Freya North 3-Book Collection: Love Rules, Home Truths, Pillow Talk. Freya North

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СКАЧАТЬ want you to.’

      ‘I don’t care what you want!’ Alice declares, suddenly absolutely sure of what she wants. ‘I can’t and I don’t want to and I’m not going to do it. All right?’

      Cautiously, she turns away, tears of fear, humiliation and relief catching in her throat. She’s shuffling away gingerly; hating herself, hating Paul and his stupid motivational speak, hating herself for wanting to impress him, hating herself for being too weak to. Face her fears? Why the hell should she do that? Just so she can impress some brawny Australian tour guide? Perhaps owning up to one’s fears, admitting to one’s limitations, is a strength, not a weakness anyway. She’s afraid of heights, everybody. Compris? She’s happy to be afraid of heights. She loves her vertigo, OK?

      ‘Don’t give up, Alice,’ Paul has come after her again, ‘you’re made of stronger stuff than that.’

      Alice turns and regards his beautiful, tanned face. ‘Will you just fuck off!’ she growls. ‘Just leave me alone.’

      She takes refuge by a crop of pine trees nowhere near Anita. It is quiet and the air is warm and fragrant. Her back is turned towards the aqueduct. If she’s so relieved not to be walking the Pont du Gard, why does she feel so wretched?

      Flamingos look peculiar when they fly; crooked and too rigid to be aerodynamic, surely. In fact, until Alice had seen them fly, she had assumed the birds to be flightless. Like emus and boobies and dodos. She’d always thought of flamingos as comedy birds with their clonking great beaks, one-legged stance and synthetic colouring. Actually, she hadn’t thought about them much at all, until just then, sitting on her own by a Camargue lagoon just outside the hotel’s perimeter; the glasswort and tamarisk of the whispering marshland providing a protective screen behind which she could indulge in her bruised mood. Flamingos flew purposefully overhead, animating a dusk sky streaked with a colour identical to their plumage.

      ‘Artemia.’

      It was Paul’s voice and she felt his breath on the back of her neck. He sat down behind her. She hugged her knees close to her chest while he stretched his tanned, shapely legs either side of her.

      ‘Artemia,’ he said again, ‘they’re flamingos’ favourite snack – a mollusc that gives them their awesome colour. Do those birds look like crazy fuckers or what!’

      I think I’m on the verge of being a crazy fucker quite literally, Alice remarked to herself, though the balance just then tipped a little more towards foreboding than excitement. But her gaze was drawn magnetically to the athletic splendour of Paul’s legs and her stomach somersaulted as she recalled the sensation of his grope through her jeans to her bottom and beyond. In an instant, she theorized that she was miles from home, no one need know, and it wouldn’t mean anything anyway. The notion of sex with this man shot her adrenal glands into overdrive and her scales of morality and reason tipped suddenly again. Caution and misgivings were now outweighed by pure and reckless desire. Rapidly, she justified that a rampant one-night stand with this stereotypical sex god might even be a rather good thing, a necessary elixir. Mightn’t it restore the self-confidence she’d lost over recent months? Couldn’t it redress the sexual imbalance that had gone untended at home? Wouldn’t it put the spring back in her step? She’d be a nicer person for it. Absolutely everyone would benefit.

      So Alice turned a blind eye to Mark smiling sweetly in her mind’s eye and replaced it instead with an image of him in Marbella, with his sunburnt forehead and his legs paler and half the size of Paul’s. She glanced down again at Paul’s legs, regarded his hands with their shapely fingers, his bangle of Mexican silver, the provenance of which most probably involved some daring adventure or other.

      Alice turned deaf ears to the clangorous warning bells. Her memory failed her when it came to her marriage vows. Instead, she leant back against Paul and while he gabbled on about molluscs and tamarisk or whatever, she wondered just when they would fuck.

      Not that night, it transpired, though their verbal foreplay had been such that if Paul had suggested a shag in the corner of the bar Alice would have complied. Instead, people and particulars provided obstacles. Alice was sure if she’d told Jeanette and Jacquie that she wanted to bed Paul and could they please leave, they’d have done so. But there was absolutely no way she was going to tell a soul. And so Jeanette and Jacquie flirted with Paul themselves, apparently oblivious to the frisson reverberating between him and Alice. Furthermore, the bar was full of her colleagues and his; the pair of them could hardly leave without being noticed. And where would they go anyway? Back to Alice’s chalet where no doubt Anita was saying her prayers and Rochelle was text-messaging her bloody horse? Or back to his which he shared with the weirdy-beardy Belgian psychologist who’d have a field day analysing their ravenous coupling? Instead, they had to settle for eye contact of burning intensity, sign language of moistened parted lips, secret signs of fingers touching fleetingly as beer bottles were reached for. Their gaze lingered for dangerous but thrilling seconds. They synchronized their trips to the toilet so that they could brush past each other. Alice stared at herself in the mirror after one such rendezvous, looked hard at her reflection. She glowed. The proximity, the inevitability, of sex with Paul was intoxicating, made all the more so by the hassles and logistics blocking their way.

      Alice strolls back to her cabin, alternately whistling and humming, a comely but conscious wiggle to her walk. She looks over her shoulder once or twice to see if Paul is following. He isn’t. It’s simultaneously frustrating yet thrilling. She is drunk on this cocktail of anticipation and desire. She closes the door to her cabin after a long loiter and a last look down the path for Paul. The bedroom lights are off and she tiptoes around, giggling to herself. She tries to locate her mobile phone, fumbling around her possessions in the dark. She finds it and gets into bed, switching it on under the pillow so as not to waken Anita or Rochelle. Two text messages flash up. She replies to Mark’s with a brief goodnight. She opens Thea’s.

       omigod! acceptd offer on my flat!!!! u ok???? Txxxxxx

      Alice sends one back replete with congratulations and kisses. Then she lies in the dark and tunes into how high she feels. She and Thea were often at their happiest at the same times. Thank God, though, that their crises never collided.

      Good for Thea. Moving on. It’s the right time. She’s found her Mr Perfect – someone she can both be madly in love with and deeply lust for and Saul feels the same.

      Alice’s phone vibrates through another text. It’s Thea.

       thanx! am taping ER 4 u … !! xxxx

      Shall I creep out and phone her? How can I text across all that’s happening? But God I’d love to share the thrill of it all with her.

      Another text message buzzes its arrival. Thea again.

       howz u? bored of brie & team-bonding bollox? don’t despair – home v soon!!

      It struck Alice like a bolt of lead. The next day was the last.

       And we’re off to some bloody cathedral. It’s now not only a case of when I’ll screw Paul, but where?

       Les Baux

      ‘I can think of better ways of spending my last day than traipsing around some stuffy old cathedral,’ Alice murmured to Paul, consciously perking out her breasts and licking her lips lasciviously as she brushed against him on leaving breakfast.

      ‘Get on the coach, wench,’ he all but growled, hooking his finger in the back of her skirt СКАЧАТЬ