The Seduction of Suzanne Page 8

  She followed him as they walked single file, the narrow track grassed over in places, leading to a scramble upwards and then a sharp descent back towards the stream. It had obviously never been planned, but simply created by the passage of feet.

  It took less than ten minutes for them to reach their destination. Suzanne felt warm from exertion, and also from watching Justin move. All that tanned skin, with muscles rippling smoothly underneath. Again she wondered somewhat acidly whether he was aware of his allure and using it deliberately. If so, it was working. She really had no defences against it. He took her breath away.

  As she had expected, the highest pool was empty, although the sounds of the children downstream could still be faintly heard. Simultaneously they both bent to untie their bootlaces. He was done before her, slipping off his pack and easing carefully into the water. When his shoulders were under he turned, and she felt the heat of his gaze as she hesitantly untied her towel, and turned to drop it on top of her bag. She followed him into the water, her eyes on her toes beneath the ripples. He watched her as she came toward him, before veering to one side to find her own spot midway between the cold of the waterfall and the heat of the thermal spring.

  She waited, tense and unsure what to expect, but he made no move towards her. Instead he settled himself, sitting against the edge of the pool and closing his eyes with pleasure. “Mmm, blissful.” He looked the picture of unconcerned relaxation, with his head tilted back onto a convenient patch of moss, his eyes shut and a slight smile on his face.

  She took the opportunity to stare at him, a blonde river god lurking in her pool. A sleeping satyr. She could feel faint water currents rising up her legs, stroking her inner thighs with delicate fingers, cool then warm. She imagined gliding through the water to him, putting a hand on his hard body, feeling those rippling muscles under her fingers. She remembered the feeling of his hand on her upper arm, clasping her tightly. Would he pull her to him? Would her nipples – drawn tight now, little buds pressing against the fabric of her swimsuit – be pressed up against his pectorals? He had been so solid when he kissed her yesterday, like a brick wall with clothes on. But he barely had clothes on now. What would his naked skin be like, lubricated by the water between them. Silk over steel?

  His eyes remained closed, his breathing even. He could almost have been asleep.

  The waterfall splashed unconcernedly, and wisping tendrils of steam curled across the surface to rise and disappear in the still air, cool under the tree canopy. Occasionally a mosquito hovered across the surface before skidding away, bereft of a target.

  She stood there, winding herself tighter and tighter in a spiral of desire. She must stop thinking like this. It was making her crazy. She could almost see herself doing those wicked things to him, pulling the elastic of his waistband out of the way so she could slide a hand under it and wrap it around his. . . erection. Yes, he would be erect. How would it compare to. . .

  Gavin’s. Gavin was the only man she had ever touched like that. And him not really. A tentative, questioning fumble amidst drunken kisses. She not really thinking clearly. Not realising he would read it as an invitation.

  The memory was like a bucket of cold water, dousing her desire in an instant.

  She moved farther away from Justin, to the cool of the water’s edge, hesitated for a moment then climbed out and walked away. The stone underfoot was not as chill as her heart, leaden within her chest.

  The sickening memories slid through her head swiftly – Gavin laughing, looking gorgeous by the light of the campfire on the beach; Gavin sharing his drinks with her until she was fuzzy-headed and giggling; Gavin taking her by the hand and leading her into the darkness; Making out with Gavin and getting turned on, not stopping him as he touched her everywhere, touching him back and giggling, heady with her own feminine power; Gavin pulling her bikini bottoms to one side and surprising her with penetration, painful because it was her first time; Gavin soothing her with kisses when she cried, drunk, ashamed and confused about whether she’d extended the invitation he’d presumed; Gavin pulling her up close to him and letting her fall asleep on his chest; waking up hours later alone, naked under a towel; returning to the campfire to find him sharing with his friends the pornographic photos he’d taken of her naked body while she slept, his phone lit up against the darkness so she’d seen it all over his shoulder as she approached unnoticed; the boys ashamed faces, their uneasy laughter when they finally saw her standing there, shattered and shuddering with horror.

  She had turned away, stumbled off into the darkness, towel wrapped around her, tripped over Anita making out with someone in the sand. When Suzanne sobbed out a garbled version of events on to her interrupted friend’s shoulder, Anita wanted to tear a strip off Gavin. But all Suzanne wanted to do was run and hide.

  Hide away forever, from the shame of her own stupidity.

  Now those images stood like an icy wall around her. A wall of regret and fear. A wall of distrust. She was locked in with her anguish. Alone and so achingly lonely. And on the other side was Justin, all light and warmth and welcome. He had no idea of her maimed spirit, the break in her, the interrupt between the woman she might have become, and the one she was.

  Looking at it dispassionately, it was ridiculous to shape her life around one drunken teenage encounter. But it was impossible to separate out the strands of herself that were wrapped around that event, resonating still with the thrum of pain and fear.

  The teen years were an emotionally violent and turbulent time. That event had sent shockwaves through her assumptions. It had shaken the very bedrock of her innocent, trusting self. It had broken her faith in herself and in men as she was learning how to be an adult.

  What an awful lesson to learn about living.

  She wanted out of it. She wanted the wall down, the chains broken. But how could she fight a gutload of terror and instinct? She couldn’t do it without help, and Justin seemed – if she could rely on her fallible judgement – a man who might, all unknowing, bust her out through sheer inescapable magnetism. There was nothing, nothing like the powerful draw he held for her. It was like gravity. Resisting it became harder by the minute.

  If she could only let go, stop thinking, stop worrying.

  Trust was what it came down to.

  If she could just trust him.

  If he could be worthy of her trust.

  Could hold her steady in the midst of the blast site that was her interior landscape.

  She didn’t want him to know any of this. It was too shameful, and she couldn’t bear to be pitied by him.

  Suzanne looked back over her shoulder and saw he was watching her, alert and waiting. It made her shake to turn, walk slowly back to the pool, slide in with trembling steps that tried to look casual.

  Runawayrunawayrunaway pounded her heart, beating fast, a dull whooshing thud in her ears. She pasted on a smile, the water rising past her hips, her breasts, her collarbone. Crossing the short distance between them felt like a journey of a thousand steps, each of them wrong. She went on, laid her hand on his bare chest, felt his skin against her palm, his chest hair rougher than she had imagined.

  His hand came to cover hers, his other went to her waist, drawing her closer, pressing her to his side, lifting her up so she was almost looking down on him. She wanted him to pull her down into unthinking desire with that insanely intense touch of his, but he hesitated, waiting for. . . what? Waiting for her?

  Her other arm slid up around his shoulders, impossibly wide. He was leaning back on the rock face and she was draped nearly full length on him now. She felt the rise of his arousal press her thigh, but still he waited, his eyes intent on her face. He was so solemn, his smile absent. She raised a thumb tip to the corner of his mouth, pressed gently on the tiny indent where there was usually a curve. His lips parted for her, falling open over his even white teeth.

  She shuddered, terror, dread excitement and hope weighing on her like the weight of a mountain. And with a sigh of
defeat, of triumph, she bridged that last immense step and lowered her mouth to his, her eyes drifting closed.

  Fireworks went off against the blackness of her lids. Starbursts and exploding suns, as he sucked her tongue fiercely into his mouth and kissed her with all the intensity she could have wanted. His hands moulded her flesh, massaging her hips, smoothing up the long muscles of her back, positioning her more accurately so she could feel his immense erection between her parted thighs. And she kissed him back, with every ounce of hunger and desperation that was raging through her. Seven years of longings she had denied. Seven years of torment she had pretended didn’t exist. Seven years of isolation and loneliness unmasked.

  Her tears ran down her cheeks, his cheeks, falling into the water. His hand cupped a breast, a buttock, lifted a thigh to wrap it around his waist, pulling her closer still. Was she the only one shaking? It felt like he was shaking too, great tremors racking his frame, his hands urgent and hungry, but with a fine-tuned control holding him back from the edge of roughness.

  She was trying to break through, to lose herself, lose all thought and consciousness and be swamped with sensation. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do it. The wall was still there. Even as part of her ravened to be closer to him, to pull him inside her, down into the darkness of heated oblivion, yet another part was calling her away, terrified and appalled she was about to make the same fatal error again.

  She wanted to scream, torn in two. She forced that anguish down deep, closed a tight lid on it, and found she was standing apart from Justin, her hand splayed on his chest, five inches of water between them. Water that should have flash-boiled into steam.

  He was blowing like a racehorse, chest rising and falling beneath her hand. He looked ready to pounce on her and eat her alive. But he stayed still, all leashed power, once more waiting.

  And she turned away a second time, shoulders rounded in despair. Turned away from his too-perceptive eyes and the muscle that flexed in his jaw.

  She stared at the surface of the water, reflections scattered and reforming, scattered again by the falling water.

  He cleared his throat once, twice, then said in a deep voice gone husky: “Time for lunch I think,” wading out in great strides to sit on the rock by their packs, picking up a towel to lay it bunched in his lap. She looked, then looked away, wanting the right to touch him, go to him and wrap around that magnificent body, laugh and play and enjoy him.

  Not this. . .this. . . wasted ruin of a woman. . .

  Again she forced it down, boxed it up, pushed those black feelings back whence they had come.

  “Good idea,” she said, and marvelled as she heard the even alto tones of her own voice.

  He held out a filled roll. She stepped forward and took it, but he didn’t release it at her tug, but waited until she reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his. And he smiled at her softly, gently, with understanding that made her feel her heart would break in that fragile moment. He released the roll into her grasp and took out his own, peeling back the clingfilm and biting into it. She followed suit, but with the food in her mouth found it almost impossible to swallow.

  She didn’t want food. She wanted him. She wanted to cry. She wanted to throw the chicken roll at the rock face and watch it burst and fall in pieces.

  She took another tiny bite, and washed it down with a swig from the bottle of ginger beer he handed her, already opened.

  He said something ordinary. She replied. He led her into a surface-level conversation about what? Naturally heated springs he had visited. She barely paid attention. He just talked until slowly, by inches, she relaxed. Eventually she got back into the pool and watched the pads of her finger wrinkle up like prunes as he spoke idly, wandering from topic to topic. Mostly about travelling. He had a huge stock of stories, and he was a good story-teller. After a while she tuned in, laughing in the right places, nodding or asking questions. She felt the wistfulness she usually felt about travel descend, and knew he’d picked up the expression on her face when he said

  “You didn’t say much the other day about why you’re still on the island.”

  “I love it here,” she replied simply.

  “So you wouldn’t ever consider leaving?”

  She hesitated, thinking of her painting, her dreams of studying art overseas. But they had been put aside long since.

  “What has the world got to offer that I really need. I mean, really need?”

  “You don’t ever get stir-crazy? Bored with the sameness of life out on the outskirts of civilisation?”

  “Wasn’t it you who said that you felt more real and alive away from cities?” she asked challengingly.

  “I did. I do. Yet there are times when I crave the variety of experience which city life offers. It usually only takes a couple of months before I’ve had enough and want to be off again, but I can’t deny that the need exists. Plus which, there’s a great deal of difference between the hidden places of one country, and those of another. You’ve spent your life in one place.”

  “Okay. Yes, you’re right. And yes, I would love to go, just go. See the places I’ve only read about, the sights I’ve seen in pictures. And meet the people too. With lives so different from ours. But it’s not that simple. I’ve got a life here that works. It all fits together tidily. I’ve got work to keep me busy. It’s only when I’m idle I get bored, and luckily when I’m not working it’s usually summer and there are plenty of things to do.”

  “So you enjoy your work?”

  “Some days are better than others, but it pays the bills, and I like my pupils. What is it that you do?”

  “Apart from being a drifting layabout?” he asked with one eyebrow raised.

  “I’m sorry for saying that,” she said, contrite. “I shouldn’t have been so rude. It’s certainly not my right to judge your lifestyle.”

  “But you’re still thinking it, aren’t you?” he said with a gleam in his eyes.

  “Of course not, I-”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’d rather you…” he broke off.

  “Rather I what?”

  “Never mind,” he said a little curtly, and then changed the subject.

  Chapter Seven

  Justin drummed his fingers on the corner of the desk, waiting impatiently for the giant upload to complete. The internet speeds here moved at a snail’s pace. Finally the file was gone, and he video-called Annette, his PA in the States.

  “How’s everything holding up there?” he asked, as her face flashed up on his screen.

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully, scanning her screen and pushing a couple of buttons. Probably forwarding his file on to the programmers as they spoke. She was a whiz at multi-tasking, never wasting a second. He certainly got his money’s worth out of her salary.

  The company would probably sink without a trace if she ever jumped ship he thought ruefully. Or no, Graham – his partner and brother – would keep it afloat. But Graham would demand he be onboard to help steer it. Something he avoided as much as possible. Totally tedious.

  Her attention was clearly only half on him as she replied, “We’d prefer you were here of course, sir, but we’re getting by without you. Stephanie is having some distribution difficulties with the most recent offering, but I’m letting her sort it out by herself. I thought she’d benefit from more independence.”

  “I agree. Global Logistics needs a firm hand and if she can’t manage the department it’s better to know that now so she can be replaced.”

  “I don’t think it will come to that. She’s getting better at laying down the law. Just needs a touch more gumption to go with that first class brain.”

  Only Annette could make a word like ‘gumption’ sound natural in a modern world. Justin hid a smile as he considered his PA’s towering mountain of gumption.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve found time to get started on the Speedway project. Michael’s been slavering for it.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that. I’ve been a bit distra
cted lately.” A vision of sparkling brown eyes and a heart-breaking smile rose before him. Then he thought of mile-long legs wrapped around his waist and shifted in his chair, his shorts growing tight. She had him as horny as a teenager, and about as capable of focusing on work.

  “Yes, sir,” Annette agreed blandly. He chortled at her deadpan delivery, raised his hands in mock surrender and said:

  “Alright, alright. A lot distracted. I’ve got a personal project I’m working on here.”

  “Anything I should know about? One of your worthy causes? Do you want some publicity?”

  “No, nothing like that. And I’d prefer you keep my whereabouts off the radar. I probably won’t touch base for a few days at least, but message me if you need anything. I’ll get back to you within the day.”

  “Will do.”

  He cut the connection and scrolled through his email, half his mind elsewhere as he sorted and discarded. Distracted by her of course. Suzanne. Strong and sweet as Turkish coffee.

  He was starting to feel uneasy about the things he was keeping from her. Which was odd. It was a sound strategy with women: keep quiet about his background, enjoy their company on his own terms, let things run their own course without all his money muddying the waters.

  Once a woman knew you were rich, there was no way to tell if she was making her decisions based on that. Maybe it was childish but he enjoyed standing or falling on his own merit in a woman’s eyes. Not the merit of his bank accounts.

  Not that it ever did any harm to keep things quiet.

  Two times he had been deeply involved enough with a woman to share the details of his privileged upbringing and the fortune he’d added to it through his own hard work. Each of those girlfriends had been delighted.

  It was like all her fantasies come true, Michelle had gushed. She got to have her darling Justin and enjoy a luxuriously lavish style of living. What could be more perfect?

  Katrina was more quietly pleased but she’d certainly taken to the high life once she knew it was available, luring him into any number of pleasant extravagances and trading up from the basic lifestyle to which he gravitated, to a much more 5-star existence. He didn’t mind spending the money, but he didn’t bother for his own sake.