by Shari Low
Bag? Check.
Two shoes? Check.
Tequila-stained dress? Check.
Nipples like fighter-pilot’s thumbs? Check.
Lord, what was going on with her? She fumbled in her purse for some money, ended up grabbing two twenties, and thrust them in the general direction of the driver, before making it to the door with only a slight stagger.
Key in lock. Key in lock. Drunk. Horny. Key in…Why the hell wouldn’t the key go in the lock?
She was just about to commit her first forced entry by Louboutin platforms when the door swung open and there he was…
Yep, for a moment she thought it was Darren too. Then she realised that he was built like an Adonis, smiling, and wearing his normal ‘at home’ attire.
Jude. Gorgeous, sexy, half-naked Jude. This time his battered, fraying Levis were so tight she feared for his testicular health.
‘Oh, great, I have a topless butler,’ she grinned. Smooth. Clever. And it might have been impressive if she hadn’t chosen that moment to step forward, catch her heel on the thin strip of wood that ran along the floor under the door, and enter the hallway in the manner of a scud missile.
Jude lurched down and grabbed her in the manner of Superman rescuing Lois Lane. Without the pants over the trousers, obviously.
‘You’re making a habit of falling at my feet. Good night?’
‘Great night.’ And, she realised, it had been. Drinks, laughs, fun, sexy stuff, and now the best-looking man she’d ever seen in her life was carrying her into her bedroom.
‘Where are the girlfriends tonight then, stud man?’ she teased.
‘Night off. Goldie’s in Spain presenting a house to a couple who won it in a phone-in and Cheska’s working all weekend because she’s summing-up on Monday.’
He plonked her down on the raw-silk duvet cover.
‘Can I ask you something?’
He winced as he rubbed one molehill-shaped bicep, then sat down next to her.
‘As long as it doesn’t involve carrying you anywhere else. I must be out of practice.’
‘Do they know about each other? Goldie and Cheska?’
He shrugged his shoulders, his expression suddenly bashful, embarrassed. ‘They don’t ask. It’s just the way it is with us. We’re exclusively non-exclusive. I know Goldie sees another guy, a cameraman on the show, and Cheska–not sure. She was having a thing with the head of her chambers when we met, but I don’t know if that’s still on.’
Ginny’s face was pure puzzlement.
‘It’s what works for us–no expectations, no promises. And let’s face it–with my job I couldn’t exactly be with someone in possession of a jealousy gene, could I?’
‘So you could–’ Shit, her mouth was still talking. Why? The rest of her was on normal time, but her gob was on tequila time.
‘–sleep with anyone at all and they wouldn’t mind?’
What? Where did that come from?
Her nerves would have been stretched to pinging point if it wasn’t for the fact that she picked that very moment to kick off a shoe and then watched with horror as it flew across the room and knocked Roxy’s DVD player off its shelf and onto the shag-pile carpet.
Jude didn’t notice. He shrugged those intricately carved deltoids.
‘They wouldn’t know. Or care to know. It’s just…aaaaw!’
Ginny gasped. How the hell had she managed that? She’d flicked off the other shoe and it had somehow managed to fire straight up in the air, then come down and hit Jude on the back of his beautifully conditioned, glossy head.
His laughter was contagious. ‘You are dangerous to know, Ginny. And I always thought you were the innocent, harmless type.’
Argh, his eyes were doing that crinkling-up, twinkly thing that she thought was irresistible. And so, it seemed, did her fighter-pilot nipples, which had reappeared in anticipation of a new mission.
A kamikaze one.
‘You know what, Jude–I’m sick of being the innocent type. Look where it’s got me so far: I’ve had to steal someone else’s life just to get a bit of excitement and my boyfriend has just chucked me!’
His eyes widened with surprise. ‘He chucked you? Ginny, I’m sorry.’ And, bless him, even though he probably couldn’t care less, Ginny could swear that right in that moment he was looking at her with eyes that were full of concern.
She pushed herself up on one elbow and traced her finger down his cheek. She wasn’t sure if his new expression was surprise, shock or horror, so she did the only intelligent, decent thing.
She shut her eyes, put her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him towards her. Her hormones had just taken her brain hostage and demanded a ransom of one nipple erection, one amazingly long, sensual snog, and one…holy crap, her hand was undoing the top button of his jeans.
He gently pushed her back down on the bed and pulled back from the kiss, his nose six inches from hers, their eyes locked, their breathing in perfect unison.
‘We shouldn’t do this,’ he whispered.
Ginny stayed mute. The tequila, however, was staging a full-scale protest.
‘We should. We definitely should,’ it replied. Out loud.
He leaned down and kissed her again, the delicious smell of his body assaulting her senses. And just when she thought, no, knew, that she was going to rip a bloke’s kegs off for the first time in her life, he pulled back again.
‘Ginny, this is a really bad idea. You’re hurt, you’re drunk, and you’re a friend.’
‘Jude…’
He stopped her by pressing his lips to hers again, this time not with passion, but with a slow, tender movement.
They stayed like that for what seemed like ages. Until her pulse slowed down from manic to just slightly rapid, until her brain absorbed what he was trying to tell her, and until tequila could be trusted not to interfere.
Eventually, he lifted his head, still staring into her eyes. He pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead and ran a finger along her brow.
‘You are beautiful.’
She snorted. Okay, not the sexiest thing she’d ever done, but it was a reflex action.
‘You are,’ he insisted. ‘And you’ve no idea how much I want to take that dress off and make love to you.’
He looked so sincere that she almost believed him. Until…
‘But it would be such a bad idea. You’re vulnerable, Ginny.’
‘I’m not vulnerable, I’m horny.’
He smiled, and kissed her again. ‘And if you’re still horny in the morning, then knock on my door. But not tonight…The last thing you need tonight is another complication.’
He kissed her one more time…slowly…sensually…then pulled her close to him and held her tight.
He was right. As a rogue tear squeezed from the corner of her eye, she knew that he was right. She had only had sex with one man in her entire life, and if that man arrived at her door tomorrow morning, full of remorse and begging her to come back to him, how could she look him in the eye if she’d been unfaithful? Did she want Darren back? Was it really over? Did he mean what he’d said or was that just a furious outburst fuelled by ego and rejection?
There were too many questions. She’d loved no one but Darren–and until she understood where they were, she wasn’t sure that she was ready to replace lifelong commitment with random lust.
Was she?
Jude was lying behind her now, spooning her, his breathing heavy on her neck. And her last solemn thought, before her eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep in the arms of an incredibly sweet, gentle, caring sex god was…that she must be fucking mad.
And that’s why she smiled lazily when a hand gently cupped her breast, stirring her out of her slumbers. It could have been minutes later, or hours. The room was in darkness so it was definitely still night-time. His finger was slowly, teasingly circling her nipple, his breath on the back of her neck as he playfully, sensually licked that soft spot at the top of her spine.
The hand was moving now, kneading the whole of her breast before creeping slowly, inch by erotically incredible inch, down over her ribcage, her stomach, her hip bones…
Oh, she wanted him. She wanted him so badly that nothing, nothing was going to stop her this time.
‘Oh baby,’ he whispered.
The tingling feeling was radiating out from the very core of her, working its way through her body. This was truly sublime: every pore, every crevice wanted him. Wanted him to…
‘Oh, Roxy, baby, you are so incredible.’
The steel shutters of her libido came crashing down. Roxy? Roxy!? So that’s why he hadn’t wanted to make love to her–he was in love with Roxy. Fabulous, gorgeous, infinitely more phenomenal bloody Roxy. Argh, did her life never change?
She bolted upright. Oh, bad move, her stomach lurched as the tequila sloshed around inside it. She tried to breathe deeply to fight off the combination of a spinning head and nausea.
‘Hey, what’s wrong? For fuck’s sake, Rox, you nearly took my teeth out there.’
Hold on…Even through the haze of the woozy head and the outraged emotions, she realised that something wasn’t right. It was the tone, it was just wrong, it was…
‘Lights!!’ she yelled, and the bedside lamp immediately kicked into action. Two sets of eyes squinted and as their vision cleared the screams were simultaneous.
‘GINNY!!!’ from the male.
‘FELIX!!!’ from the female.
And then there was darkness.
NINE
Doctor Feelgood
Roxy. Day 7, Saturday morning, 11 a.m.
Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Her heart was beating like an amp at a heavy-metal gig as the doctor stood over her. Actually, it wasn’t just any doctor, it was that Luca bloke from ER. Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Oh, yes, he definitely warrants a little acceleration there. Dum-dum-dum-dum…‘Nurse!’ he yells. ‘She’s crashing!’
‘Noooooo,’ thinks the patient, ‘I’m a-lusting. Lusting. Go on, listen to my heart and you’ll see I’m…’
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppppppp.
‘One, two, three, CLEAR!’
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppppppp.
‘Again–shock her again!’
‘One, two, three, CLEAR!’
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppppppp.
‘It’s no use, Doctor, she’s gone. She’s gone, I tell you! You have to let her go, Doctor. You did everything you could. Please, Doctor, let her go. Let her go…’
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppppppp.
‘Roxy. Roxy!’
The white sheet was over her head and she was fighting it. They had to see she wasn’t dead, they had to! They had to! It was a mistake! She wasn’t…
‘Roxy!’
Suddenly the sheet was pulled back and there was light. Light and…
‘Roxy!’ Light and the voice of the bloke from the library–whom she could say with fair certainty had never had a starring role in ER.
‘Roxy, your phone is beeping. Either answer it or batter it to death–just make it stop.’
‘Mmmmm. Sorry. I was dreaming. I didn’t realise.’ She stuck her right hand out from under the duvet and felt around for the offending object and…nothing. That’s when it struck her.
An icy chill swept like a tsunami from her toes up to her matted locks. Shit! Where was she?
She gently opened both eyes. Whoa, bad move. Perhaps start with one and work up to it. Straight above–ceiling: cream, swirly pattern. On top: sheets, white, blue stripes. In front: bookcases, a whole wall of them, crammed full to overflowing. The floor littered with so many books and papers that the nondescript brown cord carpet was barely visible. A chair, draped with clothes. Her clothes? Then…Dear. God. No. To the left: sleeping on the next pillow, the bloke from the library, who definitely wasn’t in ER.
Dum-dum, dum-dum, dum-dum…
Slowly, tentatively, she lifted up the sheet, peeked underneath and, phew…Never in her life did she ever think that she’d be grateful to see her toned, nubile body bedecked in a screaming-lilac velour tracksuit.
‘I put pillows down the middle–just in case you woke up during the night and got a bit freaked out. I would have slept on the sofa but I didn’t want the housekeeper to wonder why I was there. And then I tried to sleep on the floor but it was minus three degrees and I thought you might find it unpleasant to wake up next to a hypothermic corpse.’
‘Good point,’ Roxy whispered, almost managing a smile. Giddy relief. Mixed with a voracious thirst, a thumping head, and a rampant desire for anything containing Paracetamol.
‘How did I get here?’ she asked, turning to face him.
But before he could answer there was the unmistakable thump of footsteps outside.
‘Sssshhhh!’ His eyes flared with panic as he clapped a hand over her mouth.
Wow–what was with the gagging action? Had she been kidnapped? Was Mitch one of those CSI Las Vegas psychos who kept body parts in his pickle jars? What if…what if the local police were already scouring the countryside for her body while her mother gave a tearful plea for her safe return on national telly?
‘Mrs Donald is outside in the hallway. My uncle is away but if she finds you here we’ll have the wrath of God, the most righteous woman on earth, and half the village to contend with.’
As she eyed the general disarray around her, Roxy had a sudden moment of clarity, and with it came shock, surprise and one burgeoning question.
‘You have a housekeeper, yet your room looks like this?’
The footsteps retreated until they were once again enveloped in total silence.
Roxy still couldn’t take in the chaos of the room. How could people live like this? It was the kind of bedroom that belonged to students who were in the first throes of independence and cannabis discovery.
‘I asked Mrs Donald not to clean in here. Felt a bit weird being picked up after by an elderly woman with a dodgy hip–especially when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.’ He glanced around the room, seeing it through Roxy’s eyes, and added, ‘In theory.’
‘So let me get this straight–you refuse menial help? You are a very, very strange man. And I’m in bed with you. Whoo-fucking-hoo. Okay, while I’m at the lowest point in living memory…last night–give me the bullet points but don’t miss out any vital revelations. And by the way, I don’t suppose you’ve got anything liquid over your side–my mouth feels like a landfill site.’
He reached down and produced a bottle of Lucozade, much to her amusement.
‘Impressive. Okay, now I’d like a bacon roll, next week’s lottery numbers and Matt Damon’s phone number.’
‘So do you want the good news or the bad news?’ he asked, ignoring her witterings.
There was more bad news? She was suffering from amnesia, lying in a bed, in a church house, in lilac velour, with a man she barely knew and under threat of a cataclysmic discovery by a woman with a dodgy hip. And there was more?
‘You fainted at the pub, so I took you home, but there was no one there to let you in, so I snuck you in here and put you to bed.’
She absorbed the facts–so far, so acceptable.
‘Did we have sex?’ she asked bluntly.
‘No!’ replied Mitch, his face contorted with horror as he pulled the sheet up a little tighter around his neck.
‘Kiss?’
‘No!’
‘Fumble?’
‘Absolutely not! What do you take me for? I brought you home, I put you to bed, I put pillows down the middle and you snored all night.’
‘So what’s the bad news?’
‘Mrs Donald doesn’t finish until noon, so we have to stay in here for another hour before the coast is clear. Oh, and your phone has been beeping constantly–it’s in your bag down by your side there. I think it’s your mother trying to establish that you’re not dead.’
Trying to avoid the crushing pain of moving her head, she groped around, loca
ted the bag, retrieved the phone and fired off a quick message to her mother.
All ok, slept on friend’s couch, b home soon.
As she snapped her phone closed, the battery gave one last indignant beep and then died. She must remember to pick up a new charger from somewhere. Presuming that she ever managed to regain the powers of standing upright and clear thoughts. Her head hadn’t hurt this badly since the time she drank too much Cristal and persuaded Peter Stringfellow to let her display her gymnastic skills by doing a somersault off the bar top in his club. She’d have landed perfectly if that rogue paparazzo hadn’t picked that precise moment to pull out his hidden camera and start flashing pics of Robbie Williams with his face buried in some woman’s cleavage.
Still, at least the x-ray had ruled out permanent damage to her skull.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘For what?’
‘For taking care of me. That was…nice.’
He gave her a languid, teasing grin.
‘When your memory comes back I think you’ll find that we already established my “nice” credentials. Feel free to promote me to gorgeous, fit, funny, hunky and irresistible whenever you like.’
She took in his lazy grin, his crazy bed-head, the adolescent, naff, politically incorrect T-shirt that proudly announced he was a ‘Male God in Training’.
Then the realisation came.
Winning the prize for ‘Strangest Emotion in Weirdest Circumstances’, it came to her that, potentially fatal hangover aside, and despite the prospect of being run out of town by Mrs Donald (at a very slow speed, obviously), for the first time in ages she was waking up with a man and she actually–and astonishingly–felt, well, happy. She definitely wasn’t anxious, bored titless, or desperate to leave. Whoa, that was so weird. She double-checked. Yes, she was absolutely almost bubbly.
‘I think for now we’ll stick with nice.’
A feeling of dread crowbarred into her wee basket of bliss. Roxy Galloway was lying in bed with a ‘nice’ guy and she wasn’t hatching an urgent plan for escape.
