the car had left the road and plunged down a bank.

  Both men had died instantly.

  Chapter 17.

  As the details became known it was determined that, contrary to initial theories, no other vehicle had contributed to the accident. Mechanical failure was also ruled out. Furthermore, the weather had been good for the time of year, and no alcohol had been found in either man’s system.

  With little else to go on, the coroner declared it a tragic accident.

  There was, however, gossip.

  Fellow directors and colleagues had, out of respect for the families, felt it was in no one’s interest to mention to the accident investigators that lately both men had seemed a little cold to each other.

  Most unlike them, it had been said in undertones. Hadn’t they been close friends for years?

  There was speculation that something had come between them. Perhaps they had been arguing, and Alain had lost control in a moment of inattention.

  Who could say?

  * * *

  Her father’s funeral was organised by Amelie. Stephanie wanted nothing to do with it. Her refusal to be involved in what was taking place around her allowed her to shut out the reality that he was dead.

  Before the casket was moved into the chapel of rest, ready for the service, there was to be a private farewell for close family and friends.

  Amelie begged Stephanie to go with her. “Please, come and say your goodbyes. There’s nothing to be frightened of. He looks so peaceful.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “It might help you grieve.” Her stepmother reached forward as if to take her into her arms.

  Stephanie deliberately backed away. “I don’t care. I’m not going. Why can’t you understand?”

  On the day of the funeral Stephanie moved through the crowd in a daze. Accepting condolences, she was confused, distant. Almost as if she had no idea of why such things should be said.

  “She’s in shock, of course.”

  “Well, she’s always been daddy’s little girl.”

  “Completely spoilt, unfortunately.”

  “God knows what she’ll do now. She never did get on with Amelie, you know.”

  Charles’ funeral took place a day later.

  Once again Stephanie refused point-blank to accompany her stepmother. Instead, she locked herself in her room.

  “You can’t go through life picking and choosing only the good bits,” Amelie called through the door. “Life’s not like that. Sometimes you have to put your own pain to one side and think of others.”

  From then on Stephanie avoided her stepmother whenever she could. The fact that Amelie was also grieving was lost on her. All she knew was her own agony. It would start in her chest and build up, tightening and swelling until it consumed her. She was being smothered, and all she could do to ease the pain was take long, slow draughts of oxygen down into her stricken lungs.

  She wanted to yell and scream, to tear at her hair and her skin, but she couldn’t even cry. Her throat hurt. Her eyes burned. But tears wouldn’t come. Perhaps it was God’s way of punishing her.

  Eventually she was forced to take notice of what was going on around her. The lowered voices, the strangers with briefcases. Her stepmother’s drawn face.

  She roused herself enough to question Amelie and was told that, with the death of the two senior partners, share prices in the company had fallen.

  “So what? They’ll go up again.” Her voice was flat. Was this all people cared about? Didn’t they understand that Charles and her father were dead?

  “I’m sure they will.” Amelie tried to sound positive. “But it seems that before your father died there was an offer to buy the company.”

  “And?”

  “Well, that offer has now been withdrawn.”

  “So? How does that affect us?”

  “Without your father’s income, all we have left are his investments. The bulk of which is in shares. Company shares.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Amelie sighed. “It appears there may be a new investigation into possible financial irregularities.”

  Stephanie looked at her stepmother in shock. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s not something I want to believe, either.”

  “But why should anyone think that?”

  “It was the way your father and Charles died.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Yes. The board just wants to be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “Well, suicide has been mentioned.”

  “Suicide.” Stephanie’s voice w
as high-pitched with incredulity. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

  “I agree.”

  “Someone’s made a mistake. It’ll all be sorted out soon.”

  “I hope so.”

  “There’s still money, though?”

  “Oh yes. We’ll be all right for a while. We have the house, of course. And I have a little money put aside.” Amelie’s voice trailed off.

  “And my allowance? My trust fund? What about those?”

  “I’ll be checking with the lawyers. As far as I know there were provisions made for both you and your brother, regardless of the circumstances.”

  “Not that it will do any good at the moment,” Stephanie grumbled. “Papa told me he had tied the bulk of it up until I’m thirty. How could he have been so short-sighted?”

  “Short-sighted?” Her stepmother’s voice was unexpectedly shrill. “Short-sighted? How dare you. Your father loved you very much. And he did everything in his power for you. Everything.”

  “Sorry,” she said, unable to meet her stepmother’s fiery eyes. She had never seen Amelie truly angry. Not once. She had always thought her father’s second wife a pushover. Now everything was upside down. She turned and fled, shutting herself back in her bedroom.

  Thanks to the close working relationship of their husbands, Amelie had long been friends with Charles’ wife. Over the empty days that followed, their friendship deepened to the point that if they couldn’t meet for coffee or lunch, one would phone the other. Day or night.

  Stephanie was sprawled on the sofa, trying to find something of interest in a magazine. She could hear Amelie on the kitchen extension, and while she understood that the two women had created a strong support mechanism for themselves, she still sighed irritably. Amelie and Antoinette could talk for hours.

  Her stepmother was calling her.

  “What?” She couldn’t be bothered to get up.

  “Antoinette would like to speak to you.”

  For some reason Stephanie felt an icy foreboding run down her spine. It might be nothing. Perhaps the woman just wanted to sympathise again.