The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson

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       Chapter Three

      Sliding an arm out from under the duvet, Fleur reached for her watch. Eight-thirty. Corban had left an hour ago. She’d smiled as he’d kissed her goodbye, her eyelids fluttering open briefly before she’d tumbled back into dreamland. She’d hoped to have a leisurely breakfast à deux this morning, with freshly juiced oranges and croissants on the deck, but Corban had had other plans. He’d scheduled an early meeting with the director of The O’Hara Affair.

      As she set her watch back on the bedside table, Fleur’s eyes fell on the flamboyant gypsy threads that she’d discarded the previous night with Corban’s help. Undressing her – or watching her undress – was one of Corban’s peccadilloes, and because it made him happy, she was glad to oblige. Fleur indulged her lovers – to a point. Once they showed signs of complacency, or became overfamiliar, she showed her displeasure. By saying ‘no’, by being unavailable, by being a little less free with her favours, she kept her men on their toes. It was a highly skilled game, and one at which she was very good.

      Or had been, until she met Corban. Corban was proving a lot less malleable than the lovers she’d had to date – all of whom had been considerably younger than she. Río had used to joke about Fleur’s penchant for toyboys, declaring that her love life would make a great biopic. But since Corban had taken centre stage, she wasn’t sure whether the story of her life was a rom com or a melodrama. Aspects of it fitted both categories, she supposed, but whichever genre it belonged to, it was certainly X-rated.

      Sinking back against her pile of goosedown pillows, Fleur allowed her mind to meander back to the first time she and Corban had met, six months ago. It could make a stand-out scene in a movie…

      INT. UPMARKET HOTEL.

      BALLROOM. NIGHT.

      A charity ball in Dublin. The theme: the Tudors. The ballroom billowing with society dames dolled up as Elizabeth, bejewelled frocks and coppery-coloured curls everywhere. The men all emulating Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Henry (or trying to); everyone in masks.

      Fleur had struck lucky with her frock. Joan Bergin, the costume designer of the Tudors TV series was a friend, and Joan had wangled a divine outfit for Fleur. It included an elaborate wig, a gold mask, and a magnificent gown, the bodice of which was embroidered with droplets of lapis lazuli and tiny seed pearls. The mask, too, was trimmed with pearls. It concealed most of Fleur’s face, but stopped short at the jaw line, leaving mouth and chin exposed. Exposed, too, was most of her bosom: her breasts pushed so high by the boned corset that she felt practically naked. The effect was one of rather sexy regality, of come-on combined with ‘look, but don’t touch’. The get-up, however, was bloody uncomfortable, and after a couple of hours of small talk in the crowded ballroom (during which much champagne was poured by overzealous waiters, and baroque music was played to deaf ears), Fleur yearned to escape.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen—’

      Oh, no! The speeches were about to begin. She had to get out of there. Murmuring excuses, she threaded her way through the throng of Walter Raleighs and Mary Stuarts, troubadours and serving wenches.

      French windows took her onto a terrace. Here it was balmy, the air sweet with night-scented stock. The sound of the string quartet came faintly, and she could hear a fountain splashing at the far end. As she moved towards it, the silk lining of her underskirt moved against Fleur’s legs like a caress. She longed to dance, but because no one was versed in the arcane steps of the gavotte, no one was dancing this evening; and now everyone would be sitting listening to speeches for the next hour.

      Dipping a hand into the bubbling water, Fleur laid the palm first on her forehead, then her breasts. The coolness was so sensual that it made her want to slip off her shoes, gather up her skirts and get wet, like Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita. As she went to lean over the pool again, she became aware of a man lounging against a pillar, watching her. He was unmasked. A predatory half-smile curved his mouth, and he was eyeing her cleavage as if he wanted to dive straight in.

      The insolence! Fleur dismissed him with a toss of her head and a curl of her lip; but her hauteur was wasted. He responded with a low laugh, peeled himself away from the pillar and sauntered towards her. The next thing she knew, her arms were pinioned and she was being kissed more forcefully than she’d ever been kissed in her life.

      Her initial impulse was to pull away, but the greater her resistance, the more insistent the kiss, until Fleur’s champagne-muzzy mind thought Pourquoi pas? Who cares? His kiss was so expert, so masterful, so goddamned sexy, that it would have been too selfless an act not to kiss him back. As he pulled her harder against him she was aware of his erection, aware of the subtle scent of spice, the subtler one of sweat, aware of his breath on her cheek as he released her mouth and trailed a kiss along the line of her jaw.

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