The Key (4 page)

I frowned. All this talk in riddles was getting in the way of me having a clear head. I had to have some space in my mind to get to grips with the fact that I was actually going to fuck this fellow tonight. Or perhaps it was better if I didn’t delve into that side of things too much and just let it happen. Yes, that would be best.

“I see. Or rather, I do not, but it does not matter. I like you, and it seems you like me, and if we are getting along like a house on fire now, phew, can you imagine what we will be like after a week? That is something to think about.”

“It is. I’d like to see you again. Very much so.”

“Ah, that is good.” I stared ahead at the street that went on forever, getting a bit nippy in the process. “I need to put on my raincoat. It is cold and I do not know how far we have to go.”

He let go of my hand and I slid the coat on, thankful for its meagre warmth.

“Just up here now,” he said. “See that side street there?”

“I do,” I lied, narrowing my eyes to peer ahead, knowing that I really ought to make that optician’s appointment in the very near future. Everything in front of me in the far distance was a blur.

“Well, my house is down there. Have you been around this way before?”

“No. I live in a small flat on the other side of town. I have never had a need to visit here. The houses are all very nice on this road.”

“They are. So, have you had many serious relationships?” he asked, guiding me around the corner to the side street he’d pointed out.

The houses here were larger than those I’d already seen. Much bigger. As in, these-people-are-sodding-richer-than-me bigger. I blinked but tried hard not to show my surprise, and what he’d said suddenly made sense. If he lived in a house like one of these, women had clearly only been after him for his money. JS felt sorry for him yet again, for the uncertainty he must have been through in the past, wondering who actually liked
him
. Obviously no one really had, otherwise he’d still be with them. Was that something I should be concerned about? Did he have some fetish or other, or turn into a creepy fucker after the first few dates, making them run for the hills?

“No,” I said, realising I’d left quite a pause in answering him. “I have not found anyone who has been able to accept me for who I am either. I have not been successful in the past in getting the male variety to like me. I used to wear jeans and T-shirts and…”

I let my words linger, hoping he’d get what I’d meant. He’d mentioned those clothes on the phone, and maybe those women were exactly whom he wanted to avoid.

“Jeans and T-shirts are good,” he said. “The reason I said about those is because every woman in my past has been a power-suit person. Or the kind who loved diamonds more than simple pleasures such as each of us reading a book in the evenings. Parties, a lot of them wanted parties or to be taken out to dinner. I prefer the simple pleasures. Someone to have fun with in a different way. At home.”

“That is good,” I said, eyeing a house that was set back from the road behind high metal gates with posh lights mounted on every post. “I like to stay in, too. Tonight was an exception to my rule. I had to come out in order to meet you—to go out in order to meet anyone at all.”

“I see. So you’re a homebody, then?”

“Oh, indeed. I do not like parties—they are full of drunk people with no manners. I do not like going out to dinner because I tend to slop my food over myself and am quite an embarrassing eating companion. I do not like diamonds as I do not see the point in them. They are just there to show people how much money you have. That is my opinion, anyway.”

“I like your opinions.” He stopped us outside an enormous house, set back like the other one. “Ah, here we are.” He poked a few buttons on an electronic keypad on one of the thicker gate posts.

“You live here?” I asked, hating the fact that my jaw had a mind of its own and was intent on smacking onto the pavement.

“I do.”

“Merde!” That was the only French swear word I knew. “I do not know how you rattle around in such a place by yourself. I would not want to live here.”

“You wouldn’t? Other than the rattling around, why not?”

“It is ostentatious. It is excessive. Unless you have one million children, what do you need all this space for?”

“Chantal?”

“Yes?” I said, looking up at him.

“I like you. I really,
really
like you.”

Chapter Four

“That is lovely,” I said, Jane Smith holding back tears, Chantal Rossi blinking at him in a bid to make him think I was batting my eyelashes like some sexy little siren. “You do not mind what I said about your home?”

“Not in the least.” He glanced away as the gates swung open. “I prefer honesty—and you’re right. I don’t need a place this big. I got caught up in showing what I’d made of myself, when really, that isn’t important.” He cupped my elbow. “This way.”

I stepped onto his driveway, looking ahead at a house that could only be described as a mini mansion. Oh, you had to have been born on the right side of the tracks to live there, surely. I wondered whether he’d indeed been born into a well-to-do family or if he’d earned his money. From what he’d just said I could only assume the latter, otherwise, if he’d been raised in privileged surroundings, why would he need to prove what he’d made of himself? Unless he’d shirked the family money and had gone out to show the world he could find his own way, earn his own money to continue the lifestyle he was accustomed to.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. A large dwelling filled with all manner of pointless things wasn’t my idea of how life should be led. I preferred to have only what I needed and had realised, much to my upset and loneliness, that being loved was far more important than the size of your rooms or what they contained.

He pressed another code into a keypad on the inside of the post, waited a second for the gates to start closing, then steered me up the drive.

“This is a very nice house,” I said, paying attention to the pillars on the corners of the top step of a stone flight, at the windows that had to be as tall as he was. “But it is ridiculous. I do not mean to belittle why you bought it, I can understand your reasoning, but you have much to learn about life, do you not think?”

“I don’t think, I know. I’ve known for a few years.”

Our feet crunched on the gravel as we made our way closer to the house. The grounds, from what I could see in the darkness, were well tended. The lawn, clipped as short as a Marine’s buzz cut, was home to a couple of topiary bushes, pruned into the shape of a key and a keyhole. It seemed he had a thing about those.

“I like your bushes,” I said. “Perhaps, when we get down to it, you’ll like mine.” I stopped myself from widening my eyes at having said such a thing. “That is, if you like bushes. There are those Brazilians now, and women who walk around without any hedge in their knickers at all. It is not something you can ask a man on a first date, whether he prefers a landing strip or a jungle.”

He laughed, ran his hand through his hair. “Yet I think you just did. And the answer is, I think I’d like your bush whatever it’s like—or even if you don’t have one.”

“Ah, good. Yesterday it was overrun, a scribble of unruly weeds, but tonight, in honour of our meeting, I did some gardening. I see you like gardening, too.” I lifted one hand and gestured to the hedges, fully expecting him to say he paid some gardener or other to do it for him.

“I do. That’s the kind of thing I meant. Simple pleasures. Do
you
like gardening?”

“I am not sure. I have never done it, but I would be willing to give it a try. I have a houseplant at home. It is a Venus flytrap, and I am quite fond of it. I talk to it when I give it water.”

He’d definitely think me insane now.

“That’s sweet,” he said, holding my elbow tighter while we went up the steps.

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket then slid one into the lock. An alarm blared, scaring me shitless, and I jumped back, letting out a pathetic “Oh!” He tugged me inside then disarmed it by prodding yet another code into another keypad that was on the wall above a telephone table holding a large cactus.

“Oh, a prickly plant,” I said. “I like a good prick.”

He flicked on a light, chuckling. “I had an idea you might somehow…”

He closed the front door then led the way down the hall to a door at the bottom that was slightly ajar. He opened it, snapped his finger and thumb, and a light popped on.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “Maybe a glass of the wine from the bottle I bought at The Plough?”

“That would be nice,” I said, knowing I’d need it to bolster my courage later. “Your kitchen is very bare. You do not have a single thing on the worktops. It is like no one lives here.”

“I’m… Yes, I see what you mean. I didn’t see the point of having it more homely, what with it only being me here.” He moved to a wall cupboard that had glass in the door. Wine goblets glittered behind it from the bright light. He took two out then pulled the cork from the wine bottle, pouring us half a glass each. “Here you go.” He handed me a drink. “Would you like to go into the living room?”

“No,” I said, needing to get the next part in full swing so the nerves that had suddenly decided to race around my body might actually calm down. I emptied my glass. “We have business to attend to in your bedroom.”

“Business? I certainly hope that’s not all this is to you.” He raised his eyebrows and took a sip of wine.

“Of course not. It was a figure of speech, that is all.” I was amazed I’d been able to keep up my French accent all this time. I just had to hope he hadn’t travelled to France much, or at all. What if he asked me questions about the place? My knowledge was limited. I would have to say I couldn’t talk about that time in my life, but that I liked the Eiffel Tower.

“Ah, I see. Shall we, then?”

He held out one arm, hand pointed in the direction of the kitchen door. I popped my glass on the side then walked back out into the hallway, aghast that it was larger than my living room. I let him go ahead of me and followed him up the double-wide stairs to a landing at the top. There were several doors there, and he chose the one straight ahead. He opened it, snapped his finger and thumb again, and subtle light from Tiffany lamps on the nightstands infused the room.

His king-size was between two large windows. Covered in pure white bedding, it looked comfortable. The headboard was a mahogany carved affair with large balls on the tops of the posts. I thought of my neighbour, Mr Big Bollocks, and blurted, “Do you have swollen balls?”

“Pardon?” he said, rearing his head back a bit and widening his eyes.

“I am sorry. My mouth works before I think. I have a neighbour. He is always out in his garden when I come along. His…lower region is swollen. I think he… It does not matter what I think.”

“It does to me, but I imagine, when he sees you, he can’t help but swell.”

That was the biggest compliment anyone had ever given me and I puffed out my chest with pride. “Thank you.”

“Most welcome. And for your information”—he leant forward to put his mouth by my ear—“that’s why we had to leave The Plough. I was becoming…swollen.”

“Mon Dieu!” I said, having no idea what it meant but thinking it appropriate after hearing it on a TV show. “I had no clue…”

“Now you do,” he whispered, breath hot on my neck.

A shiver went down my spine then on to my suddenly excited clit.
I
had become swollen too, and the swiftness of it surprised me. “Yes, I do,” I whispered, at a loss for anything else to say. I stepped away to give myself some breathing space, time to think on where this should go next. He was gaining the upper hand, and I wanted it back, so I snapped out, “Get on the bed, David Thompson.”

He smiled, gave me a dose of that amused expression again, and walked to his bed, placing his glass on the nightstand. With a quick look at me, and appearing completely at ease, he climbed onto the bed, settling himself in the middle, arms behind his head. He was elevated slightly by a mound of pillows, able to see me well enough. His tongue of a tie slewed to one side, the end hiding between his body and arm, and a lock of his hair flopped across his forehead.

“What are you going to do next?” he asked, crossing his legs at the ankles.

“You will see.” I paused, blinking slowly and licking my lips. “In fact, I will tell you. I am going to perform a striptease.”

“Oh, Christ,” he said.

My thought exactly… What am I playing at?

He positioned himself in a more upright position. “This I have
got
to see.”

I smiled, gazed at him from beneath lowered eyelashes, going for the seductive look. Whether or not I pulled it off was anyone’s guess, and I didn’t have time to worry about it now. Slowly, I shrugged, thinking my raincoat would just slide off my shoulders with ease. The stubborn bugger remained where it was, and I shrugged again, twice in quick succession, until it began its descent. Once it had fallen away to the floor, I glided my fingertips down my jacket lapels then discarded that in the same way as the raincoat.

“We have no music,” he said, voice gravelly and low.

“That does not matter. I shall make some.” I twirled around, praying my arse looked enticing beneath the short skirt. Spun the Rolodex in my mind for an appropriate song. Jane Smith would have chosen something lovey-dovey, a romantic ballad, but Chantal needed something with more oomph. Something I could really dig on down to. I couldn’t think what to warble. Then I opened my mouth and sang, “I hazz a bit
butt
and I cannot lie…” I didn’t know the rest, only that the word deny came in somewhere, so took to humming the tune instead.

I wiggled my backside then gyrated my hips, the hum coming out as more of a buzz that tickled my lips. I thought I heard David chuckle, but with the noise of that tune streaming out of me, I couldn’t be sure. I reached back to undo the button and zip of my skirt, sliding the material down my legs and hoping my arse crack wasn’t chewing my knickers. It didn’t feel as though it was, but sometimes I couldn’t tell. Still, it was too late now and, just in case, I whipped round to face him. If he’d been laughing, he’d composed his face into a good impression of a man in awe. I didn’t know what he’d be in awe about, but there wasn’t time to think about that either.