White-Hot Christmas (17 page)

He laughed. “Coffee would be great.”

He watched her disappear and heard her singing in the kitchen as she ground the coffee and put it in the espresso machine, then foamed the milk. He lay back, thinking of how she’d sung to him and the time she’d taken to draw on the mug. She hadn’t bought him an expensive present—there’d been no glamorous declarations of love, and yet he didn’t think any woman had ever done anything so thoughtful for him.

He covered his face with his arm. His stomach was churning. Damn Bree and her stupid curse!

True to their word, the two of them stayed in bed all day and gradually worked their way through episodes of
The West Wing
on the TV in his bedroom, interspersed with various breaks for food, drinks, a swim in the pool and lazy bouts of lovemaking, sometimes even during episodes, when the mood arose.

Merle didn’t think she’d ever had such a wonderful day. After the initial weird atmosphere when she’d given him her present, Neon had relaxed and returned to his normal mischievous self, playful and good-humoured, teasing and warm at the same time.

As they watched one of the episodes, curled up together, she wondered about the odd look that had appeared on his face when he’d opened the mug and studied her artwork. Had she overstepped the mark in buying him a present? She couldn’t think why. She’d purposefully picked something lighthearted, although she had taken a long time doing the drawing. But it wasn’t as if she’d bought him an expensive piece of jewellery, or one of those necklaces with a heart broken in the middle where you both wore a piece of it. And he had told her he expected a present, after all.

In the end, she decided not to worry about it. He’d put the mug next to his bed and she saw him glance at it occasionally. Maybe it had touched him more than she thought.

The phone rang several times during the day. Once it was Bree, wishing him happy birthday, then another member of his family, and the third time it was Julia. That had been an amusing call.

“Hi,” he said when he heard who it was. They were lying in bed, the DVD paused, halfway through a tub of hokey-pokey honeycomb ice cream.

Merle heard Julia sing “Happy Birthday” down the phone to him and watched him roll his eyes, although he smiled afterward. “Thanks.” He listened for a moment, then he glanced at her. “Yes, she’s here.” His eyes took on an exasperated look. “We’re in bed.” He grinned at Merle. “Well, you did ask. No, I’ve chained her to the headboard.” Merle shook her head, alarmed. God, Julia must think she was such a slut. “Mum, I’m not wearing her out, more like the other way around.” Merle whacked him with a pillow and he laughed. “She’s giving me a bit of S and M now.” Cheeks burning, she walked off into the kitchen, hearing his laughter echoing along the corridor.

He came out shortly afterward and went up to her where she was washing up the plates from lunch, putting his arms around her.

“Your mother must think I’m a complete hussy.”

He laughed and kissed her head. “Hardly, she thinks you’re good for me.” He rested his lips on her hair and she stopped cleaning, her heart thumping. They said nothing for a moment. She closed her eyes momentarily. This was getting harder and harder. Every time she thought about walking away from him tomorrow, she got a pain in her chest.

She swallowed and finished washing up a glass, placing it in the rack. “Well, she can’t mean food-wise. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything healthy for the past week.”

He kissed her ear. “Do you want some pasta for dinner?”

“That would be nice.” She kept her tone light-hearted. “I’ll cook for you. It is your birthday.”

“Nope, I insist. It’ll make a change. I normally only cook for one.”

Merle smiled, wiping her hands on a cloth. She reached out and took his hand. “Why don’t you come and play for me for a while.”

She led him back into the bedroom and curled up on the bed as he took the guitar and began to play George Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass”. She sighed inwardly, wondering why he had chosen the song. She’d asked him to play because he usually looked happy when he was singing, but she sensed this time he was thinking more about the words than the music, his eyes surprisingly sad when he glanced up at her as he sang.

The rest of the day passed in much the same way, bittersweet, although they both made an effort to cover it. He made her some pasta, and they finally got dressed and sat outside in the warm sunshine to eat it, keeping the conversation light, talking about films and other series they’d watched and loved, and about their favourite periods of history—anything but the inevitable moment that was rapidly approaching.

As the day lengthened and the sun began to set, they went back to bed and made love, then curled up together, watching more
The West Wing.
A heaviness settled on her chest, her heart thumping each time she thought about leaving. But she continued to say nothing, knowing it was pointless and would only make it harder for them both when the moment finally came.

Eventually it was late and they were both drowsing, but neither of them could bring themselves to turn off the DVD, so they dozed, waking occasionally to see the episode had changed, until the titles came up and the DVD turned itself off.

Merle roused around one in the morning, saw the blue screen of the TV, and used the remote to turn it off. Then she curled around him, his arm settling on her waist even though he was asleep, and she lay there for ages until her eyelids descended again.

It was half past five when Neon finally woke properly, an hour before his alarm was due to go off. Merle was still asleep, and he lay there for a while, studying her, wondering whether he should leave her, as she looked so comfortable. Eventually, however, like a small boy faced with an open box of sweets, he couldn’t resist starting to touch her, placing kisses on her cheeks, tracing light fingers over her skin.

She roused and looked up at him, smiling, her blue eyes hazy with sleep. “
Morena
.”

“
Morena
, sweetheart.”

She blinked sleep away, then looked at the clock. “Do you have to get up?”

“Not yet. Go back to sleep if you want.”

She started to smile. “I can’t while you’re doing that.” His fingers were circling her breasts.

“Turn over. Then I won’t be tempted.”

She did so, her lips curling, closing her eyes and sighing as he continued to trace his fingers across her back, following the line of her waist, skimming her hips, brushing up her spine. He caressed her for ages, drawing korus and other patterns across her skin, joining up her moles, telling her they made a picture of Winston Churchill, which made her laugh.

Then he started writing his name with his finger, over and over, all down her back, on her arms, her hips.

“Are you worried I’m going to call out the wrong name or something?”

He didn’t laugh. “I’m branding you.”

“Like a cow?”

“I’m making sure you never forget me. This will always be here, like a tattoo.”

She caught her breath. His fingers laced the letters of his name in thick capitals, then in handwriting, then in copperplate with loops and swirls, then in French, with the accent on the
e
. His fingers felt hot, almost as if he had been speaking the truth and he really was searing the letters into her skin. Unbidden, tears came into her eyes. She bit her lip, making sure they didn’t form. She didn’t want to give him a reason to be impatient or irritated as he had been with Ella at the end.

He turned her onto her back and looked at her searchingly. She forced her lips into a smile, reached up and brushed the hair from his forehead. “I won’t forget you, Napoleon Carter.”

He didn’t even comment on her use of his full name. “I’ll make sure you don’t.” His hand brushed her body, starting to caress her. “Every time you make love to another guy, I want you to think of me.”

He lowered his lips to kiss her. She accepted it, fighting the urge to push him away. It was such a cruel, arrogant thing to say, particularly because she knew it was now extremely unlikely she’d ever be able to sleep with another man. This was it. When she returned to England, she would throw herself into her work, into looking after her mother, and she would never date again. She couldn’t bear the thought of someone else touching her. At that moment, she loved him desperately, had fallen deeply in love with him, like Ella and probably all the women before her.

She wanted to hate him for his words, and yet she couldn’t blame him because it was exactly how she felt too. Some part of her hoped when she was gone, he would ache with longing for her and be unable to sleep with anyone else. Somehow, though, she knew it wouldn’t be the same for him. There would be other women—soon, knowing his sex drive—and, one day, eventually, he would forget her. He would assume it couldn’t have been as good as he imagined. He would get married and have children, and she would be a distant memory, a nostalgic reminiscence at Christmastime. He might swim in the pool or watch
The West Wing
, think briefly of her and smile.

She bit her lip hard as he started kissing her body, tracing his tongue down her skin. She mustn’t think about anything other than this moment, this second. She had to live in the present and make the most of being there with him. It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t promised her anything. She’d known what he was like when she first slept with him. Bree had told her before she even met him, “His middle name’s ‘Feral’.”

His words just now had been of the moment, a passionate statement, like telling someone you love them when you’re drunk. He didn’t mean it. He was trying to let her know he was enjoying the time they were having.

So, she let him make love to her slowly, very slowly. He spent ages covering her with kisses, licking every inch of her skin, tasting her, touching her, as if he wanted to commit every little freckle, every hair to memory. He made her turn over so he could do the same to her back, tracing kisses along her legs, then up, before turning her onto her back again and eventually moving up to her face, taking a long time to kiss her properly, deep, languorous kisses, brushing her tongue with his, until she was sighing, her body desperate for him.

Eventually he gave in and lay on top of her, nudging her legs apart to slide into her. He moved gently, pausing in between each thrust to kiss her, demanding she keep her eyes open, as if he also wanted to brand himself on the back of her retinas, forcing her to see him when she shut her eyes, like looking into a camera flash.

As she came, she thought she saw a glimmer of moisture in his eyes, but then he smiled and it was gone. As he joined in with his own climax, she clutched hold of him, knowing it would be the last time, feeling the knowledge deep inside her, almost unbearable, wishing she could freeze time and make the moment last forever.

Chapter Fourteen

Afterward, it was time for him to get ready for work. He showered, then she went into the bathroom while he got dressed. When she came out, he was standing by the window, staring out at the heavy tropical rain that had started to fall, pooling on the deck. She studied him for a moment without moving. He’d pulled on jeans but had yet to don a T-shirt, and her gaze lingered on his muscles and the beautiful curling tattoo, and she smiled as she thought about how she’d traced it with her tongue.

Then she thought about the fact that she had merely minutes left with him. Four whole days and nights they’d shared, and now they were over. For a moment, she was tempted to ask whether he’d like to meet up after he finished work the next day—the night before she flew back. But they’d agreed on the timeline—he’d mentioned the four days right from the beginning, and she didn’t want to plead for extra time.

He turned and looked over at her, but she didn’t say anything. Her throat tightened, but she was determined not to make a fuss. She made herself think of Ella, of the look on his face when he’d spoken to her on the phone that day, impatient, irritated. She didn’t want him to look like that because of her.

She smiled, and he smiled back, well mannered as strangers. She slipped on her skirt and top as he found a shirt, and went back into the bathroom to gather her few items, bringing them out and stuffing them in her bag. She brushed her hair rapidly and caught it up with a clip. Her heart was pounding, and she felt suddenly sick.

He cleared his throat. “Do you want a cup of something before you go?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” She couldn’t have forced any food or drink past her lips.

“Okay.” He pulled on socks and shoes. She finished packing her bag. They completed the tasks in silence.

When they were both ready, he locked the doors to the decking. Then it was time to go.

Merle’s stomach churned, but she kept the emotion from her face. She would
not
let him see her cry. She would not be one of the women he talked about to his mates, who always asked too much of him, who weren’t happy with just sex. She wanted him to have fond memories of her. To think of her, maybe every little while, with a smile.

She walked out to the car, leaving him to lock the front door, and climbed in, her heart pounding. He joined her and started the car, heading it up the drive, past the orange trees. She had to use all her inner strength not to turn around and look longingly back at the house, at the beautiful pool she would never see again.

They drove in silence to Bree’s house and pulled into the drive. He put the car into park but left the engine running. She got the message. He didn’t want to wait and draw out the goodbye.

She turned to face him, her heart thumping. She made herself smile, her eyes warm. “Have a good day.”

He nodded. His fingers tapped on the wheel. “You too.”

She bit her lip. Wasn’t he going to say anything? “We had a good time, didn’t we?”

For the first time he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Yes. We did.”

“Thank you for a great four days, Neon. I’ve had such fun.”

“Me too.”

“Thanks for letting me stay at your house. Although I guess it was like showing a captured spy the plans for an invasion, knowing they’re going to be shot the next day.”