I pull my keys from my bag, surprised at how steady my fingers are, and unlock the front door. I step inside and turn to shake the umbrella out, keeping my eyes fixed on it and not his approaching form.
‘It’s a nice garden you have here.’
I don’t respond, just thrust the umbrella into the tall pewter vase beside the door and fight the ridiculous urge to laugh. Small talk? Really?
I keep my mouth clamped shut, untie my coat, which is a flourish of colour in the otherwise stark hallway, and hang it on the concrete coat stand Nathan paid an exorbitant amount for a few years back.
Valentine steps in and I shift away, tossing my bag on the concrete console table created by the same artist as the coat stand and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above. My heart jumps. I look alive, vibrant, my eyes glittering, my skin pink... I’m as incongruous as my coat. I falter a little, shake off the shock and keep moving, straight for the gleaming white kitchen and the wine cooler. I pull out a bottle, not caring which.
‘Can I get you one?’ I take a glass out of the cupboard and let my eyes drift to him as he walks in behind me. He looks awkward, young, so out of place. His golden skin, brilliant blue eyes and cobalt suit, all colour against the pale backdrop, and I have the intense desire to jump his bones on my pristine centre island.
I’m losing my mind, quite clearly.
I lift my brows to prompt an answer and catch the way he eyes the bottle in my hand. ‘What—too early for you?’
I check the wrought-iron clock that Nathan insisted we purchase even though it dominates the pillar that separates the kitchen from the dining space and the hard-landscaped garden beyond and take in the time. It’s long past noon, long past acceptable drinking time.
‘I’m good, thank you.’
‘Suit yourself.’
I pour a large glass, throw back a gulp and stare out at the garden and the rain creating ripples in the long, narrow pool that runs down its middle. I must have forgotten to put the cover across after this morning’s swim. But now I appreciate it, the sight of the rain causing a dance of vanishing circles that mirror the uneasy ripples inside.
I fear what he has to say, but I know I have to listen. That for the good of my company, the charity, I have to.
I flick him a look. He’s unmoving and soaked through; the hair that was so groomed in the boardroom has taken on a foppish edge, the shoulders of his blue suit dark where the rain has seeped in. It makes him appear less...less perfect, less in control.
More young. More vulnerable. More palatable...
I throw back more wine.
That’s palatable! Not a man half your age. A young, rain-abused and wickedly handsome PR guru sent to whip you into bloody shape!
A cocktail of anger and guilt fizzes in my veins. But it’s the guilt that’s winning out. Guilt that I desire him. Guilt that he’s in my marital home at my invitation. Guilt at his drowned rat state. Guilt that I’m drinking when he’s not. Guilt that I haven’t offered him an alternative drink when the well-trained hostess in me says that I should. Hell, even Nathan would turn in his grave.
Nathan. Nathan. Nathan.
Why do I still feel like he’s in the room with me, judging me, advising me?
More wine. Another breath. And why the hell isn’t Valentine speaking...?
‘You want to get started?’ I bite out. ‘I assume you’re a busy man and, believe me, there are plenty of things I’d rather be doing.’
Things I’d rather be doing...like him.
Jesus.
Why can’t I control this—my own mind, my own urges?
I’ve been set free. I should be able to live how I want. Instead, I can’t even get a handle on my emotions. They’ve never been further out of my control. And this desire to lose myself in something crazy, something wild and daring and all-consuming, it’s getting worse. Because Valentine...he represents all those juicy things.
I force myself to face him. The sooner we get this done, the sooner he leaves without me succumbing to the other ideas coming alive, ideas which start with me defiling him right here, right now.
‘Well?’ I prompt and he starts, waking up from some stupor that has me keen to work out where his head has been. Was it keeping mine company in the gutter? The thought tickles me, teasing at my lips, which aren’t so keen to form a straight line any more.
‘Okay.’ He rakes a hand through his wet hair, rubs his other down his face before shoving both hands deep inside his trouser pockets. I don’t want to notice how the move encourages his jacket to open up, his unveiled shirt to cling to his obviously trim torso, or the way he bites down on his lip as he contemplates what to say...
And I shouldn’t want him, not now. Not now I know who he is and in the cold light of day can see just how young he is.
So young, so fit, so virile... My mouth dries against the Chardonnay as my imagination runs wild, fending off my better judgement, which seems to intervene less and less these days.
‘Firstly, I am sorry.’ The sincerity in his tone draws my eyes to his and I can see it. In the intensity of his gaze, the way his brows furrow and his eyes widen. ‘The night we met, my intention was to see it for myself, that the rumour wasn’t merely malicious gossip aimed to discredit you.’
I scoff into my glass as I raise it to my lips. ‘You make it sound like I have a horde of enemies waiting in the wings to take me down. I’m not a celebrity, royalty, a politician, anyone of consequence—what does it matter what I do?’
‘The board believes it
