Love to Hate You (23 page)

Ian watches me eat for a while, then takes his plate and comes and sits next to me. The bastard laughs as he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. As far as I'm concerned, though, there's more to cry about than to laugh at.

“I can see you looking at me,” I say angrily.

“What, is it against the law to look at you?” he responds. “You're the only person here, there's nobody else to look at.”

“Then you should have invited some other people,” I say in exasperation.

“Next time there'll be four of us, then. But first we'll have to wait for George and Tamara to decide to become a couple.”

“So you've noticed it too?” I ask, happy to change the subject.

“It's pretty obvious,” he says, continuing to eat, “that George has a soft spot for her.”

“Yes, but she's got a thing for you,” I point out.

Ian pulls a face. “No she hasn't.”

“It's obvious,” I insist, as I bite into the chocolate crust.

“She
thinks
she has, but she doesn't really like me,” he says confidently – so confidently, in fact, that it almost makes me doubt my conviction.

“
You
like me though,” he says, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Excuse me?” I ask, convinced that I must have misheard.

“You're saying you don't?”

“I absolutely don't!” I say angrily. “How can you think such things?”

“I don't know, I thought—” he says softly, realizing that he's using the wrong approach.

“What rubbish you talk sometimes—” I say, affecting a bored tone.

“I can prove it to you,” he replies, brightening up. He looks like someone who has already made his mind up and doesn't want to think about his decision too much.

“How?” I ask in amazement. Just the question that I shouldn't have asked, idiot that I am.

“Put that plate down,” he says, sweetly.

But I hold onto it even tighter, as though it were my last defence against the enemy. “Don't you even think about it.”

“Come on, don't be a coward,” he says, pulling the plate from my hands and putting it next to his. Without it, I feel exposed.

“Ok, now just relax,” he says, as he approaches. As though there were any chance of
that.

“I won't relax until I get out of this bloody flat,” I answer, in an unexpected outburst of sincerity.

“Lean back,” he says, pulling me back with him and putting his arm around my shoulders.

“What are you trying to prove?” I ask, seriously concerned. It almost seems as though Ian is out of his mind tonight – I don't recognize him at all and I can't work out what his intentions are.

He touches my cheek with his hand. Now, I feel lost. “Feel that?” he asks. Of course I feel it, I would probably feel it even if I were dead.

“What am I supposed to be feeling?” I ask blandly, as I try to pull away.

“Your heartbeat,” he answers, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. My heart is going like the clappers, and both of us can feel it.

“So? I've got a fast heartbeat. So what?” I ask boldly.

“You should consider being a comedian, not a lawyer,” he says with a laugh, still staring at me. “Are you done with the jokes?”

My face must be a clear enough answer, because the next moment we're kissing again and if possible we're putting even more enthusiasm into it than before. It is clear that he wants to prove that I am completely in his power. And, bloody hell – I really am.

A few minutes later I'm lying on the couch, and he's on top of me.

Well, I tell myself in a pathetic attempt at self-justification, it
is
hard to move when you've got a heavy weight crushing you.

Without stopping kissing me, Ian begins to lift my top and then touches my belly, and when he does I give a vague, incomprehensible moan. His hand moves more determinedly now, sliding gently up to my bra.

“Can we take this top off?” he asks, removing his lips from mine for a moment.

“No, we can't. Absolutely not,” I say, panting. I mustn't get undressed, whatever happens. I can't give in.

Ian starts kissing me on the neck, then higher, up to my ear. “We must,” he says softly, while I start to lose all control of myself again, and a few minutes later, when he starts pulling off my top, I don't offer any more resistance. Hmm, really remarkable, my willpower.

Just for the record, if I'd worn my horrible brown t-shirt, none of this would have happened – nobody in their right mind would have wanted to take that off.

In the meantime, my hands are struggling with Ian's shirt, and he seems to be enjoying the feel of my hand on his skin.

His mouth moves down to my belly and then starts to rise, but not before he has explored every inch of my skin. The idea of his mouth on my body is almost too much for me, so I close my eyes and try and push the image away, but his lips and his hands are magic, and I can't think of anything else.

“Please, stop,” I implore him, writhing.

Ian lifts himself up onto his elbow and smiles at me almost jauntily. “I've only just started.”

He has an expression that I've never seen before: sensual, playful, and, dare I say it, almost happy.

“Oh God!” I exclaim in despair. It's starting to sink in that I've really gotten myself in deep this time.

“How about if we were to go somewhere else?” he asks me, looking at me with those annoyingly blue eyes.

I look away. “Forget it!” I shout, “I will never set foot in your bedroom.”

“God, what a drama queen you are,” he says, not sounding the slightest bit worried. He gets up from the couch and, as though I were a feather, picks me up in his arms. Now, as every modern girl knows very well, twenty-first century men just don't do this type of thing, ever! And that's why finding myself suddenly cradled in his arms like a precious object reduces me to a quivering wreck.

“This isn't fair—” is all I can manage to mutter as Ian carries me into the bedroom, and puts me down gracefully on the bed, before lying down next to me.

He looks at me in amusement, not in the least bit bothered by the panic that he can surely see on my face.

“It would be nice if for once
you
would start kissing me first,” he says, smiling, “at least just to confirm that the feeling is mutual.” He says it with a smile, but the phrase hides a certain insecurity that I would never have expected in him.

I pull him closer, my gaze moving from his eyes over every part of his face. “You make me do crazy things,” I say accusingly.

Ian watches me. “Well, that's a good thing. Someone had to teach you to be a bit crazy.”

At this point, one more kiss is not going to make any difference to what is already a mortifying evening, I think, as I draw myself closer and closer to him, and when I do finally decide to kiss him, I see him close his eyes almost ecstatically. I look at his black eyelashes, until the pressure of his mouth forces me to close my eyes as well.

He embraces me and makes me roll onto his chest, while his hands start to stroke my back, before coming to a halt at my bra, undecided what to do next.

“Can I?” he asks, as he continues to kiss me on the neck.

“I'd rather you didn't,” I answer with a blush.

“I'd rather I did—” he sighs, starting to play with the hook.

“Please, don't—” I freeze, terrified of surrendering completely. Ian looks at me again, smiling.

“Let's make a deal: you can keep the bra on for the moment in exchange for these boring old jeans.”

“What?” I ask, eyes wide.

Ian strokes my cheek. “You should have worn a skirt,” he says seriously. “These jeans are so tight – they'll be hell to get off.”

“I wish I had a pair that was tighter,” I reply, trying not to let his eyes hypnotise me.

“You almost always wear trousers in the office,” he notes. I didn't think he noticed my clothes.

“They're more comfortable,” I say, annoyed. What sane woman prefers a skirt to a pair of comfortable trousers?

Ian suddenly rolls us over, taking me by surprise. God, what a vision, girls: a gorgeous, shirtless vision with tousled hair and lips red from kissing. What a shame that this is going to be the first and last time I see
this
particular man in a similar position.

Then he starts to loosen the button of my jeans and suddenly what a moment ago had seemed a terrible idea instantly becomes a fantastic idea. I let him take them off and there I am in my white knickers.

Oops. My simple, horrible, plain white knickers. And obviously, I'm wearing a black bra…

For a moment I close my eyes in desperation, because I'd be willing to bet my yearly bonus that this man has never seen a woman wearing a mismatched bra and knickers.

“Ok, I think it's time I got going,” I say, trying in vain to break free and get off the bed.

“Now?” asks Ian in amazement.

“Actually, I should have gone a long time ago,” I say, mortified. “Now's a bit late, but better late than never.” I am sure that I'll go down in history as the woman who dared to wear two-tone underwear, but who cares. At least I won't be one of many. Ian stops me. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks, sounding worried.

“You?” I ask in surprise. “You had nothing to do with it. It's me. I've already made enough of a fool of myself with this bloody underwear.”

Ian looks at me as if though I were speaking Arabic.

“Look, in my defence I can only say that I never, and I mean
never,
thought you were going to see it. I swear. I thought there was more chance of the world blowing up first.”

Ian doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
“That's
the problem?” he asks.

Ah,
that
? He makes it all sound so silly, this gentleman.

“We can solve that in no time,” he says. I feel his hands on my back undoing my bra, and I'm so taken aback that I don't have time to stop him.

“Ian!” I exclaim in outrage, trying to cover myself up but failing miserably.

“I just wanted to help—” he says, looking at my breasts. “It just seemed like a really serious problem. And what gentleman wouldn't help a girl in trouble? Anyway, now that we've got past that particular hurdle?”

“I was about to leave?” I ask uncertainly, not really finding the strength to get out of this bed.

Ian gets up and starts to undo his jeans, which fall to the ground. If I have a heart attack now, at least I'll have died happy, I think nervously.

“This is a really bad idea—” I try to tell him, softly, “We're still in time to stop—”

But Ian sits down on the bed and starts kissing me, kissing me so much that I can hardly breathe, and I let myself be completely carried away by this sensuous tsunami which completely washes away all my willpower.

A few minutes later, when the rest of our clothes have evaporated, all I can think is that what I'm doing is definitely the biggest mistake of my life.

But, for once, who cares.

Somewhere far, far away from me, my phone is ringing. For a moment I assess the probability that this too is a dream, though I really can't recall ever having heard a phone ring so insistently in a dream.

When I finally open my eyes, I try to focus on where I find myself, and I feel my anxiety mounting as I peer about in the darkness of a room that I had never seen before last night. I could even ignore the room, at a push, but there's no chance of ignoring the person lying next to me. And this morning I have to take a deep breath before I can accept that I'm actually in bed with Ian.

Last night was as far removed as can be from a dream. It all really happened – unfortunately. Well, not exactly unfortunately…

To be honest, I don't know what to think.

But the phone keeps ringing. Not exactly a promising start to the morning.

The figure next to me is asleep. I envy his calm, I don't really know how he can, knowing that I'm lying beside him, or maybe it's just that he's so used to sleeping with a different girl each night it doesn't bother him any more. Me, who's never slept with a man on a first date? I'm struggling to think clearly about the last few hours of my life. After all, I'm in bed with a person that I've never even been out on a date with. Not even a
first
date.

Of course, it was the most amazing night of my life, but did it
have
to happen with Ian? There are supposed to be three billion people to choose from out there, after all.

Trying not to make a sound, I get out of bed and start collecting my clothes from the floor. I'm hunting around desperately for my top when I remember that I left it in the living room before we even got to the bedroom. God, how embarrassing.

Before I slip on my clothes I decide to answer my damn phone, which has started ringing again.

“Hello?” I whisper, trying to speak as quietly as possible. Ian turns over in bed but fortunately continues sleeping. “Ah, you're alive!” says Vera, sounding enormously relieved. “Yes I'm alive,” I confirm, almost smiling.

“Laura and I were afraid you'd been killed when we saw your empty bed this morning! Don't do that again – you have to let us know where you are!” she scolds me, the way my mother never has.

“Sorry, Vera,” I whisper, “but I wasn't planning to spend the night here.” In fact, it was the last thing on earth that I'd intended to do. At least consciously. I'd probably better not speak about my subconscious today.

“Where's 'here'?” she asks, despite knowing perfectly well where I am.

“At Ian's. And thanks a lot for making me say it out loud,” I reply, sounding annoyed.

“You're welcome. I had imagined that you didn't spend the night playing whist—” she says with a chuckle.

“It was Scrabble, dear,” I reply.

She bursts out laughing. “Yeah, right – if you think anyone'll buy that—”