Serena touched his shoulder gently. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
He laughed, dipping his chin. ‘We argue all the time. And she spends like crazy. Half a million dollars on couture. Two million at JAR. I’m a generous guy but I don’t like to feel exploited.’
‘So are you leaving her?’
‘It’s been talked about.’ He stopped and bent his head to smell the magnolia blossom in Serena’s hair, gently stroking a strand from her face.
‘Relationships take a long time to end after they are over,’ he said softly.
Serena suddenly moved away from him, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that having Michael so close brought on. She walked a little way down the terrace and sat on one of the day beds by the pool, making invisible swirls on the terracotta tiles with her toes.
As Michael moved next to her, a uniformed steward appeared from under the thatched casita and gave them two flutes of Krug before disappearing without a word.
‘How are things with Tom?’ asked Michael, sipping his drink.
Serena shook her head, long strands of blonde hair flicking over her shoulders. ‘I haven’t come here to talk about Tom.’
Michael put down his glass and slid across the white mattress, his right arm snaking around Serena’s waist.
She gasped softly, unsure of taking the next step, but wanting more of his touch.
‘You know why I’m here?’ he whispered into her ear.
She turned to face him. ‘Yes,’ she breathed, letting him push her down. Sinking back onto the bed, she let Michael caress her neck, lips and stomach, her pubic muscles tightening suddenly as he lifted the tiny cashmere top up over her head in one swift movement.
She was lying on her back now, naked except for her hot pants. Michael took her half-full flute of champagne and poured it over her breasts, his mouth descending to lick the glistening liquid off each rose-coloured nipple. She gasped as his tongue lapped, his teasing getting harder and harder. Taking the signal, his lips brushed down her flat stomach while her hands unzipped and scooped off the hot pants. For a moment, Michael lifted his head to inspect her body. They locked eyes, both blazing with desire as Michael quickly removed his clothes. Naked now, he moved between her legs, parting her thighs with firm hands, his tongue snaking down, swirling across her narrow strip of pubic hair before delving deep inside her. Serena let out a long moan. ‘Oh yes, don’t stop.’
Just as she was about to buckle with pleasure, his mouth returned to her nipples while he held his rock-hard cock in his hand and gently but insistently circled her clitoris. Suddenly he pulled back, flipped her over and, pushing her buttocks up into the air, he entered her from behind. His hands scooped under her, his fingers teasing her clitoris as he pumped his thick cock into her. Serena groaned and panted in pure ecstasy as waves of pleasure washed over her, finally collapsing on the white mattress.
They turned to face each other, Michael wiping the beads of sweat off Serena’s face. She lay back, breathing deeply, letting the warm night breeze blow over her naked body and releasing a huge sigh of pleasure as she realized she’d just had the best sex of her life.
Even though it was February, the English countryside could not have looked more lovely. Cate had her foot to the floor of her silver Mini Cooper, Stevie Wonder blaring from the CD player as she sailed through the heart of Dorset, taking her eyes off the road occasionally to admire the view. Past ringing church steeples and old ladies scurrying to worship, past green-black hedgerows and ochre fields made all the more vivid by the sharp winter sun. It was a perfect morning for a drive, she thought, turning a corner and finally glimpsing a line of silver shimmering on the horizon – the sea. If only she wasn’t in such a lousy mood. The drive might be nice, but the last thing she wanted to do on a Sunday morning was come two hundred miles out of London on a mercy mission. But Cate, as always, was concerned for Serena. She couldn’t believe she’d gone swanning off to Michael’s compound in Mustique, despite Cate’s pleas to think it through. Serena had always been an impulsive and bloody-minded child and, as an adult, she was just the same. Yet, despite her gung-ho screw-Tom attitude, Cate knew that, underneath, Serena was hurting – and she hated to see her sisters suffer. The only way to avoid a no-good rebound relationship between Serena and that slime-ball playboy Michael was to track Tom down and convince him to give their relationship another go. Cate wound down the window, a blast of salty coastal air lifting her mood, and squeezed her foot down on the pedal even harder.
Petersham House hovered into view on a broad bluff, a low-rise stone building with two plump gable ends and a chimney billowing smoke. It belonged to Dorothy Whetton, the aging sister of Tom’s agent, who lived in Fulham and let the house out in the summer. Tom had his own Cotswold house – a sprawling manor he had bought the previous summer – but it was currently minus a heating system and undergoing major architectural surgery. So Dotty Dorothy had come to the rescue and given Tom the keys to this cute bolt-hole, along with the assurance that his residence at Petersham House would remain a secret from the hungry paparazzi.
‘Ooh, very Wuthering Heights,’ said Cate, as Tom opened the door in jeans and a frayed T-shirt, his bare feet on the black slate floor.
‘What, me or the house?’ replied Tom, chomping on a piece of toast.
She stepped inside and a warm smokiness embraced her.
‘Hope you’ve not had brunch,’ said Tom, licking butter from his fingers. ‘You’re just in time for a fry-up.’
Cate followed him across the flagstone hall into a small wooden kitchen where a tin kettle was whistling on top of an Aga.
‘Brunch? Better make that lunch,’ said Cate, checking her watch. Tom shrugged with a grin and began turning a pan of sizzling sausages. ‘Bit of a surprise this, Cate,’ he said, throwing some bacon and sliced tomatoes into a copper-bottomed pan. ‘Got the shock of my life when you called last night. Thought I’d be persona non grata and all that.’
She took a proffered cup of tea and wrapped her fingers around the mug. ‘Yes, it’s a long way to come, I know,’ she said hesitantly, unsure how to bring up the subject of Serena. ‘Fabulous place, though. Does anyone know you’re here?’
Tom shook his head happily. ‘There’s about ten paparazzi stationed outside my place in Gloucestershire, even one in a helicopter circling over the house, but the only gawking you get around here is from the seagulls. Bless Dorothy Whetton. She’s even stocked the kitchen up for about a month, so I don’t need to leave the house too often. After those pictures of me leaping off Roman’s damn boat and that barmaid in my local pub with her mad fantasies about an affair, I think I need to keep a fairly low profile.’
Cate noticed that his cheeks were flushing slightly. ‘So the barmaid was lying?’ she probed, thinking back to the tabloid kiss-and-tell.
‘Yes. It was a lie,’ Tom repeated softly, deliberately. ‘Anyway,’ he continued more happily, ‘I’m definitely enjoying the splendid isolation.’ He pointed to an untidy heap of paper and a titanium laptop sitting on the kitchen counter –
‘I’m writing a script about Donald Campbell – you know, the nineteen-fifties land-speed record guy? I’m really excited about it: it’s one of those stories that’s got the lot. Cars, romance, tragedy, handsome men in flying goggles.’
‘Sounds great. I’m sold,’ smiled Cate, pleased to see his boyish enthusiasm returning.
‘If it gets the green light I wouldn’t mind playing Campbell myself.’
‘The handsome man in the flying goggles?’
They