Sins

The hot breeze did nothing to cool the air. Oliver could see the Pierre up ahead of them.

‘Fancy a drink?’ His invitation surprised him just as much as it did Ella, who was looking at him with that haughty expression of hers.

Ella was just about to refuse–after all, neither another drink nor Oliver’s company held any appeal for her whatsoever–but when she opened her mouth to do so, a light came on inside her head. The key to unlocking her self-made prison and being Brad’s lover was standing in front of her. That knowledge made her feel dizzy and shaky, as though she’d suddenly stepped from dry land onto somewhere far more unsteady–unsteady, but also unexpectedly exhilarating.

Her agreement wasn’t the response Oliver had expected. He nodded, not sure why he had asked her in the first place, but aware that he had assumed she would refuse, and that that would have given him the opportunity to bait her and see how she reacted.

She had no idea why she hadn’t thought of this solution before, Ella acknowledged, sitting in the bar of the Pierre Hotel minutes later whilst she drank her second Martini. She’d drunk her first quickly, like someone taking medicine, which in a sense was exactly what she had been doing, using the alcohol to create a comforting barrier between her and the reality of what she was planning to do.

Oliver had slept with dozens of girls, everyone knew that. All she had to do was let him do whatever it was he did to make him so popular with her sex, and that way rid herself of not just her virginity but, just as importantly, her lack of experience. Somehow it didn’t matter at all that Oliver would know about her inexperience, but then she had no wish to impress him, had she?

Things weren’t going quite as she’d expected, though, she admitted, sitting on the plush velour banquette whilst Oliver sat opposite her, the table between them. She was on her third Martini now, and beginning to feel a bit desperate. Everyone knew that Oliver pounced on all his models; she may not be a model but, without being vain, she knew that she was reasonably attractive now, even if she hadn’t been when Oliver had known her in London–and Venice, where he had kissed her. So far, though, Oliver hadn’t made any move on her at all. Was it because of something that she wasn’t doing? If so, what? She looked around for inspiration.

A couple came in, the man leading the woman over to the banquette. Once she was seated, she patted the space next to herself invitingly, encouraging the man to sit next to her.

Of course!

Ella turned to Oliver, suddenly frozen.

She had to. It was now or never. Just think about what’s at stake, she urged herself. You want to be with Brad, don’t you? You’re already in love with him, and he wants you–or rather, he wants the woman he thinks you are, the woman you’re never going to be if you lose your nerve now.

She tried to smile and wondered if the result looked as forced and unnatural as it felt. She had to clear her throat before she could speak, her voice sounding stiff to her own ears as she asked Oliver, ‘Why don’t you sit here next to me?’

Oliver almost spilled his drink. Ella, the ice queen, was coming on to him? Impossible. He must be imagining it.

He looked at her. No, he wasn’t imagining it. He wasn’t that desperate for a shag either, he told himself. Mind, by the looks of them she had got good tits. And besides, what else was he going to do with his evening?

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he told her, inching his chair closer to her, on familiar territory now. ‘Why don’t you finish your drink and then we’ll go back to my place?’

Relief and panic surged through her in dizzying spurts. She felt distinctly wobbly but at the same time triumphant.

Oliver’s apartment was on the Upper East Side, the smart side of the park, their cab depositing them outside it with what felt like breathtaking speed. During the ride Ella had sat with her back ramrod straight, staring ahead, whilst Oliver had lounged easily at her side, playing with her fingers and humming under his breath. She had looked at him–once–only to look quickly away again when she’d realised that his lounging position had dragged the fabric of his jeans tightly across his groin, rather explicitly revealing what their journey was all about.

That was enough to have her heart hammeri

ng and make her mouth go dry.

A uniformed concierge opened the outer door to the apartment building for them. This was the more the kind of place she had imagined Brad living in than Oliver, with his carefully scruffy appearance and his overlong hair. It was certainly far smarter and more expensive than her brownstone apartment, she thought, as Oliver ushered her into the elevator, and pressed the button.

‘Alone at last,’ he told her with a mock leer.

What on earth was she supposed to do? How did other women behave when they were in this situation with a man like Oliver? Presumably they were highly delighted, whilst all she felt was highly apprehensive. The lift started to move, jolting her off balance, so that she fell against Oliver, who immediately caught her in his arms.

She had been here before and, extraordinarily, her body seemed to know it, her senses reading and recognising him.

How disturbing to think that for all these years her own flesh had stored a memory of a mere handful of seconds in his arms.

‘That’s how I like my women,’ Oliver teased her, ‘throwing themselves at me.’

Arrogant pig. Just in time she bit back the retort.

He kept his arm around her as he guided her down the corridor to his apartment, massaging the back of her neck with his free hand as he unlocked the door.

‘Want a drink?’ he asked.

Ella was about to shake her head, but then nodded instead. Dutch courage? Well, why not? She was going to need it.

‘G & T?’