Kiss

by Jill Mansell

  ‘It isn’t funny,’ she said, with a touch of irritation. ‘And you deliberately said those things to give him the wrong impression. You might find it amusing, but I spent my entire evening’s wages on that bottle of champagne.’

  ‘And now I’ve spoiled your hopes of a romantic reconciliation,’ he mused cheerfully. ‘Really, Isabel. I thought you didn’t lust after men who didn’t lust after you. If he can’t even cope with tonight’s little misunderstanding, he can’t be that smitten.’

  Enraged, she shouted, ‘You’ve wrecked my non-existent love life and it has nothing whatsoever to do with you! How would you like it if I stuck my oar in, just as you were about to make your move with some bimbo at The Steps?’

  How indeed? Having known Izzy Van Asch for some weeks, Sam’s feelings towards her were still decidedly mixed. That initial jolting attraction had knocked him sideways, but there was so much more to Izzy than simply the physical appeal of big brown eyes, riotous hair, a curvy body and stupendous - now that they were both visible - legs. She exuded fun, laughed more than anyone he’d ever known and her optimism was irrepressible.

  Yet at the same time, she could be thoughtless, illogical and infuriatingly cavalier in her attitudes and lifestyle. Wildly generous one day, she would be shamelessly cadging a fiver from her daughter the next, and although she was undoubtedly capable of hard work when it suited her, she was also better at whiling away an afternoon in sybaritic indolence than almost any other woman he knew. She was so exasperating, loving, sometimes downright astounding - and he was never entirely sure whether the things she said and did were deliberately calculated to shock - that Sam couldn’t decide what he wanted to do more; shake a bit of much-needed sense into her dizzy head or tumble her into bed.

  And there, he reflected ruefully, lay the other half of his dilemma. Attracting women was not something he’d ever had to think about before. It just happened, and gently rebuffing the ones who didn’t attract him in return had been the only mildly tricky part. But surely, no other woman on this planet had ever sent out signals as conflicting as those signalled by Izzy. Time and time again, just as he’d thought he had her sussed, she would move smartly into reverse and he would be left wondering . . . once again . . . whether he even knew her at all.

  Until now he’d been both amused and intrigued by her behaviour.Tonight, however, something had changed. And maybe tonight, Sam mused as he drew up outside the house and switched off the car’s engine, he should do something about it.

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’ Izzy spoke with an air of truculence. She hadn’t forgiven him yet.

  ‘Ah yes, the bimbo.’ Sam nodded, giving the question some thought. Then, taking the cumbersome pile of boxes from her lap, he gave her a brief smile. ‘I suppose it would rather depend,’ he said finally, ‘on what she was like.’

  It wasn’t the most romantic of situations, thought Izzy, but at least it was finally happening . . .

  She had been dumping the dirty dishes into the sink when Sam had moved up behind her, resting his hands on the edge of the draining board on either side of her so that she was effectively pinned in. There was no physical contact, but she could feel his warm breath stirring her hair and smell the faint scent of his aftershave.

  Hoping that he, in turn, couldn’t see the tiny hairs prickling at the nape of her neck, Izzy turned on the hot tap and squirted far too much Fairy Liquid into the bowl. She hadn’t planned on actually doing the washing-up, but it looked good, and such a show of domesticity was bound to impress. Sam was always making pointed remarks about her appalling lack of it.

  ‘Come on now, be honest,’ he murmured, as she watched the foam cascade over the edges of the bowl like champagne. ‘Ralph really wasn’t your type anyway.’

  ‘He was my type for two years,’ Izzy replied with outward calm. Her hands, however, were shaking so she seized Gina’s beloved rubber gloves, pulling them on in a hurry and plunging them into the washing-up. Then, nodding towards the tea towel, she said, ‘And if you really want to be useful, you can dry.’

  Taking half a step backwards, Sam admired the deep V of tanned flesh revealed by her dress, which was virtually backless. Resisting the urge to run a finger down her spine, he said mildly, ‘You’re changing the subject.’

  ‘I don’t know what the subject is.’ She took a deep, steadying breath and sloshed fresh water over a haphazardly scrubbed bowl. ‘I just know that Gina does her nut if the dishes aren’t put away.’

  ‘Izzy,’ he said gently. ‘You may be many things, but you aren’t stupid.’

  Unable to think of a suitable reply to this statement, she played safe and said nothing. A moment later, Sam’s mouth brushed the nape of her neck and Izzy, who had been bracing herself for something like this, was quite unable to prevent the shudder of longing which ricocheted up from her stomach. When his warm hands came to rest at her waist and his lips travelled to her bare shoulder, she almost gave in.

  But this was Gina’s house and she had made her a promise. Besides, Sam was due to move out in less than a fortnight . . . and a little waiting had never harmed anyone. Least of all, she reminded herself firmly, a man like Sam Sheridan, who had probably never been kept waiting before in his life.

  But his tongue was idling along the line of her collar bone now, a manoeuvre to which Izzy had always been particularly susceptible, and that wasn’t fair at all. Squirming with suppressed desire, she had to employ every last ounce of will-power in order not to turn around. Instead, concentrating fiercely on the washing-up, she managed - somehow - to clean another plate. Then, when she finally judged herself able to speak in something approaching normal tones, she said with deliberate flippancy, ‘Did they slip something extra into your sesame king prawns, Sam, or do you just have a bit of a thing for Marigold gloves?’

  With a shrug, he dropped a light kiss on the top of her head and stepped back. ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘About me?’ said Izzy, torn between relief that he had stopped and irritation that he couldn’t have tried a little harder. There was such a thing as giving up too easily, after all. ‘You thought I’d be a pushover,’ she continued, her eyes bright with challenge. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Moving across to the dresser, he uncapped a bottle of Scotch and poured hefty measures into two glasses. ‘I was simply curious, as I said. I don’t want to shock you,’ he added with a glimmer of a smile, ‘but when two people find each other attractive, when they’re both unattached and over the age of consent . . . well, sometimes they . . .’

  ‘I know about all that,’ replied Izzy swiftly. Not wanting to annoy him, she smiled back. ‘Kat told me all about the birds and the bees when she was twelve. But . . .’

  ‘But?’ Sam echoed with a trace of irony.

  Uncomfortably aware that she hadn’t really thought this through, Izzy wiped a tendril of hair from her forehead with the back of a foamy hand and said as cheerfully as she could, ‘Well, it might spoil things. We get on well, now. We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  Sam nodded, not believing her for a moment but intrigued nevertheless to hear what she was going to come up with.

  ‘So, it might spoil our friendship,’ she continued hurriedly, ‘and that would be awful.’

  ‘It might not, and then it wouldn’t be awful at all.’

  This time she drew a deep breath. ‘It still isn’t a good idea.’

  ‘OK.’ He held up his hands. ‘If that’s what you really feel. And there’s no need to get into a flap about it, anyway. It was just a thought.’

  ‘Well, it was nice of you to think of me,’ said Izzy lamely, miffed by his refusal to make any kind of serious attempt to seduce her. If this was the extent of his persistence, she wasn’t surprised he’d never been married.

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Sam, by this time openly amused. ‘My mistake. I should have realised that you weren’t that sort of girl.’

  ‘No hard feelings?’

  He gave her a rueful
smile. ‘Hardly any at all now, thanks.’

  ‘Good.’ She was pushing her luck, she knew, but victory over someone as desirable as Sam was infinitely sweet. And next time . . . in about two weeks’ time to be precise

  . . . she would achieve an even greater one. Chucking the washing-up cloth into the sink and crossing the dimly lit kitchen, she stood on tiptoe and planted a careful, sisterly kiss on his cheek. ‘Good friends are more important than lovers,’ she murmured. ‘Every time.’

  ‘Depends how good they are,’ said Sam, keeping himself firmly under control. The bitch, he thought. Now he knew she was playing games.

  ‘Good night, Sam,’ said Izzy serenely.

  ‘Good night, John-boy.’

  Chapter 14

  Galvanised into action by the realization that she could get Andrew back, Gina had embarked upon a whirlwind plan of campaign in order to do so and stubbornly refused to listen to Izzy’s protests that this wasn’t what she’d meant at all. The terrible apathy which had dogged her for the past months was stripped away like Clark Kent’s office suit, to be replaced by a positive tidal wave of enthusiasm. Having lost almost a stone in weight - which didn’t particularly suit her - she regained her appetite and began eating again, had her hair rebobbed and her legs eye-smartingly waxed. Oblivious to the bank manager’s unamused letters she launched into a fresh orgy of spending, but this time it was carried out joyfully and with real purpose because nothing was too good for Andrew and whoever would dream of wearing underwear which didn’t match their clothes and clothes which didn’t match their Kurt Geiger shoes anyway?

  And since nothing seemed impossible any more, gaining new-found independence in the form of a job no longer struck terror into Gina’s soul. Her determination to prove herself different in every way from that slothful, unkempt creature with whom Andrew had so stupidly - and temporarily - gone to live was a far more effective incentive than Izzy’s airy exhortations to ‘get out and do something’ had ever been.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Izzy demanded with suspicion a couple of days later when Gina presented herself downstairs made up and scented and wearing a new, navy-blue Chanel-style suit which looked suspiciously like the genuine article and which would no doubt reduce the bank manager to new depths of depression. At this rate, Izzy could almost feel sorry for him.

  Gina, who had been practising a new, slightly deeper and hopefully more authoritative voice in the privacy of her bedroom, said, ‘I’ve got a job interview.’ But Izzy only looked more alarmed.

  ‘Are you going down with something infectious?’

  ‘No, I am not.’ Disappointed, Gina reverted to her normal tones. ‘And you’re supposed to be encouraging me.’

  ‘I tried doing that,’ Izzy reminded her. ‘And it went horribly wrong.’ Then she pulled herself together. ‘But I’m glad you’re looking for work; it’ll do you the world of good. What kind of job is it?’

  It was indeed going to do her a world of good, thought Gina, scarcely able to control her smile. She had run through the plan a hundred times, yet the thought of it still sent the adrenalin racing through her body. The interview, set for eleven o’clock, was bound to be over by midday. Then, having secured the job she would arrive at Andrew’s office just before twelve-thirty and insist . . . insist that he join her for lunch in order to celebrate. From there on the details grew a little hazy; all she knew was that Andrew would be seeing her at her new and absolute best, she would be seeing him without that awful Marcy in tow and it would be the happiest afternoon of her life . . .

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Izzy waved a hand in front of her face, bringing her back to earth.

  ‘Of course I am. It’s a sales job,’ said Gina with renewed pride, ‘at Therese Verdun, just off Bond Street.’

  Therese Verdun was one of the most exclusive dress shops in London.

  Of course, thought Izzy wryly, silly me for asking.

  ‘Yes?’ snapped Andrew, when his secretary buzzed through to his office at midday.

  ‘Er, Mr Lawrence, your wife is here to see you,’ said Pam, struggling to contain her excitement. Having stayed up late the previous night to watch Fatal Attraction, she had high hopes for this real-life confrontation. Gina didn’t look as if she was carrying a gun, but you never knew. And Andrew Lawrence had been in such a lousy mood for the last couple of weeks that whatever he had coming to him now, Pam condoned absolutely.

  ‘Send her in,’ commanded the tinny voice over the intercom. Gina smiled at Pam. Pam, deciding that maybe she wouldn’t take her lunch hour just yet after all, smiled back. Andrew, ensconced in his office, didn’t smile at all.

  ‘Darling!’ said Gina, when the door was safely shut behind her. Swooping down on him like a thin, elegant bird and enveloping him in a cloud of freshly applied Shalimar, she kissed his cheek. ‘Isn’t this a surprise? I should have phoned, but I was so excited I simply had to come and tell you . . . I’ve just found myself the most marvellous job and I wanted you to be the first to know!’

  ‘That’s—’ began Andrew, caught totally off-guard by her arrival, but Gina had rehearsed her lines too often to allow him to interrupt.

  ‘And it’s all thanks to you, because if you hadn’t left I would never have even thought of going out to work!’ she gabbled joyfully. ‘So I insist, absolutely, upon taking you for lunch.’

  ‘Ah, well . . .’

  ‘No excuses,’ she continued with mock severity. ‘I checked with Pam to make sure you didn’t have any other appointments, and besides . . . what on earth is the point of having a civilised divorce if one can’t treat one’s husband to a superb lunch at Emile’s once in a while?’

  It was all going disastrously wrong, she thought numbly an hour later. Here she was, doing and saying everything according to plan, here they were in Andrew’s favourite - and ruinously expensive - restaurant, and here was Andrew refusing to co-operate with all the quiet stubbornness of a small boy who doesn’t want to return to boarding school.

  ‘Another bottle of wine?’ she asked in desperation, but he simply shook his head and glanced yet again at his watch. Gazing helplessly around at the other tables, Gina saw only couples enjoying themselves. She was running out of bright conversation at a rate of knots now. Her new job had become more and more grand . . . she was practically running the entire company . . . and Andrew still wasn’t as impressed as he was supposed to be. He also took little apparent interest in her wildly exaggerated stories of what sharing a house with Izzy and Sam was like. Unless he pulled himself together and started making an effort very soon, thought Gina as the first signs of real panic began to gnaw at her stomach, she didn’t know what she might do.

  ‘I hope Marcy isn’t cooking you a huge dinner,’ she said, although he hadn’t really eaten much at all.

  Andrew shook his head. If he looked at his watch one more time, thought Gina, she would tear it off his wrist and hurl it across the room.

  ‘And the baby?’ she continued, too brightly. ‘Is everything going smoothly there? I expect Marcy’s up to her ears in ante-natal classes at the moment . . .’

  ‘Gina, don’t,’ he said abruptly. ‘Look, thanks for the lunch and I’m really very pleased for you about the job, but I have got to get back to the office. There’s no need for you to drive me back, I can take a cab.’

  The fantasy hadn’t materialised; the charade was over. Unable to bear it, Gina’s eyes filled with tears and she rose jerkily to her feet, knocking the fork from her plate and splattering the front of her skirt with Madeira sauce. ‘Andrew, please, you can’t just leave like this. You don’t understand—’

  ‘I do understand.’ He didn’t know whom to feel most sorry for, Gina or himself. He was merely unhappy, whereas she was chronically insecure. ‘You’ve landed yourself a wonderful job, you’re making a new life for yourself and I’m glad about that.’

  The tears were in full flood now, streaking her make-up and attracting the attention of other diners. ‘But I don’t have a new l
ife,’ she sobbed, scrubbing hopelessly at the burgundy stain on her skirt with a snowy napkin. ‘And I don’t have a wonderful job, either. I don’t have any kind of job because they turned me down. They told me I needed experience,’ she wailed accusingly, ‘and I didn’t have any because all I’d ever been was a wife!’

  Somehow he managed to get her out of the restaurant. A handful of tenners he could ill-afford to lose only just covered the bill. By the time they reached the car, Gina was shivering violently and barely able to stand. The fact that she was oblivious to the stares of passers-by convinced him that her grief was genuine.

  ‘I can’t drive, d-don’t make me d-drive,’ she begged, through chattering teeth. ‘The last time I was like this I nearly k-k-killed someone.’

  ‘All right, don’t worry,’ he said rapidly, praying he wasn’t over the limit. ‘I’ll take you home.’