Perfect Strangers

‘Maybe. But it could have been better.’

Her smile faltered.

‘How?’

‘We never did this.’

Nick stepped towards her, his hand touching the curve of her cheek, his lips on hers, soft and warm. Hers eyes closed as she savoured the taste of him, then all too soon it was over. She knew he was waiting for her to invite him inside. But she couldn’t. He would know in an instant that the house was not hers. The photographs of Lana and Simon. Her bedroom, still with that temporary vibe of a holidaymaker. Don’t break the spell, said a voice in her head. Keep it as a perfect memory.

‘Good night, Nick,’ she said.

‘Is that it?’ he asked, his disappointment evident.

‘Well, I thought you were going back to the desert.’

‘Not straight away.’ He smiled, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a red pigskin diary.

‘Here,’ he said, opening it and showing her the page for the next day. ‘You see that?’ He pointed to the blank space. ‘That’s for you. And the next day and the next.’ He looked at her, suddenly anxious. ‘If you want it, that is.’

‘Yes,’ said Sophie, and she stepped forward and kissed him again. ‘Yes I do. Very much.’

9

The sun was leaking through the curtains in the Wellington Suite of the Riverton Hotel. Sophie kept her eyes closed, wanting to savour the feeling for a few seconds more. Still pleasantly fuggy from sleep, she felt the crisp sheets on her skin and the soft pillow under her bed-head hair. Most of all, she wanted to relish the feeling of Nick’s naked body next to hers, his arm casually thrown around her, his leg hooked over hers, their bodies still entwined even in sleep.

I think, she smiled to herself, this is what they call a whirlwind romance. Nick had called her that night; in fact he’d called her moments after he’d left her on Lana’s doorstep – ‘just to wish you good night’ – then first thing in the morning to tell her that the sun was out and that it was a perfect morning for croissants and coffee. He came to collect her in his silver sports car, casual and sexy in a navy polo shirt, and drove her to a café with checked red tablecloths hidden away down by the river, which he said reminded him of his time in Paris where his apartment had had a view of the Seine.

Neither of them had wanted the date to end. When Sophie had suggested that she had clients to see, Nick had insisted that she cancel them all. They got back in the car and followed the river all the way out to Eton, where they drank Pimm’s and lemonade watching the sunlight glint off the Thames.

The next few days had followed a similar pattern. Nick was attentive and fun, calling or texting throughout the day, sending her flowers or arranging a lunch date. And they had spent every evening together at the sumptuous suite he kept at the Riverton. Sophie smiled to herself again, remembering the fourth night, the previous evening, when she had finally succumbed and allowed him to seduce her, slowly, gently, sensuously. She could feel herself becoming turned on at the memory of him undressing her. He was obviously a practised and skilful lover, taking his time to explore her body, kissing every inch of her, every secret place, making every nerve ending pulse with pleasure, making her come with such a fierce intensity she had felt faint and dizzy afterwards. At some point they had called room service. They had made love again and then taken a long, sudsy bath together, and in the early hours of the morning had fallen asleep, their limbs tangled beneath the starched white hotel sheets, their bodies tired, depleted and happy from sex.

And yet, still she felt a t

ightness in her stomach. It had been perfect, this whirlwind romance, apart from one thing. She still hadn’t told him the truth about Lana’s house, how it wasn’t really hers, how she was only house-sitting, or the fact she was actually a personal trainer – an unqualified personal trainer at that.

I’ll tell him, she said to herself. I’ll tell him tonight.

‘What time is it?’ said Nick sleepily, stirring at her side.

‘Six forty,’ she said, kissing his shoulder. ‘I have to go.’

‘You’re kidding me. What’s so important?’

‘I’ve got a client to see and I have to go back to the house and prepare. You’ve been distracting me too much.’

‘Who’s the client? Can’t they wait?’

‘Some hedge-funder. I have to take the meeting.’

Stop it, she scolded herself. Stop lying.

Then again, Olivia Isaacs was a hedge-funder. One who was getting married and who wanted to get into top shape so desperately she was prepared to pay Sophie £200 an hour for the privilege. This was their first session, and she was potentially a big money-spinner for Sophie; she still hadn’t taken her personal trainer’s course, but she couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, could she?

‘How about I distract you?’ growled Nick, his nose nuzzling into her ear.

His lips moved to hers, plucking them with delicate kisses as his hands traced the curves of her body. She groaned with arousal. She was tempted, so tempted to stay, but if she could not drag herself away from him, if she let him make love to her, she would miss her appointment and lose a client.

She laughed softly and pulled away.