Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
Чтение книги онлайн.

Читать онлайн книгу Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin - Tasmina Perry страница 35

СКАЧАТЬ spent at the polo in Argentina, at the racing in Dubai or sailing in the Grenadines. On top of that, Nat had spent many more weekends with his friends partying around the jet-set circuit while Camilla was preparing for an important case on the Monday morning.

      She watched him as he checked them in at the airport desk. She had to admit she’d had some fabulous times with him, but lately the hedonistic streak had been troubling her. She certainly hadn’t liked the profile of him in last month’s Tatler, which had labelled him as the English arm of the Eurotrash. But as he led her towards the executive lounge, she reminded herself that this was his birthday surprise and she tried to push any uncharitable thoughts to the back of her mind.

      They arrived in Geneva at six p.m. A black four-by-four was waiting to drive them the seventy kilometres to the village. As they wound higher and higher into the mountains, they watched the architecture change from charmless concrete blocks to wooden chalets, with long icicles dripping from their eaves. As they turned into Megève, its quaint streets smudged with snow, Camilla pressed her nose against the window to watch the skiers in their bulky padded suits head to cafés for vin chaud and fondue after a hard day on the slopes.

      Their driver turned off the main route, just before the village centre became pedestrianized, and drove up a small road that took them sharply up the mountain, stopping a few hundred metres above the village at a beautiful chalet. Its front was guarded by a thick row of hedges where clumps of snow hung in the branches like giant frozen magnolia buds, while a thousand fairy lights dripped off its carved balcony.

      ‘We’ve arrived,’ said Nat happily, while he waited for the driver to open the car door.

      ‘This is so lovely,’ said Camilla. An old, flustered-looking woman in a grey apron came out of the chalet, a glow of golden light escaping behind her.

      ‘Bonsoir, bonsoir!’ she called, removing her apron to greet them. Nat ignored her welcome, instead motioning towards the car boot, watching impatiently as the woman struggled in with their three large cases and Nat’s set of skis.

      ‘Merci,’ smiled Camilla awkwardly, flashing an embarrassed look at Nat as he pulled her inside the chalet.

      ‘Wow, Nat,’ sighed Camilla, pulling off her parka and taking in the chalet’s interior. It really was exquisite. Like a Hollywood fantasy of a ski-lodge, it was filled with wide brown sofas and fur rugs, leather cushions and cashmere throws. Chocolate-brown velvet drapes hung at the windows, scented candles lined the windowsills, a stag’s head hung above a stone fireplace complete with crackling fire. There was a sauna, a heated boot-rack, and a games room with a gigantic plasma screen. Even Camilla was impressed.

      ‘Come and see this,’ said Nat, leading her to the back of the chalet where doors opened out onto a patio, a black mosaic Jacuzzi already steaming and bubbling.

      ‘What’s that?’ laughed Camilla, feeling chilly at the thought of it.

      ‘For later,’ said Nat with a lazy smile.

      All thoughts of work and the case files sitting on her desk at home had dissolved.

      ‘Want to get ready for dinner?’ asked Nat, pointing in the direction of the staircase. ‘I’ll join you in a sec.’

      She nodded and went upstairs into the bedroom. It had an incredible view of the whole of Megève village, which twinkled in front of her in the blue-grey light, while the mountain made shadowy, ominous shapes behind it. It was all so wonderful, yet still Camilla felt unaccountably on edge.

      Relax, woman. Enjoy yourself, she scolded herself. This is wonderful. Can’t you let yourself be happy?

      She sat down on the edge of the bed and went over it in her mind once again. At least once a week for the past few months, Camilla had been asking herself what she was really doing with Nat. Conscientious, cautious Camilla Balcon and rakish, man-about-town Nat Montague. It just didn’t add up. Being far too busy working through her twenties, she had only had two real boyfriends before Nat: Jeremy Davies and Crispin Hamilton. Both Jeremy and Crispin had been barristers – dry, hard-working, more interested in their caseloads than in Camilla. So when she had met Nat at the Serpentine summer party, he’d been like a firework going off in her hand. The sex was incredible. Lovemaking with Jeremy and Crispin had been like watching paint dry compared to the passion that Nat had unleashed in her. She had never had a single orgasm before she’d met him – now she knew precisely what all the fuss was about. Then there were the exotic holidays, the mad parties and the extravagant gestures that made her feel wanted and loved. But somehow, Nat just didn’t make her feel … oh! She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

      Swearing to herself, she unzipped her leather holdall, wondering what on earth Nat had packed for her. She pulled the clothes out quickly, holding each item aloft like a child rummaging through a goody bag. Two sets of her most sexy sheer underwear: you could tell a man had packed this, she smiled. Her ski suit, some socks, a couple of thick cashmere jumpers, her favourite black backless Dior cocktail dress, some five-inch satin heels and – what was this? she wondered, pulling out a tiny pair of black mesh crotchless panties. She didn’t recognize those.

      After she had taken a quick shower, she pulled on her cocktail dress and blow-dried her hair until it fell in a golden sheath onto her shoulders. Not usually one to wear much make-up, she rubbed some rouge tint onto her cheeks and dabbed some peach gloss onto her full lips. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she worried that she looked too formal for just a dinner in a chalet, even if it was her birthday. Her concern was interrupted by the sound of the housekeeper’s old Peugeot 205 gunning to life and then fading away into the distance.

      ‘All alone at last,’ called Nat from the bottom of the stairs. She came down to meet him; he handed her a glass of Chateau Margaux and led her to the table by the long windows. It was set for two people with crystal glasses, linen napkins and white bone-china crockery, all shining in the saffron glow of candlelight.

      ‘I never knew you could be so romantic,’ said Camilla, only half joking, as she sat down. Their previous romantic nights had often been interrupted by at least six of Nat’s society friends turning up ‘unexpectedly’.

      ‘I aim to please,’ said Nat, going into the kitchen to fetch a casserole pot and two dishes of steaming vegetables.

      ‘I feel like a bloody waiter,’ he grumbled as he placed the food on the table, pushing away a lock of brown hair that had flopped over his face. ‘Still, I didn’t want that housekeeper hanging around too long,’ he said, pulling a bottle of Krug from out of a snow-filled ice bucket. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

      They sat for a few minutes, eating in silence. ‘I love the pot-au-feu,’ said Camilla, scooping up some of the rich stew with a forkful of buttered carrots.

      ‘And I love you,’ said Nat quietly, his head bowed slightly over his glass.

      Camilla’s fork froze in midair. In their eighteen months together, Nat had never once said ‘I love you’. He’d skirted round the words, usually when drunk and, if she was totally honest with herself, it had never been an issue. Camilla hated the sort of women who constantly sought reassurance with declarations of love from their partners. She herself had never wanted to appear so weak, dependent or desperate.

      She took a small breath, taken aback by his words. ‘You love me?’ she repeated, as if it was some kind of alien concept. She was smiling now, almost mocking him, but Nat ploughed on with uncharacteristic fervour.

      ‘You’re so good for me,’ he said, putting down his knife and fork СКАЧАТЬ