Her Best Worst Mistake (10 page)

“
Not much. I, um, ran into Martin
the other day.”

She winced. Of all the ways to lead in to what she
needed to say...

“
How was he? I felt so bad when he
left here, Vi, but it was the best thing for both of us. He may not
realise that yet, but it was. He deserves someone who loves him
fully. Someone who wants him for who he is and not because he ticks
all the right boxes.”

Violet pressed the phone so hard against her ear it
hurt. “Listen, E, there’s something I need to tell you. Something
happened with Martin the other night.”

“
Let me guess—you had a fight. You
two are absolutely hopeless, and utterly predictable. I hope
neither of you left scars?”

Violet thought of the suck mark she’d found on her
breast last night when she’d showered Martin’s scent from her skin.
It wasn’t permanent, but the memory of Martin all but devouring her
breasts would be with her to her dying day.

“
Vi, you’re a sweetie, but you don’t
have to fight my battles for me any more, okay?” Elizabeth said.
“I’ve made my decision. And Martin is a good man. He really is. A
lovely man.” Her friend’s voice broke with emotion.

Violet stared at the chipped black paint on the
counter, feeling like ten different types of shit.

Say it. Get it over with.

But the words wouldn’t come. Elizabeth had always
believed in her. No matter what. The thought of losing that
unconditional love, that support, made her feel heartsick.

“
I’ll remember that if I ever run
across him again,” she said.

If she ever ran across Martin St Clair again, she was
turning on her heel and heading in the opposite direction, post
haste. Not that she was likely to have the opportunity—they hardly
moved in the same circles. Far from it.

Talk returned to Nathan and Violet listened
incredulously as Elizabeth admitted she’d pretty much moved in with
him.

This was no holiday romance. Elizabeth didn’t work
like that. A slew of warnings filled Violet’s head, but she didn’t
utter a single one.

Elizabeth had been wrapped in cotton wool by her
grandparents almost her entire life. She deserved the space to make
her own mistakes and learn her own lessons. If this Nathan person
hurt her—as he probably would if he was anything like most of the
men Violet had known in her lifetime—Elizabeth would have the
requisite crying jag, gnash her teeth, then pick herself up and
dust herself off.

Violet settled for insisting that Elizabeth call her
if she needed her, no matter what the time of day or night. She
felt guilty and small when she ended the call, but also relieved.
She’d tell Elizabeth everything when she was home again in a few
weeks time. Sit her down, look her in the eye and confess. Much
better than doing it over the phone.

Anyway, it sounded as though E had her hands full
with Nathan the sex god. What Violet had done wasn’t going to get
any better or worse in the intervening weeks before Elizabeth came
home. There was no use-by date on betrayal, after all.

A self-serving argument, perhaps, but it was what
Violet was going with. God help her.

The decision brought a new calm, which carried her
through to lunch time. Then she went into the back room to grab her
sandwich from the fridge and saw Martin’s flowers and it all came
rushing back.

His body beneath her hands. The feel of him inside
her. The wave of convulsive pleasure that had taken over her
body.

This time she didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the
flowers, walked out into the street and dumped them in the nearest
public trash can.

If only it was as easy to erase him from her
thoughts.

Every time she thought she’d succeeded, going a full
day or two without a single Martin St Clair-oriented thought, he
snuck back in under her guard.

Anything triggered it. The set of a man’s shoulders
on the Tube. The sound of a male voice over the phone. The elusive
whiff of aftershave that was almost-but-not-quite the same as
his.

Sometimes there was no discernible reason at all—he
was simply there, in her head, making her body hot and wet with
memories, filling her with guilt and regret.

It took almost a month for her to get to the point
where he was nothing but a painful, uncomfortable passing thought
that she could easily dismiss. A month during which she had several
more phone calls from Elizabeth further cementing the growing
belief in her heart that her friend had fallen hard for her
Australian lover. It eased her guilt somewhat to know that
Elizabeth had well and truly moved on, but not enough.

Then she turned up at Bronwyn and Perry’s anniversary
dinner on a cold, windy Saturday night a week before Christmas and
looked across the room and saw Martin standing there, dark and
forbidding in a charcoal suit. She froze in the act of shedding her
coat, one arm in, the other out. The stony, tight expression on
Martin’s face told her that he’d had no idea that she’d be there,
either.

Which made them both rather foolish, in hindsight.
Bronwyn was one of several friends that Violet and Elizabeth
shared, and Martin and Perry were both lawyers, common ground that
had fueled a close friendship over the years. If Violet had stopped
to think about it, she would have guessed he might be there. Just
as he might have guessed that she would be, too, because of her
friendship with Bronwyn.

She quickly averted her eyes, laughing gaily at
something that Bronwyn said as she handed over her coat. She made a
bee-line for the tray of cocktails that Perry was passing around
and only risked a second glance at Martin when the first fiery
mouthful of vodka martini was burning its way down her throat to
her belly.

He stood in profile to her near the window, talking
to Melissa and Lewis, two of Bronwyn and Perry’s many married
friends. His hair was longer than when she’d last seen him. She
waited for him to glance her way, but he didn’t, steadfastly
keeping his attention on whatever Melissa was saying.

Not such a huge surprise. After all, she’d promised
herself that if she ever ran into him again she’d sprint in the
opposite direction. Clearly he felt the same way, but it wasn’t
exactly a viable option tonight, for either of them—unless she was
prepared to fake an appendicitis attack.

She thought wistfully of Elizabeth, thousands of
miles away. E could always be relied upon to come up with a
fool-proof, iron clad gracious excuse for any occasion.

But tonight, Violet was on her own.

She toyed with the idea of approaching Martin and
engaging him in polite conversation, simply to get that first
awkward moment over and done with. After all, she could hardly
avoid him all night. There were only a dozen people in the room,
including their hosts. They were bound to come face to face
eventually and be forced to deal with one another.

The next hour proved her entirely wrong. Despite the
fact that she was on tenterhooks the whole time, waiting for Martin
to acknowledge her presence with a look or a word or a gesture, he
steadfastly ignored her. Wherever she was, he wasn’t, always
circling in the opposite direction, his back or profile always
turned to her. Twice he walked away when she was drawn into a
conversation he was sharing with some of Bronwyn and Perry’s
friends. Both times she felt heat rush into her face, sure that
someone must notice his behavior, but no one so much as raised an
eyebrow.

She nursed her second martini and brooded on his
behavior, becoming increasingly angry as he continued to blank
her.

No doubt he’d somehow reconfigured what had happened
between them in his mind, casting her as a shameless slut who’d
plied him with liquor and then lured him to her boudoir. No doubt
he lay the blame for every breathless second they’d spent together
squarely at her door. He’d never made a secret of how he viewed
her, after all. It would be so, so easy to make her the
scarlet-lettered villain of the piece.

She’d built up a powerful head of resentful steam by
the time Bronwyn announced dinner was ready and they all filed into
the dining room. She dutifully sat in the seat that had been
allocated to her, only registering that Martin was taking the seat
opposite at the last second.

Naturally, they’d placed her opposite Martin. They
were the only two singles in the room. Where else would they be
seated? She waited for him to meet her gaze—finally—but he directed
his attention to Bronwyn, who was seated to his right. Violet
blinked, incredulous.

Surely he didn’t mean to ignore her all through
dinner, too?

The caterer began serving starters. Violet fixed her
gaze on Martin, teeth gritted, daring him to keep denying her
existence. Her outrage grew with every second that ticked by.

How dare he? Who did he think he
was? Better yet, who did he think
she
was? If he thought she was simply
going to sit here and accept such shabby, immature, pathetic
behavior, he had another think coming.

By the time their soup plates were being taken away,
she was ready to kick him in the shin.

Let’s see him ignore me
then.

Lewis kept trying to make conversation with her on
her left but Violet couldn’t keep track of the topic. All she could
think about was Martin, and how much she wanted to hurt him in a
deeply primitive, physical way. They had had sex. He had been
inside her body. The least he bloody well owed her was eye contact.
The very least.

The urge to strike out at him was so visceral, so
powerful that she could feel her calf muscles tensing in
preparation for a really good, solid kick. She had her pointy-toed
Louboutin stilettos on. If she landed a good blow, she might even
leave a scar.

“
Excuse me,” she said, shooting to
her feet.

She needed a few seconds of privacy to get her head
on straight. It was either that, or give in to the urge to lunge
across the table and slap Martin’s face. She offered a polite smile
to her hosts, then headed for the door.

She wasn’t sure what made her look back over her
shoulder as she left the room. Some sixth sense, perhaps. Whatever
the reason, she did, and she found herself locking gazes with
Martin as he glanced over his shoulder at her, clearly watching her
exit from the room.

She expected to see disgust or condemnation or anger
in his face. Or, at best, relief that she was leaving, albeit only
temporarily. What she wasn’t expecting was hunger and heat and
need. His stormy gaze drilled into hers, burning with sexual,
carnivorous intent.

Undeniable. Thrilling.

Oh, wow
.

Her breath got caught in her throat. Her shoulder
brushed the door frame and she whipped her head to the front to
avoid walking into the wall. She walked to the bathroom on legs
that felt like jelly.

Martin didn’t hate her. He didn’t regret what had
happened between them.

Not by a long shot.

He wanted her. Badly.

So badly he didn’t trust himself to make eye contact
with her.

It was a revelation that sent her heart racing. By
the time she shut the bathroom door behind her, her face was hot,
her armpits damp, her breath a little short. She leaned against the
closed door, trying to stem the wave of shameless arousal washing
through her.

Martin wanted her. He’d been thinking about her, too.
He’d been going over and over what had happened between them.
Thinking about the way it had felt when he’d pushed her underwear
aside and slid inside her.

He wanted to do it again, too. She knew it without
him saying a word. Knew that if he could, he would have followed
her in here right now and fucked her against the wall.

Her sex pulsed at the thought. She slid a hand down
her belly, cupping her mound through the soft fabric of her flowing
primrose skirt. She could feel the damp heat building there, and
when she pressed her fingers lightly into her sensitized flesh,
electric desire raced through her body.

Imagine if he
had
followed her in here. Imagine how
it would feel to kiss him and touch him and fuck him
again.

She swallowed loudly, her breathing ragged. For a
second she was tempted to lift her skirt and slip her hand inside
her panties and finish what Martin’s look had started, she was that
turned on.

But that would be akin to having dessert before she’d
finished her supper—and she’d always believed that anticipation was
nine-tenths of pleasure.

Instead, she lifted her skirt and slid her panties
down her legs. They folded into a small, discreet silk parcel, no
more substantial than a ladies’ handkerchief. She studied herself
in the mirror, recognizing the dangerous, reckless, excited glint
in her eyes.

Was she really going to do this?

The woman in the mirror stared back at her, aroused,
defiant. A small, secretive smile curved her mouth.

Well, then.

Taking a deep breath, Violet left the bathroom.

Chapter Six

Martin took a swallow from his wine glass. He had no
idea what it was—cab sav, syrah, pinot noir. He simply needed
something to distract him from the painful hardness of his cock.
He’d been hard, more or less, from the second Violet arrived. One
look at her creamy, elegant neck and deep pink lips and small,
round breasts and he’d been gone, gone, gone, and no matter what he
did—ignore her, avoid her, talk legislative amendments with
Perry—he couldn’t get his unruly mind or cock to stop obsessing
over her.

It wasn’t as though either organ needed the practice.
He’d thought about Violet pretty much every day since he’d thrown
her onto the couch and had his way with her. Not voluntarily, mind.
But she had a way of sneaking beneath his defenses. One minute he’d
be, say, shaving, getting ready to head in to work for the day, the
next he’d be lost in memories of that night, a burgeoning hard-on
tenting his underwear. Humiliating as it was to admit, he’d given
up resisting the lure of those memories after the first week.
Violet had been so hot, the sex too good for him to wipe it from
his mind. Never had he spent so much time in the shower,
alternating between trying to rid himself of a hard-on and giving
in to need and taking himself in hand. He’d had more solitary
orgasms with Violet’s name on them in the past month than he cared
to count.