Don't Marry Thomas Clark (25 page)

‘I didn't mean the two of us,' he says, with a smile. ‘Do you remember the email I sent you?'

‘Which one?'

‘The one where I said I'd been having problems trying to buy that company?'

‘I vaguely remember something.'

‘It's quite an important company which is based in Dublin. They deal mostly in telecommunications, a sector that normally doesn't interest me, but it would give me the opportunity to expand my portfolio in Ireland.'

‘Why would they want you to sell their factory?'

‘Because it's not a factory. It is an intermediary company.'

I stand corrected.

‘So why would they want you to sell their
intermediary company
?'

‘Because the company's founder, Jake Doyle, has decided to give up the business. He has a son who moved to Spain four years ago. He's married, teaches languages at the University of Madrid and has no interest in the his father's business. His other kid isn't interested – wants to go into other things too, apparently. The only thing they care about is not laying off their employees and getting a reasonable price for it, taking advantage of the popularity the company has acquired over the years. We sent in an offer to the board of directors a couple of months ago and they were willing to consider it, but the negotiations are still ongoing and we haven't signed anything, so the other day I contacted Jake and suggested that he spend a couple of days on the boat with us, hoping that might help speed things up.'

‘So this is just a business trip, then?' I say, slightly more calmly than before. ‘In that case, why did I have to come with you? Couldn't you have managed it on your own?'

‘Yes, but Mr. Doyle is an old-fashioned man, and particularly close to his family. I'm sure he'd rather deal with a devoted husband than with a tireless libertine.'

‘And the tireless libertine would be… you?' I ask, raising an eyebrow. ‘Thomas, without wishing to put a damper on things… I've been watching you, and the most obscene thing I've seen you do was when you put your elbow on the table when they served dessert.'

‘Are you at it again?'

‘What?' I really don't understand what he's referring to.

‘Demeaning my manhood?' he says, putting his hand on his chest with resentment.

‘Ah,' I sigh, impatiently. ‘There you go – I've done it. Do you want me to do the other one or can you manage it yourself, Dorian Gray?' And I let go of his hand and raise an eyebrow in a gesture of defiance.

‘I'll do it myself,' he says, obviously having decided to show me all his skills but only managing to get the second cufflink through after a dozen attempts.

‘Very impressive!' I say, feigning amazement. ‘Now I understand why women fall at your feet.'

‘OK. You asked for it!'And with an unexpected leap he grabs me by the waist before I can get away. I try to wriggle out of his grasp but his grip is too strong and I can't stop him even when he throws me on the bed, and himself on top of me with his shirt still unbuttoned.

‘Get off me immediately!' I shout, but he isn't at all intimidated and starts to tickle my hips, something I've never been able to resist for more than two seconds flat. Needless to say, I lose control and immediately start squirming and gibbering hysterically.

‘Please… stop… enough!' I manage to say, breathlessly, my shirt pulled up under my breasts, my hair tousled and my fingers desperately gripping the blankets.

‘Where do you think you are going?' he asks, holding me to him when I try to pull away, taking advantage of a moment of distraction.

‘No. No. No, come on…' I beg, trying to stop him. ‘I can't stand being tickled.'

‘Yeah, I remember,' he whispers in my ear, sliding his way between my legs.

He lies gently on top of me, taking my hands in his, and when he finds my wrists, he grabs them and pulls them up over my head.

‘Now you're totally in my power,' he says as his chin tickles the tip of my nose. Breathing heavily, my lips parted, I look around for a foothold, but when I try to free myself from his grip, I realize that I can't move, so I give in and relax, letting myself surrender into his arms.

Our eyes meet. Finally, after all this time, I see it. He'd never gone away. He was just so hidden behind that mature-seeming exterior and deep voice that I couldn't find him. I feel the electricity of his touch on my skin and the pressure of his body pressing me down onto the bed. Instinctively I arch my back and at that moment he closes his eyes, then opens them again to stare at me with such intensity that I melt completely.

‘Last wish?' he asks, smiling.

‘Have mercy, my lord,' I say half-jokingly. ‘Spare a young life.' My voice is gruff.

He seems to procrastinate, then mumbles doubtfully: ‘I don't know. Yours, my lady, was a very serious offence. I don't think I can let the insult go unpunished.'

‘A bold gesture dictated by inexperience and foolishness,' I continue, attempting not to laugh and adding, with an averted gaze, ‘I don't deserve your indifference.'

‘Actually, I shouldn't have to waste my time defending myself from these low insinuations, but I shall not tolerate further additional insults,' he clarifies after careful rumination. ‘Of course, I could try to be lenient, if you make it clear that you have no more doubts about my innate ability of persuasion.'

‘Doubts? Me?' I ask. ‘Your Grace needn't worry, because there is no woman in the whole kingdom more convinced of your skills as a lover,' I say, in enthusiastic praise, ‘and I would gladly sit here for hours listing your qualities, if only I remembered them. But even though I do not, I know for a fact that they must surely exist because if they didn't why should you be so vexed by a comment as harmless as mine?' I flutter my eyelashes. ‘You would not, I'm sure, want all and sundry to think that yours is simply repressed anger at being caught out by a representative of the poor common folk?'

‘OK. Say your prayers,' he says.

Preventing me from reacting, he pushes himself onto me and traps my lips between his, and I moan in response. Losing all contact with reality, I close my eyes, feeling his breath on my skin and the gentle caress of his fingers, which slowly release their grip, letting his arm slip so he can run his fingers through my hair. Without moving away from him, I push myself up from the crumpled sheet with a slight pressure of my hand and he pulls me towards him, forcing me to open my mouth to receive him. I let his tongue gently penetrate me and cling to him, feeling almost afraid of falling. I wish I could stop, but it's too late. I should have thought of that before. Should have stopped while there was still time, but I couldn't. I can't… I… I simply can't push him away, so I circle his waist with my legs, rubbing myself on his jeans and feeling the increasing intensity of his desire for me. And in that moment his hand grabs angrily at my trousers and I feel him rushing to unbutton them. I offer no resistance even when after undoing the button he grabs the zip and hastily pulls it down.

‘Mr. Clark…'

There's a knock on the door, and it's as though someone has broken a window and showered us with fragments which fall crashing to the floor.

‘Mr. Clark, lunch is ready,' someone in the hallway informs us.

He has to repeat it a second time, because neither of us is able to react.

‘Mr. Clark?' asks the timid voice.

Reluctantly, we pull away from each other. We're both breathless. His hand is resting between my legs and he doesn't make any move to pull it away. I open my eyes and look at him with a face that betrays all my embarrassment.

‘Thank you very much. We'll be there in a few minutes,' he says huskily, glancing briefly at the door.

My strength completely gone, I fall back onto to the mattress and he rolls onto his side, rubbing his forehead.

‘Sandy,' he says when he notices my total lack of reaction.

‘I still have to change,' I say, coldly.

Sensing that I have no intention of talking about it, he wearily gets up and shuts himself in the bathroom. A few minutes later I do the same, finding refuge in the wardrobe, where I choose something comfortable to wear. I grab a pair of pants, a bra and my beauty case then I tiptoe out of the room, looking for somewhere to get changed, somewhere where he can't find me. If possible on the other side of the Othello.

I'm on the run.

Whatever there is to say will have to wait until I've stopped shaking.

‘And to finish, sole fillets gratin, accompanied by julienne vegetables and citrus cream.'

It is the voice of the maître d' speaking. Yes, we also have a maître d'. I was surprised a sommelier didn't appear to advise us on a wine that might make me forget the foie gras with mushrooms in the first course. I know it's Nouvelle Cuisine, but I wouldn't have minded if he'd brought me a hamburger with fries, dripping with ketchup and a dash of mustard and a tomato, to be honest. Good grief, am I going to have to eat goose pâté for seven days? I'm starting to wonder if I'll be able to last out.

I move back from the table to allow a maid in uniform to serve the second course. Across from me, Thomas is prodding his sole with a fork, giving me a fleeting look every so often. To defuse the tension, I crunch breadsticks and watch the coastline slowly disappear as the Othello heads for the open sea.

‘Is it not to your liking?' the maître d' asks Thomas, noticing that he hasn't tried anything, but Thomas shakes his head and reassures him that everything is delicious. Satisfied, the man goes back into the kitchen, leaving us alone in the company of the sound of the waves.

‘Why didn't he ask me?' I blurt out while chewing on a carrot.

‘He probably thought it wasn't necessary.'

‘I'm not important enough to deserve his attention?'

‘The way you devoured the olive bread might have given him the impression that you were more than satisfied with lunch, but I'm only guessing.'

‘What are you trying to say?' I ask with a scowl as I suck a bit of citrus cream from my thumb.

‘Nothing you don't already know,' he says, taking a stick of celery.

‘Which is?'

‘I'm just saying that you have the same approach to food as a five-year-old: licking the cutlery clean, sticking your fingers in the salad dressing and then sucking them, filling your cheeks with bread like a hamster and moaning with pleasure every time you sink your teeth into something soft. You've always been the same, no matter how much your mother tried to teach you a few “good manners”.'

I had no idea that he'd spent so much time watching how I ate the salad.

‘And I suppose it disgusts you?' I ask, while deliberately sticking almost half the sole into my mouth.

‘To tell the truth, I find it terribly erotic,' he says, his face serious.

He lowers his gaze to the steak he is cutting with the back of his fork and doesn't realize that I'm forced to swallow half a glass of water to avoid choking.

He's up to something. I don't know what, but there's something going on that I can't put my finger on.

‘May I take that away?' asks a waitress, timidly. We nod almost simultaneously, both pushing our chairs away from the table.

Suddenly, the maître d' reappears and ushers her off. ‘For dessert, today we have coconut mousse with grated pistachios and hazelnuts, lemon sorbet with vanilla wafers or apricot tart flavoured with cinnamon,' he suggests.

‘I'm fine, thanks. Sandy, would you like dessert?'

Well, yes, I would – but after the picture he's just drawn of me I don't have the courage. God, give me strength!

‘No, thanks,' I say. ‘I'm fine.'

‘Are you sure?'

Oh, you
bastard
!

‘I…'

Resist! Resist!

‘The tart is really delicious,' goads the waiter. I'm surrounded!

‘Actually…' I stammer.

‘I'd go for the pie,' says Thomas, choosing for me, ‘and can you bring us some coffee too? We'll take it in the solarium.' And he goes back to staring at me.

‘What do you want?' I ask him ungraciously.

He taps his finger nervously on the table, staring at the horizon and obviously unwilling to answer, but in the end he murmurs, ‘About what happened before. In the room…'

For the first time since we left, he seems to be trying to avoid my gaze.

‘Drop it. Look, I'm really not in the mood,' I say, stopping him before he can continue.

‘You don't even know what I was about to say,' he starts, visibly taken aback.

‘Do you think that I hadn't realized?' And I have to restrain myself not to burst out laughing.

‘To be honest, I'm absolutely certain.'

‘I can imagine.'

‘OK then, shoot,' he says, and waits for my answer, arms folded and an annoyed expression on his face.

‘Do you know what your problem is?'

‘You,' he replies.

I pretend not to hear.

‘That you're so sure of yourself, you don't realize when the right thing to do would be to withdraw. You've lied to me, threatened me and embarrassed me, and yet you're always at the starting point, so you've decided to use your charm to try and bring me round – all this silly pretending to suddenly be attracted to me. Except I'm not Trisha Doherty, and until you understand that, you'll just keep falling on your face again and again and all you'll achieve is complicating your own life,' I babble, without pausing for breath.

‘Trisha who?' he asks, confused.

I massage my temples. ‘You really don't remember who Trisha Doherty was?' I am shocked.

‘Should I?'

‘No, I suppose not. The poor thing was one of the girls at the tennis club that you and Robert used to go to. Poor girl,' and I shake my head in disappointment. ‘She thought you were a god among men.'