‘Are you sleepy?’ I ask.

‘No.’

I use the ends of my hair to tickle his chin. ‘What’s your favorite word?’

He opens his eyes. ‘Egg.’

‘What?’

‘I just like the sound of it.’

‘You’re one strange man.’

He chuckles. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Lollipop.’

‘I’d like to change my word.’

‘To what?’

‘Lana.’

I laugh. ‘That, Mr. Barrington, is the corniest thing you have ever said to me.’

‘No, really. Every time I say it, or hear it on someone else’s lips, it actually gives me a thrill.’

I feel lazy and relaxed on top of him. ‘We know so little about each other, don’t we?’

‘I know everything I need to know about you. Everything else I’ll find out along the way.’

‘What is it you think you know about me?’

‘Well, for starters I know you’re brave.’

I frown. ‘Brave? I’m not brave.’

‘You’re one of the bravest people I know.’

‘How am I brave?’

‘You left me. That’s brave.’

‘If you knew how frightened and confused I was when I left.’

‘That’s the definition of bravery, Lana. Doing something even though you are terrified of the consequences. And I am really proud of the way you handled my brother today, too.’

‘You are?’ I squeak, immeasurably pleased with the compliment.

‘When I was in the toilet I was so nervous about leaving you with him I was gripping the edges of the sink to keep from running back into the restaurant. But I knew I had to let you handle it, and I’m glad now that I did. If you can handle him you can handle all the rest in time.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘And if I’m not we’ll work it out together.’

Thirteen

Victoria Montgomery

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…

I could walk through my garden forever,

Alfred Tennyson

This morning he calls me and tells me he is coming to see me. He sounds puzzlingly distant, but still, I sense that he is desperate to see me again. Finally. I never once—well, maybe once or twice—doubted that he would tire of that thieving bitch. I’ve always known—he will come back.

I look at the clock. He’ll be here in less than an hour! Feeling almost dizzy with excitement and triumph, I slip into white underwear. The silk slides deliciously against my fevered skin. Blake loves a woman in white. The slut knew that, too. Her underwear drawers were full of white bits and pieces. My lips tighten of their own accord. I won’t think of her now. Why should I? I’ve won.

I, too, can drive him crazy with need. I, too, can slowly strip and crawl on the floor towards him. I will unzip his trousers and take his thick manhood, throbbing with power and strength, deep into my throat. I will swallow what he gives me. He is my man. I will be Mrs. Blake Law Barrington. I will walk into restaurants and parties and people will see that I am the power behind the throne.

I look at myself in the long mirror and don’t just feel reassured and satisfied, but highly pleased with the image that looks back. If there is a woman more desirable than me then I am yet to meet her. I am a class act all the way. That woman—I cannot even bear to say her name—is cheap. Even the best designer clothes cannot hide that fact. It lurks in her eyes, her big lips, her silly butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth expression.

I dress simply in a mint green dress, its hem faultlessly grazing the tops of my knees. I encircle my throat with two rows of creamy pearls. Nothing elaborate. It wouldn’t be appropriate to display my triumph. Some decorum and subtlety is called for. And yet this dress knows how to ride up my thighs when I sit down. Maybe… He will slide his hand up the inside of my thigh and, moving aside my knickers, insert his strong fingers into me, one, two, maybe even three… Forcing them deeper and deeper, working them furiously, until I gasp. Until I come, drenching his hand.

I imagine him pushing my dress up so it bunches around my waist. He will roughly tear away my knickers, open my long, slender legs wide, and while I arch my spine with uncontrollable lust, he will eat me out like a wild beast. And I will hold him by the hair until… I climax again.

‘You taste so much better than her,’ he will say to me.

My legs are trembling and my knickers are wet. I push a finger into my own wet hole, and pulling it out put it into my mouth. This is me. That is what he will taste. Then a thought: You don’t have much time. I snap out of my fantasy. I must be the picture of calm loyalty.

Quickly, I move to my dressing table.

Nearly black mascara, smoky brown eyeshadow and luscious berry lipstick. I press my lips together, and let the color pigments spread. Nice. Very nice. I’ll just be soft and innocent. That always works. I dab perfume—potent and specially created for me—behind my ears, on the insides of my wrists and then a strip on the insides of my thighs. I do not change out of my wet knickers. I actually relish the thought of sitting next to him, wet. Maybe he will smell me.

For an instant I consider changing into something more revealing.

The soft peal of the doorbell stops me cold for a second. Too late. Mint green will have to do. I lay my palm on my stomach. I am as nervous as I was on our first date. What a night that was. We dined at Nobu and ended up at a party. How happy I was then. Everywhere we went people looked at us with envy. We were the golden couple.

I take a deep, steadying breath and walk to the door. My footfalls are light and noiseless on the thick carpet. With each step I become calmer, more clear in my purpose. I open the door smiling softly, knowing I am looking my best, and my face is radiant with the pure love I have for him.

‘Hello Victoria,’ he says politely.

His eyes. His eyes. So flat and cold. He has changed. He has changed. The rush from heaven to hell is dizzying. I am overwhelmed with grief as one is after a death. I take Blake’s hand and, bending one knee in a gesture of respect reserved only for the highest ranking leaders, kiss it.

‘Don’t,’ he grates harshly, yanking his hand away. ‘I am not my father.’

Confused and slightly unsteady, I rise. How different he is.

‘Please come in.’ I let the door yawn wider and he steps through. I can do this. He stands awkwardly in my hallway. I turn away from him and close the door. My heart is breaking. Has that fucking bitch poisoned him against me?

‘Let’s have some tea,’ I say, turning to face him. My eyes are schooled, innocent, seemingly totally unaware of what he has been doing with the slut.

He seems about to say something, changes his mind, and nods. I had raised my victory flag too early. I have not won yet. He does not want to be here. He does not want me. I keep my expression neutral, friendly. We go into the living room where a sumptuous tea is waiting. As we enter the living room, I see Maria, my housekeeper, slip out of the front door.

I indicate the divan and we sit next to each other. Tia, my solid chocolate Persian, poses on her chair across from us. My eyes graze the thigh next to mine. Under the fine wool it is sculptured with hard muscles. I have seen the photographs. I grasp the teapot and pour tea into two cups. I know exactly how he likes his—black, two sugars.

‘Milk?’ I ask.

‘Black.’

‘Sugar?’

‘Two please.’

He watches me as I drop two sugar cubes into his tea. I hold it out to him. I am dying to touch the shapely, masculine fingers, but I don’t. He takes the saucer by its lip, far away from my fingers. I raise my eyes towards him and take a small sip of my tea—milk, no sugar.

‘I’m sorry about your father. He was a good man.’ I smile sadly at him. I don’t have to pretend sorrow. The death of his father is a great, great blow to me. He was an ally, a very powerful ally. A friend I could trust with my back. One who shared the same goal. But he is gone now.