Her Best Worst Mistake (8 page)

He hadn’t left work at five for months, possibly
years, and he looked around blankly when he exited to the street.
It was already dark, and he watched as people walked briskly past,
huddled in their coats. Diagonally across the street was a small
bar where many of the staff went for after-work drinks. He stared
at its glowing windows for a long minute, trying to imagine the
reaction if he suddenly appeared in their midst.

Shock, surprise, a bit of smirking behind hands once
what he’d told Tammy had done the rounds.

He turned away from the bar and went to collect his
car. He dumped his briefcase inside the door when he got home. He
shed his coat, then wandered from room to room, trying to work out
what to do with himself. Usually on Friday nights he did something
with Elizabeth—dinner out, a movie, perhaps something at the
theatre. He hadn’t spent a Friday night alone for a long time. A
very long time, now he came to think of it.

He shook his head at himself. He’d lost a fiancee,
not his whole bloody life. He went into the kitchen and started
opening cupboards. He’d make himself dinner. Not grilled cheese on
toast like last night, but a proper three course meal. Something
that would take time and concentration and effort. Then he would
sit in front of the TV and crack a good bottle of claret and
relax.

The second cupboard he opened contained mixing bowls
and baking trays—as well as the bottle of peach schnapps. He
hesitated a moment, then grabbed it and twisted the plastic seal
off in one smooth action. He reached for a glass and poured himself
an inch or two.

Sweet, fragrant heat hit the back of his throat. He
closed his eyes, savoring the taste. He didn’t usually have a sweet
tooth, but when he’d tried schnapps for the first time at a West
End bar last year he’d discovered that there was something about
the sweetness of the peach and the heat of the alcohol that
appealed to his palate.

He lifted the glass to his mouth again, then stilled
as it occurred to him that Violet had been there that night, too,
lolling against the bar in a purple sparkly dress that had been too
short and too tight and too bright.

And when she’d gone looking for a pity gift for him,
she’d bought him peach schnapps, out of all the options open to her
at the off-license.

Which meant it was either a coincidence... or she’d
remembered that night and how much he’d enjoyed the schnapps.

He downed the last of the drink.

It was probably a coincidence. There was no reason
for her to remember such a small, insignificant detail about him.
Certainly there hadn’t been anything special about that night to
mark it in her memory—it had been a night like any other, one of
many times he’d socialized with Violet for Elizabeth’s sake.

Which is why you can remember
exactly what she was wearing, down to her shiny purple
stilettos
.

He froze for the second time in as many minutes,
everything in him rejecting the thought that had just insinuated
itself, unbidden, into his mind.

So what if he remembered what she’d been wearing? She
went out of her way to be noticed, hence her clothes were
memorable. Everything about her was designed to be memorable—her
perfume, her laugh, the outrageous things she said. The way she
walked, the way she smiled.

He reached for the bottle and poured himself another
drink, almost filling the glass this time.

As though he’d opened a floodgate within himself, a
storehouse of Violet-tinged memories fell out. The fact that she
hated escargot but adored truffles. The fact that she’d once queued
for days to buy tickets for a George Michael concert. The fact that
she absolutely refused to learn the names of any players for any of
the country’s football teams, even though it required a concerted
effort to forget the headlines and news reports focusing on the
country’s national obsession.

The fact that she rarely wore a bra, leaving her
small breasts free to bounce with the sway of her walk.

“
Shit.”

He gulped at his drink, but the heat in his throat
didn’t take away the truth of his realisation.

He felt as though the room had just tilted, as though
up had become down, black become white.

Violet drove him crazy. She stirred him up and got
under his skin and made him grind his teeth with frustration.

And, God help him, apparently some perverse part of
him actually liked it.

Violet slipped the tissue-wrapped scarf and hat into
a bag and handed it to the waiting customer.

“
I hope it keeps you warm all
winter,” she said.

The customer smiled her thanks and headed for the
exit. Violet followed her and threw the bolt, then returned to the
counter and pulled the cash drawer out. Normally she liked to count
the day’s takings and put them in the floor safe overnight, but she
was tired and she’d stayed open an extra half hour to give her last
customer time to vacillate between the blue and red scarf and beret
or the green and grey set. A sale was a sale, but the day was well
and truly over and visions of a cup of tea and toast soldiers with
Marmite danced in her head. She would put her favorite flannel
pajamas on and snuggle under a blanket and watch something mindless
on the box while she got crumbs all over herself.

Not a red letter night, but it was about all she was
up for these days. So much for her reputation for being a wild,
party-loving slapper. Martin St Clair would be so disappointed if
he knew the most outré thing she’d done recently was wear the same
T-shirt two days running. The scandal!

She made a rude noise as she realized she was
thinking about Martin again. Just when she thought she’d banished
him from her psyche, he’d pop back up again. Which was annoying and
possibly even a little disturbing.

She emptied the takings into a plastic bag and
stuffed the bag into her coat pocket. She flicked off the main
light and the stereo, then locked the front door and let herself
into the stairwell leading to the apartment.

She threw her coat on the back of the couch once she
was upstairs, kicking her shoes off as she moved into the kitchen.
She was about to drop two slices of bread into the toaster when the
buzzer rang.

She grumbled to herself as she crossed to the
intercom. If it was someone selling something, she was going to be
very tempted to be rude.

“
Yes?”

“
Violet.”

She didn’t recognize the voice and she frowned. “Yes.
Who is this, please?”

“
It’s Martin. St Clair.
Elizabeth’s...friend.”

Violet stared at the intercom, nonplussed. What on
earth was he doing here?

“
What do you want?” she asked. Rude,
but she figured the gloves were well and truly off after their last
encounter.

“
Can I come up?”

Could he come up? Martin St Clair, in her
apartment?

She glanced around at her brown velvet couch with
leopard skin cushions, her beaten up coffee table heaving with old
magazines and discarded plates and mugs and wine glasses, the
kitchen table loaded down with yet more newspapers and magazines
and books and dirty dishes. There were no less than three pairs of
shoes scattered about the room, discarded scarves draped over the
back of the couch, the arm of her standard lamp, the
radiator...

Oh, well. It would give Martin something else to be
horrified about. No doubt his apartment was clean enough to play
host to surgery.

“
Sure. Why not?” she said dryly. She
pressed the buzzer to let him in.

She heard his footsteps on the stair treads and a
ridiculous little dart of nervousness wriggled its way through her
belly.

“
What is wrong with you?” she
muttered to herself, but unfortunately she knew.

A knock sounded at the front door and she lifted her
chin and stepped forward. At the last minute, she fluffed her hair.
Something she could give herself hell for later.

After he’d said whatever angry thing he wanted to say
and was gone.

She pulled the door open and adopted her most
disinterested, disdainful expression.

“
Yes, Martin? How can I help
you?”

He was wearing his black overcoat, naturally, with
his suit underneath. His hair was rumpled and his tie was missing
in action. His eyes were...different. And he didn’t look as
haughtily superior as he usually did. In fact, he actually looked a
little uncertain.

“
Can I come in?”

Her gaze dipped to the open neck of his shirt. A few
dark curls were visible there. She frowned, then looked away,
stepping aside and making a sweeping gesture with her hand.

“
By all means. Since we’re being so
polite with each other.”

He brushed past her in the small space. She could
smell the cold night air on his coat, along with something else.
Something sweet and a little fruity.

Belgian peach schnapps, if she didn’t miss her
guess.

Martin stopped in the middle of her living room, his
gaze flicking briefly over the mess.

She arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her
chest and waited for him to throw the opening insult.

“
Why did you buy me schnapps?” he
asked.

Not what she’d expected.

“
You came here to ask me
that?”

“
Yes.”

She frowned. “Are you drunk?”

“
A little. Answer the
question.”

“
I told you why I bought it. I
wanted to let you know I was sorry about what had happened with
E.”

He dismissed her answer with an
impatient wave of his hand. “Not that. Why
schnapps
? Why not brandy or whiskey
or... I don’t know, chartreuse?”

“
Chartreuse? That’s that vile green
glow-in-the-dark stuff, isn’t it? Why on earth would I buy you
that?”

“
Why on earth buy me
schnapps?”

Violet shrugged, feeling defensive all of a sudden.
“I don’t know. You had some that time we were at the theatre. You
seemed to like it.”

“
That was over a year
ago.”

“
So?”

“
That’s a long time to remember
something.”

“
Maybe I just have a good
memory.”

She was starting to feel
uncomfortable. Or perhaps
exposed
was the better word.

“
You have an appalling memory. You
forget Elizabeth’s birthday every year.”

“
No, I don’t.”

“
Yes, you do.”

There was something about the way he was looking at
her that made her feel even more nervous.

“
So? I remembered you liked the
peach schnapps. It’s not a big deal.”

“
Isn’t it? I remember that you hate
escargot. And that you refuse to see any movie with Kate Beckinsale
in it. And that you have every George Michael album ever
made.”

She blinked. “Why would you remember all of that?

“
I don’t know. I used to think it
was because you annoyed me.” He took a step toward her. “I used to
think it was because you were always wearing short skirts and low
cut tops and laughing too loud. I used to think it was because your
perfume would get in my clothes and stay with me for days
afterward, even though I’d barely brushed up against
you.”

He took another step toward her and something
powerful and undeniable thudded in the pit of her stomach.

“
You hate me,” she said, staring at
him, knowing she should put some distance between them before this
became something it shouldn’t.

“
Do I?”

He was so close she could see the tiny scar on the
corner of his top lip. She stared at it for a moment. She’d always
wondered how he got that scar.

“
Why did you lift your top the other
night in my office? Why did you flash your breasts at me like
that?” he asked, his voice very low, his grey eyes intent on
her.

“
I don’t know,” she
whispered.

“
Liar,” he said, and then he closed
the distance between them and his hands were cupping her face and
his mouth was lowering toward hers and her heart was beating so
hard and fast it was a wonder it didn’t explode.

And then his mouth was on hers and there was nothing
else in the whole wide world except for the warmth and the pressure
and the rasp of his tongue and the taste of him and the press of
his body against hers and the need surging through her blood like a
runaway freight train.

She grabbed the lapels of his coat and hung on as he
deepened the kiss, tilting her head back, one hand sliding down her
back to grab her backside and pull her more tightly against him.
She felt his hard-on through the layers of his suit and her skirt
and knew that if she didn’t have him in the next sixty seconds she
was literally going to expire from need.

She’d waited so long. So long.

Not breaking their kiss, she reached for the
waistband of her sweater and dragged it up. She pulled away from
him long enough to wrench it over her head and toss it to one side,
then she dragged him back to her and reached for his belt
buckle.

“
Violet,” he groaned as she slid a
hand inside his fly and found his cock, hard and thick for
her.

“
I need this. Now. I need you inside
me,” she said.

He made a desperate animal noise and the next thing
she knew she was on her back on the couch, her skirt around her
waist, her panties pushed to one side as Martin slid his fingers
into her moist heat.