Her Best Worst Mistake (12 page)

“
I’m not letting you walk
home.”

“
I’ll catch a taxi.”

He collected his suit jacket from the floor. “Violet,
be serious. Only a complete asshole would let you catch a cab home
after what just happened.”

“
I want to go home alone, and only a
complete asshole would force his company on me. Especially after
what just happened.”

He reached for patience. “Violet—”

She held up a hand. “No, Martin. I’m not going to be
browbeaten into submission. I’m not a delicate flower, I’m not a
people-pleaser, and I don’t need or want your protection. Us having
sex doesn’t make you automatically responsible for me. In case you
hadn’t noticed, that kind of thinking went out with pointy bras and
girdles.”

She tossed her hair, her chin lifted defiantly. Not
so long ago, that little chin lift had made him want to punch a
hole in the wall. Now, it made him want to get close enough to kiss
her full, pink mouth again, a tectonic shift that made him feel
decidedly off balance.

“
Let me pay for your cab
then.”

She made an outraged sound. “On what planet would I
let that happen? I’m not some prostitute you need to send back to
her pimp.”

He glared at her. She was starting to piss him off.
Much more familiar territory. “When have I ever indicated that I
see you as a whore, Violet?”

Her chin dropped a notch. “You haven’t. But you get
my point.”

“
No, actually, I don’t.”

“
We had sex, Martin. You don’t owe
me, and you don’t own me.” She flipped up the collar on her coat.
“Let’s just agree that this was yet another stupid, impulsive
mistake that happened for God-only-knows-what reason and leave it
at that. You go your way, I go mine.”

She didn’t wait for him to agree or disagree, she
simply turned her back on him and started walking. He swore under
his breath, a choice word from his Hackney days, then got behind
the wheel. He followed her out of the mews, engine barely revving
higher than an idle. She glanced at him once over her shoulder,
then proceeded to ignore him as she headed for the nearest taxi
stand. He shadowed her, stubbornly refusing to abandon his escort.
The driver behind him leaned on his horn and Martin waved out the
window, signaling that he should overtake.

Violet threw him a bemused, annoyed look as she
reached the taxi stand. Clearly, she couldn’t understand what he
was doing. Why he felt responsible for her. She wasn’t the only
one. It wasn’t because he felt he owed her anything—what had
happened in the back seat of his car had been an exchange of
equals, neither of them supplicant to the other. But he couldn’t
simply drive away and abandon her as though their encounter had
been as casual as shaking hands. It had been intense, mind-blowing,
consuming.

He frowned as he watched Violet slip into the back of
a cab, confused by his own thoughts and feelings. The taxi
signaled, then pulled out from the curb. Martin followed. At the
next intersection, Violet’s cab turned left, he turned right.

When he’d left her apartment a month ago, he’d
honestly believed he’d never see her again. He wasn’t stupid enough
to believe that any more. Whether he liked it or not, he was drawn
to Violet Sutcliffe. He might fight it—he would fight it—but he had
no confidence that he’d win. Not after what had just happened.
There wasn’t a cold shower in the world that would cure the
memories he was taking home with him tonight.

It wasn’t until he was undressing half an hour later
that he realized he still had her panties in his pocket. He drew
them out, looking at them for the first time. Black silk, beautiful
quality. She’d want them back, no doubt. First thing on Monday he’d
put them in the mail.

Even as he thought it he knew it was a lie. But for
now he allowed himself to believe it, because he was nowhere near
ready to even attempt to reconcile his lust and need for Violet
with everything else he wanted in his life.

Violet poured herself a stiff drink the moment she
got home. She sat on the deep windowsill and stared down at the
street, watching pedestrians scurry along, faces muffled in
scarves.

She’d slept with Martin again. In the back seat of
his car, no less.

Craziness. Absolute craziness, of the kind she hadn’t
indulged in since she was a desperately unhappy, reckless teen,
bent on self destruction.

Tonight hadn’t felt self-destructive, though. It had
felt necessary. Inevitable. And it had felt good. So good. The feel
of his skin on hers. The taste of his mouth. The thick hardness of
him moving inside her...

She could feel herself growing wet again. She
swallowed more vodka and pressed her forehead against the cold
glass of the window.

Maybe her stepmother had been right
all those years ago, maybe she
was
a born slut. Amoral, self indulgent,
undisciplined. Maybe that was why she’d pushed aside decades of
friendship with a wonderful, loving woman in exchange for ten
excruciatingly hot minutes in Martin’s arms.

It was tempting to flagellate herself, to really give
in to the self-disgust that hovered, waiting to descend, but
everything in her rejected that old, cruel judgment. She’d fought
too long and too hard to regain her self esteem after the disaster
that was her teens to let such an ancient recrimination take root
in her mind again.

The truth was that what had happened with Martin had
been extraordinary. A temptation beyond the usual. She didn’t
understand why he had to be the one who set her world on fire so
spectacularly, but the fact remained that he did. One look and
she’d been ready to have him anywhere, any time. One touch of his
hand on her flesh and she’d been ready to come.

In another time and place, she would welcome him into
her bed and ride out their mutual passion until it burned itself
down to ash. But Elizabeth was an intrinsic part of her world. She
couldn’t allow desire and need and lust to destroy the most
enduring relationship of her life. She simply couldn’t.

She tossed back the last of the vodka, then went to
bed. Only when she was drifting toward sleep did she allow herself
to think back to those moments in the back of Martin’s car
again.

The street light reflecting off his dark hair. The
hard, urgent thrust of his body inside hers. The firm strength of
his muscles. The heady spice of his aftershave.

Oh, it had been good. So good.

She felt a single moment of deep, piercing loss as
she registered the thought. Which was crazy, because it was just
sex. It didn’t mean anything.

She was still puzzling over her own reaction as she
slipped into sleep.

Everything was much clearer the next day. There
wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she’d made a terrible mistake in
allowing herself to get swept up in her desire for Martin again. It
wouldn’t happen a third time. From now on, she would check if
Martin was on the guest list before she agreed to any social event.
And if he was, she would bow out. People would wonder, but she
could excuse herself on the basis that she felt uncomfortable
because of Elizabeth.

It was painfully true, but not for the reasons that
people would assume.

Christmas was just five shopping days away, and the
store was busy all morning with people looking for last minute
presents. She didn’t normally stay open past three in the
afternoons on Sundays, but at this time of year it paid to make an
exception. She skipped lunch, and by four was feeling more than a
little famished. Taking advantage of a lull, she ducked into the
back room. She’d bought a bag full of mangos the previous day, an
indulgence to cheer herself up in the midst of winter. She sliced
into one now, peeling the flesh away from the pit before cutting it
in a checker pattern and eating it in a greedy rush. The sweet
juices ran down her chin and she had to wash her face at the sink
when she’d finished. The bell over the door hadn’t chimed to signal
any more customers, so she reached for a second mango and sliced it
in two. She was about to get sticky and messy all over again when
the chime sounded.

Well. At least she’d gotten something into her empty
stomach. She dried her hands on a piece of paper towel, then tossed
it into the bin as she returned to the shop floor.

“
Good afternoon, how can
I—”

She stopped in her tracks, words momentarily escaping
her. Martin didn’t speak, either. He simply stood there watching
her, his dark gaze intent and hot. She felt an answering heat
spring to life inside her, even as she gathered her will to send
him packing.

“
What are you doing
here?”

“
I don’t know.”

They were both lying. She hadn’t needed to ask why he
was there, and they both knew what he wanted.

“
We can’t keep doing this,” she said
weakly.

So much for sending him packing. So much for being a
good friend.

“
Tell me how to make it stop, then.”
He took a step toward her. “I’ve got court tomorrow. I’m supposed
to be going over financial statements, but all I can think about is
you. Why is that, Violet? When a few weeks ago we could barely
stand one another?”

“
I don’t know.” She didn’t, either.
She didn’t understand how all the things that had once infuriated
her about him now turned her on so much it hurt. His neatly combed
hair. His precision-close shave. The crispness of his pale blue
shirt. The quiet quality of his corduroy blazer, complete with
leather elbow patches.

Once, his neatness had driven her nuts. Now she
looked at all that careful order and saw the tightly leashed need
beneath. She saw the strong cords in his neck and the fullness of
his bottom lip. She saw the breadth of his shoulders and the firm,
gym-honed hardness of his thighs. She saw the tamped-down desire in
his eyes and was powerless to resist her own instinctive
response.

“
Lock the door,” she
said.

He hesitated a moment, then turned and twisted the
lock. She watched as he flipped the open sign to closed. Then she
watched as he walked toward her. Her gaze dropped to the bulge in
his jeans. She took a deep, bracing breath.

Oh, boy, this was going to be good.

He closed the final few feet between them and kept
coming until he had her pressed against the counter.

“
I can’t get you out of my head,
Violet.”

She slid her hands inside his jacket, smoothing her
hands over warm, fine cotton. “Shut up and kiss me.”

She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think or
consider or weigh the decision she’d just made. If she stopped long
enough, she’d remember why she shouldn’t, couldn’t do this. And she
needed Martin. She needed him so badly...

He didn’t wait to be asked twice. His head lowered,
his mouth capturing hers. His tongue stroked into her mouth,
confident, demanding. His hands found her breasts, plucking at her
nipples through the softness of her cashmere sweater. The ache
between her thighs intensified to a demanding throb. She reached
blindly for the buttons on his shirt, sliding them free one at a
time.

The door rattled. She broke their kiss, glancing over
her shoulder to see someone peering through the glass panel.
Martin’s hand fell from her breasts. She took it and used it to tow
him into the back room, kicking the door shut behind them. There
wasn’t much in here—an old pine table, a couple of bentwood chairs,
the sink and microwave and fridge—but it didn’t matter. The
important thing was that Martin was here, and no one could
interrupt them.

Belatedly it occurred to her that they could go
upstairs. It wasn’t exactly miles away, after all.

“
Do you want to—”

Martin swallowed her words with a kiss, the force of
his desire tilting her head back. His hands found her backside and
he lifted her onto the table. She automatically spread her legs as
he moved between them, her knee-length skirt bunching up around her
thighs. He pulled her sweater over her head, his grey gaze sweeping
from breast to breast. He cupped her, then lowered his head and
drew first one nipple and then the other into his mouth. The wet
heat and the insistent pull combined to make her moan. She reached
for his buckle but he nudged her hands away.

“
Not yet,” he said.

She braced her arms behind her on the table and gave
herself over to his sensual assault. He licked and sucked and bit
her nipples, lavishing attention on her. Heat built between her
thighs, an aching throb that demanded satisfaction.

As though he sensed her need, Martin smoothed a hand
beneath her skirt, gliding his palm over her stay up stockings,
pausing briefly when his hand moved from stocking to warm skin. He
lifted his head from her breasts, his eyes sharp and knowing as
they looked into hers. Then he pushed her skirt high and surveyed
what his hands had just discovered.

She followed his gaze and saw herself spread before
him, the black lace of her stay-ups framing the pale skin of her
upper thighs. His gaze zeroed in on the pale pink silk of her
panties. She bit her lip as he reached out and ran his index finger
lightly down the crease of her sex. Her breath came out in a
shudder. His touch delicate, Martin slipped his fingers beneath the
waistband of her underwear and gently slid them down her hips. He
didn’t take his gaze from her as she lifted her backside to allow
him to remove then entirely. A heartbeat later she was bared to
him.

Once again he stepped between her thighs, pushing her
wide with his body and his hands. Her arms gave out and she sank
onto her back as he framed her sex with both hands.