Sweet Deception (33 page)

The urgency in my voice was unmistakable. Richard
stared at me for a long moment. I think in spite of everything I'd just said, he was still afraid that I might bolt. I half expected him to back away, but then just as I was giving up hope, he cupped my chin in his hands, tipping my face up to him. His gaze held mine for a split second, and then he bent his head and kissed me.

As his lips found mine, my eyes fluttered closed, my mouth opening to his. And before I could think what I was doing, my body was pressing against his, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was all the invitation that Richard needed. With a low growl he finally abandoned his restraint, and he was kissing me wildly, his arms circling my waist, and pulling me to his strong, hard chest with an intensity that left me breathless. His hands were in my hair, his lips on my neck, as though he couldn't get enough of me. I rubbed against him like a cat, enjoying the feel of just how turned on he was already. His grip on me tightened, as he groaned against my mouth. And then he was dragging me backwards, down onto the couch with him, so I was lying stretched across his body.

His hands ran lightly over my shoulder blades and down over my buttocks, sending a delicious shiver through me.

“Tell me what you like,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

I knew what he meant, but I could only shake my head. I'd slept with more men than I could remember, but it had
never once been about pleasure. For all my experience, in terms of getting any enjoyment from sex, I might as well be a virgin.

“Seriously? You've never—?” I saw his jaw clench as he worked out the reason why—Toby. And then, with what must have been a supreme effort, he cleared the darkness from his eyes, and managed a playful smile. “Well, let's see what we can do about that.”

In one practised move, he flipped me onto my back, so that he was kneeling above me. His mouth found mine again, as his hands began to work the buttons on my shirt. As he pulled the thin material apart, he cupped my breasts, his thumbs grazing the nipples in a way that sent little frissons of excitement through me. Part of me wondered if I was being selfish, letting him do all the work, but he seemed totally focused on my pleasure right now, which was fine with me.

My eyes were closed, and I stretched beneath him, giving myself up his touch. And then his lips were moving down my body, his hands unzipping my trousers and easing them off, along with my underwear. He trailed his mouth across my abdomen. I sucked in a breath, desire pooling at the base of my groin. I shifted restlessly, suddenly impatient to get on with this—not because I wanted it over with like before, but because I needed him to touch me properly, right now, before I exploded.

Instinctively I parted my thighs, and his mouth moved downwards, his fingers fluttering over me as I arched beneath him. I could feel I was on the brink of something, and as tempting as it was to let Richard continue, I wanted us to experience this together, if we could.

“Richard?” It took a supreme effort on my part to choke out the word. He raised his head, and I struggled to sit up. I eyed the bulge in his jeans. “I think it's your turn.”

“I don't mind . . . I'm happy like this if it's all you want for now.”

It was the sweet, thoughtful response that I'd come to expect from Richard. My answer was to reach for the buckle of his jeans.

I eased down his boxers as he found a condom. And then I was lying against the soft cushions of the couch, He was poised above me, hesitating still, his face a mix of desire and wariness.

I reached up and touched his face. “It's all right. This is what I want.”

I pulled him towards me; he eased in slowly, moving gently, almost agonisingly so, as though I might break. I knew he was still worried about hurting me, but I was past that now. My thighs clenched at his waist, my hips lifted, urging him to let go.

“It's what I want,” I whispered in his ear. “Please.”

He gave in. He bowed his head, and abandoned his last vestiges of control.

I felt a white-hot tremor begin to ripple through me. My eyes widened in surprise, and I cried out—a mix of relief and elation. Richard raised his head briefly, and a flicker of contentment crossed his face. Then a second later, his chin dropped, his hands tightened on my shoulders, and with a roar he joined me in the shuddering abyss.

“Oh, Charlotte.” My mother sighed, and I could hear a lifetime of disappointment in me in the sound. “Do you honestly expect us to believe that?”

I felt tears gathering in my eyes, and quickly blinked them away. I'd spent some time trying to work out how my parents would react when I told them what Toby had done to me, but even at my most pessimistic, I'd never envisioned this exasperation, as though I was a little child who'd cried wolf one too many times.

I looked around the room. It was odd—I couldn't quite tell where we were. It was an old-fashioned living room, small, with a three-piece suite and floral wallpaper, but not somewhere I recognised—certainly not Richard's apartment, or even any of the rooms at Claylands.

“What's she saying now?” Suddenly Kate appeared—which was odd, because I couldn't see a door in the room. She dropped onto the sofa next to my mother. “She's not telling you that rubbish
about Toby, is she?”

My mother and sister were staring at me with undisguised contempt. I turned to my father, who was sitting in an armchair. At least I could rely on him to take my side. But he was looking at me with disappointment, shaking his head. “You really are a lying little slut.”

His words cut me to the bone. It was so much worse than hearing them from my mother or sister.

And then all three of them were saying it, chanting in unison: “Lying slut, lying slut.” I covered my ears, trying to block the noise out. “Lying slut—”

*  *  *

“Charlotte!” Richard's voice jerked me from the nightmare. Panic gripped me. My heartbeat was galloping at twice its normal speed, and the bedclothes were sticking to my body, which was covered in a cold sweat. It had felt so real . . .

I rolled onto my back, and looked up at Richard, who was propped up on one elbow, frowning down at me in concern. He touched my bare shoulder, his hand light and hesitant on my skin. “Are you all right?”

I realised then that he assumed my panic was to do with him and what had happened between us last night. “I'm fine. It was just a bad dream.” His frown deepened, and I knew I had to elaborate. I fiddled with the sheets, as I tried to find the words. “I'd told my parents about . . . well, about Toby.”

“And I'm guessing they didn't react well?”

I attempted a smile. “You could say that.”

His hand squeezed my shoulder. “You know it wasn't real, right?”

“I know.” I spoke quietly. “But it still doesn't make me feel any better about telling them. I don't even know what I'm going to say . . .”

My voice quivered a little. I didn't want to think about what that conversation would be like. I closed my eyes, and all I could see was my sister's face last night when I'd tried to explain everything to her. She hadn't been in touch with me since then, which meant she was still furious. What if my parents had the same reaction? What if they thought I was lying? I dug my nails into my palms, as I tried to fight the rising panic.

“Oh God.” The words choked out of me.

“Hey, hey.” Richard's voice was soothing, as his hand came up to stroke my cheek. The coolness of his fingers against my own hot skin calmed me, brought me back to reality. My eyes fluttered open, so I was gazing up at his concerned face. “I know this is going to be hard, but you need to do it. And I think you'll feel better once you've told them. No matter what their reaction.”

He bent his head, allowing his lips to brush mine. I think he'd intended it to be a light peck, just a gesture of reassurance and affection, but as he made to draw away, my hand
reached around the back of his neck, drawing him back down to me.

We kissed for a long moment, until he finally pulled away. “As much as I'm enjoying this, don't you need to deal with your family?”

“You know what?” I stretched luxuriously, from my toes to the tips of my fingers. “I think it can wait.”

I closed my eyes then, happy to allow him to help me forget, for a little while, at least. Usually I couldn't wait to get away from the man I'd spent the night with. But right now, there was nowhere I'd rather be.

*  *  *

Afterwards I made the phone call to my parents. Richard went downstairs, ostensibly to fix breakfast for us, but I suspect mainly to give me some privacy to make the call. I sat curled up on the big armchair by the window, staring at the phone in my hands. I knew I should just dial their number, and get it over and done with, but something was holding me back.

Unfortunately the longer I stared at the phone, the worse it got. My stomach was churning, a sense of dread enveloping me. It was that awful feeling of not wanting to do something that I had no way of getting out of. I thought about putting it off, and going to have some breakfast first. But the idea was only briefly comforting. Even if I did leave it, the
prospect of eventually having to make the call would be hanging over me, preventing me from really enjoying anything. It would be best to get it over with.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I could hear Richard downstairs in the kitchen—the whirr of the juicer, and the banging of cupboard doors—and the sounds of him moving around, and doing something normal like cooking breakfast, comforted me, easing my anxiety. Before I could change my mind, I hit the number for Claylands.

My parents had texted me the previous evening to say that they intended to travel back to the country first thing in the morning. Part of me hoped they'd still be driving back, and that I'd get the answering machine. But instead my mother picked up on the first ring.

“Charlotte?” She must have seen my number on caller ID. “Is everything all right? What happened last night? You really shouldn't have left your own party like that—”

“I know.” I cut her off, not wanting to get into what she'd see as my rudeness. It would just lead to a fight, and I didn't have the energy for one right now. “And I want to explain, but not on the phone.”

There was silence at the other end. I imagined my mother had been expecting me to argue back with her, like I usually did—tell her that it was none of her business how I behaved. But instead I'd admitted my mistake, and told her I wanted to discuss it.

“Look, I was thinking of coming to see you guys tomorrow,” I went on, before she could recover. “If you're free.”

Part of me was willing her to say that they were busy—anything to put off the inevitable confrontation. “Well, of course,” my mother said, quickly recovering. “It would be lovely to see you.” She waited a beat and then: “Is everything all right?”

I softened a little at her concern. “Everything's fine. I'll explain tomorrow.”

I didn't give her a chance to pry any farther. I agreed to be down for midday. She mentioned lunch, but I remained noncommittal. I had a feeling no one would have much of an appetite after I told her exactly what had been going on.

I ended the call, and collapsed back into the chair. It was only then that I realised just how tense I'd been. I could still hear Richard in the kitchen, the sound of the kettle boiling and pots and pans clattering, and I knew I should go down to join him. But part of me felt too exhausted to move.

It took all my energy to drag myself up. As I emerged from the bedroom, I caught the salty, comforting smell of melting butter. It lifted my mood a little. I made my way slowly downstairs. When I reached the bottom step, I paused, watching Richard move around the kitchen, enjoying the sight of him being so focused on such a domestic task. He was in the middle of making the pancakes he'd promised, beating eggs and weighing out flour. He hadn't heard me
come down, and for a second he didn't notice that I was there. Finally he looked up, and seeing me, he smiled.

“There you are.” He stepped away from the mixing bowl, and wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. “How did that go?”

“As well as could be expected.” I walked over, and slid onto one of the stools. “I said I'd go down to Claylands tomorrow morning, and that we'd talk then.”

He gave a brisk nod. “Fair enough. So we'll leave here at nine.”

“You're coming, too?” I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Of course I am.” He spoke as though it hadn't even been an option not to come. “There's no way I'd let you do this alone.”

He switched off the hob, and walked over to where I was sitting. “I know tomorrow isn't going to be easy, but you're doing the right thing.”

“Am I?” I raked my hand through my hair. “Telling my parents about Toby . . . it's going to rip my family apart. Kate made it clear that she doesn't believe me. So that means my parents are going to be forced to choose sides.”

“And you're worried they won't choose yours?”

I thought about it. “No,” I said finally. “I'm just worried that whoever they choose, it will never be the same. It was hard enough for us all losing Kit. Now it feels like I'm breaking up our family again. I feel like . . .” I searched to put into
words what I meant. “I feel like I'm being selfish telling them about what happened. That it'd be easier on everyone if I'd never said anything.”

“It might be easier, but it certainly wouldn't be right.”

I didn't answer straight away. It was hard to put into words exactly what I was feeling. Even after everything that Dr. Milton had said, labelling what Toby had done to me as rape, I still felt conflicted. What would Toby say if pressed on the subject? Maybe he'd be genuinely horrified to hear the accusation. I still remembered the crush I'd had on him that summer, how I'd willingly gone with him into the barn that night. Was I simply trying to justify betraying my sister by claiming that Toby had forced me? Had I led him on, and then manipulated events in my head?