The Lying Game (19 page)

‘Do you think I should go and help her?’ Zoey asked after she’d gone.

‘Do
you?’

Zoey giggled. ‘I’d probably end up on court-martial for pairing socks the wrong way,’ she said mischievously. ‘Poor Harriet. I’m sure I must annoy her terribly. She
probably thinks I’m an awful mother for letting Nell wear make-up and have her ears pierced. Heaven help us if she finds out she’s had her belly button done as well.’

The waitress came into the small sitting room. ‘May I get either of you anything to drink? A nightcap, perhaps?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I’d love a Scotch,’ Zoey said, surprising him. ‘Single malt, if you have it.’

His wife never drank what she disapprovingly termed ‘hard liquor’. Wine was her only indulgence; white wine spritzers, at that.

‘In that case, I’ll join you,’ he said, feeling reckless. He stretched his legs out in front of the fire. ‘Two Scotches, please.’

‘Will Harriet be coming back down to join us?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s after nine; she’ll probably have gone straight to bed.’

‘I suppose we should do the same.’ She blushed. ‘I mean – not that
we –
obviously, I meant
I –
well, I’m sure you must be tired, what
with all the driving yesterday, and having to do it again tomorrow . . .’

‘Yes, I suppose we should call it a day,’ he agreed.

Neither of them moved. The waitress returned with their drinks, and he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, stealing a sideways glance at Zoey She’d already half-finished her Scotch and
was staring fixedly at her lap, as if the answers to the universe were written on her borrowed jeans.
How like Florence she was,
he thought wistfully.
How different things would have
been for his daughter if—

‘How did all this start?’ Zoey asked suddenly.

‘All this?’

‘You know. What made you wonder about Florence? I’ve been meaning to ask you since we arrived, but the time never seemed right. No one’s ever actually told me
why
you
asked for those DNA tests.’

He knocked back his Scotch in one swallow and signalled to the waitress for another round. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Oliver stared into the fire. Where did he begin? Florence’s accident, the terrifying phone call he’d received two hundred miles from home, the breakneck journey to the hospital not
knowing if she’d be alive or dead when he got there? Or the way his wife of sixteen years had secretly sent off their toothbrushes – their
toothbrushes,
for God’s sake!
– to find out if her husband was, in fact, the father of her daughter?

Had it all begun when she went behind his back, against his express wishes, and contacted the hospital to try to find her biological child? When she compounded her deceit and betrayal by flying
to London to track that child down?

Or had it started long before that? In the end, did it all go back to that night the week before they got married, a night she still claimed she couldn’t remember, the night she’d
ended up naked in bed with another man?

He’d tried to forgive her. He’d told himself again and again it was just one stupid, drunken mistake more than sixteen years ago; a mistake that hadn’t even happened, if this
Ben was to be believed.

Perhaps he’d have succeeded if that had been all it was. If she hadn’t lied and deceived him again; not once, but repeatedly.

‘I should get to bed,’ Zoey said, breaking his train of thought.

‘Please don’t go,’ he said softly.

Blindly, he reached out his hand. She took it, like you’d take the palm of a small child.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

Oliver looked so sad that her heart broke. He was just staring blankly into the fire, and for the first time she thought about what all this must have done to him. Until now,
her concern had been for Nell, for Florence – and for herself, of course. She’d been terrified she might lose Nell, that somehow everything would change. Her sympathy for Harriet had
been tempered by the fact that she was the one setting the pace, pushing them all into this whether they were ready for it or not. But Oliver was as much a victim of his wife’s choices as she
was.

She’d really come to like and respect him this past week. He’d been so kind to both her and Nell, had gone out of his way to make them feel welcome. He was so gentle with Florence,
too, displaying an empathy and tact in stark contrast to his wife’s hard-headed pragmatism. And he was so like Nell! It was no wonder Zoey felt so comfortable being with him. It was like
she’d known him for ever.

‘Please don’t go,’ he said softly.

His hand sought hers. She took it, feeling that pull again: that extraordinary charge from him connecting somewhere deep inside her.

She’d realized that afternoon on the beach, as he’d caught her on the slippery rocks, that something was happening between them. She’d only been in his arms a moment, but she
knew she hadn’t imagined it. Something had passed between them, something powerful and unmistakable. But that was all it was, she told herself firmly now: a moment. No need to confuse it with
anything more.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

The story spilled out of him. As Zoey listened, any remaining sympathy she’d harboured for Harriet evaporated. The woman had been pushing her own agenda since the very beginning, heedless
of what anyone else might want or feel. How could she have gone behind Oliver’s back, not once but again and again? Never mind waking up naked in bed with your ex-fiancé the week
before your wedding! Poor Oliver. Poor,
poor
Oliver.

The fire had died down to a glow of red embers by the time he fell silent. It was only when Oliver brushed her cheek with the back of his hand that she realized she’d been crying.

‘I didn’t mean to lay all of this on you,’ he said regretfully. ‘It’s just the Scotch talking.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m just so sorry you had to learn about it all like this. I wish there was something I could say to make things better.’

‘Just talking to you helps.’ He looked at his watch again and stood up. ‘Jesus, it’s past eleven. I’ve been bending your ear for two hours. You must be
exhausted.’

She smiled. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Let me at least walk you to your room.’

He pushed open the heavy door leading to a small inner courtyard. The children and he and Harriet all had rooms in the main part of the inn, but Zoey had been assigned a beautiful cottage
separate from the main house.

She shivered, and he put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her towards him for warmth. She could smell the bonfire tang of his shirt, the salt in his hair.

She fumbled for the old-fashioned door key to her room, her hand shaking slightly as she put it in the lock. She could practically hear the hum of electricity between them. It was just as well
she was going home in a couple of days. Not that anything would ever happen, but even so. Life was already complicated enough.

‘Well. Goodnight then,’ she said, turning in the doorway.

He leaned in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘Goodnight. And thank you again.’

Her skin burned as his lips brushed the corner of her mouth. Desire, thick and hot, pooled in her belly. Her breath hitched as she tilted her head up towards him and saw the sudden heat
darkening his eyes.

And then suddenly Oliver was sweeping her into his arms, kicking the door shut behind them, tangling his hands in her wind-whipped hair as he backed her across the room.

He’s married! To the mother of your child! You’re engaged to Richard! Nell would never forgive you!

God forgive me, I want him. I want him inside me, right now . . .

Her knees felt weak, literally weak, as the heat from their kiss rippled through her. He broke away only to peel off her sweater and T-shirt, kissing her forehead and eyes and nose and lips as
they emerged from the tangle of clothing. She crossed her arms over her belly in embarrassment –
why
couldn’t she be wearing sexy lace underwear? Or even matching? She’d
settle for
matching –
as he unbuttoned his denim shirt.

‘Don’t cover yourself,’ he whispered, gently moving her arms away. ‘You’re so beautiful. Let me look at you.’

And then he was pulling her against him again, his hand sweeping the length of her spine, cupping her bottom. She could feel his erection pulse against the thin flowered cotton of her knickers.
The heat between her legs bloomed, spreading up into her belly. Her nipples were hard buttons against his chest.

She felt the back of the bed behind her knees, and for a moment she thought he was going to push her onto it, but instead he suddenly released her and sank to his knees. She realized what he was
going to do, what she wanted him to do,
oh God, more than anything.
He tugged at her knickers, skimming them down her legs, and she stepped out of them as he buried his face in her pussy.
She should’ve shaved, a bikini wax at least, but how could she have known –
oh, yes, ohh, yes, there, right there . . .

His tongue darted up and down the length of her pussy, briefly teasing her stiffening clitoris, probing inside her, tasting her wet, sweet warmth, trailing kisses up and down the inside of her
thighs. She shivered, twisting her hands in his thick, unruly blond hair, her back arching so that her pussy pressed harder against his mouth.

Finally he eased her back onto the bed. She spread her legs eagerly for him, wanting to draw him further up, further in. He kissed his way from her clitoris up her belly, dipping his tongue into
her navel, whispering across her soft, pillowy skin.

Deftly he slipped his index finger into her tired bra, scooping out her breasts, and bent his mouth to her hard nipple. She clawed at the bedspread, feeling the delicious heat sing through her
body, pulsating between her legs.
Oh God, she was wet.
His fingers found the other breast and she thought she was going to come from that pleasure alone.

‘Please,’ she whispered, rocking her hips to position herself beneath his erection, his cock sliding against her wet pussy.
‘Oh, please.’

Oliver thrust his finger inside her and she cried out with pleasure. Gently he eased a second finger inside, and then a third, cupping his hand around her pussy so that his thumb rubbed against
her clitoris as his fingers worked within her, stroking the front wall of her pussy. She felt a sudden current run through her, an extraordinary, tense release, and she was wet,
so
wet, it
was as if she’d peed herself, but no, that wasn’t it . . .

‘Oh, that’s beautiful,’ he whispered, ‘you came, you just came all over me.’

‘Again,’ she panted, ‘I’m coming again,’ and she did, her body convulsing with utter abandon, her hands twisting the sheets.

Slowly, consciousness returned. He gazed down at her, his blue eyes dark, his expression intense. He leaned forward and rested the palms of his hands on either side of her head, hovering over
her, taking his own weight as his body covered hers. She opened her legs again, wider this time, bringing her knees back as he slowly, tantalizingly slowly, eased inside her, the ripples of her
fading orgasm curling around his cock.

Her hips moved with his, meeting his thrusts.
He smells so good,
she thought dizzily, the perfect mix of sex and sweat and salt and something else, something that was uniquely
Oliver.

Still he didn’t take his eyes off hers, even as he picked up speed and pounded into her. It was more erotic than anything she could have imagined, as if he was fucking not just her body
but her heart and soul.

Their bodies grew slick. A silver sheen gleamed on his skin, sweat darkening his thick blond hair. She began to vibrate as her orgasm built inside her again, her breathing harsh and ragged in
her own ears. She dug her fingernails into his buttocks –
oh God, so firm, so perfect! –
and pulled him deeper into her, lifting her feet and resting them on his shoulders so
that she could take him up to the hilt. Her climax peaked, hot, intense waves radiating out from her pussy.

She fell back against the bed, spent, but he hadn’t finished with her yet. Pulling out of her, he stood at the side of the bed, then flipped her onto her stomach, dragging her by her legs
towards him until her feet were on the floor and she was bent over the edge of the mattress, her face buried in the covers. One hand slipped between her damp thighs, stroking her clitoris,
caressing lightly where his cock had been seconds before. His other hand grasped her hair, tugging gently so that she couldn’t squirm away from him, and was held there, at his pleasure.

He brought her to the edge of orgasm with his fingers, and then, as she trembled on the precipice, stopped. And then he teased her again – and stopped. And again. Finally, when she thought
she couldn’t stand it any more, when she was saying his name over and over,
begging
to have him inside her, he thrust his cock deeply into her and circled his hips, pushing her over
the edge, and she called his name again as he came into her, hard and fast and furious.