Blokebusters Read online

  “It’s your fault – you’re too damn sexy.”

  “Don’t give me that – anything with a pulse and you’ll chase it.”

  “Oh. Matt told you.” He flattened his hair. “Nancy’s driven me to it.”

  “To be honest, I don’t want to know,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t believe her.

  “Nancy hasn’t had sex with me for two years. Not since she came home and found me with the gardener.” He noted Georgia’s expression. “It was a woman.”

  “Why hasn’t she divorced you?”

  “Because she likes the house and her lifestyle too much.” He stood up and checked himself in the mirror. “Suits me too. Someone presentable to take to functions.”

  “Are you really going to a conference tonight?”

  “No. But Nancy thinks I am. It suits her to believe it.”

  Downstairs, Nancy grew nervous. She went to the foot of the stairs. Her worry was infectious and Matt joined her.

  “Is everything all right up there?”

  “Fine,” they called down in unison.

  Georgia went downstairs.

  “Alan tripped over the Ottoman but he’s OK now.” She met Matt’s eyes briefly and looked away.

  “What happened?” he asked when Nancy went to the kitchen to check on lunch.

  “Did you hear a thud?”

  “You could say. I thought the ceiling was coming down on me.”

  “That was me shoving Alan off. He jumped on me, on the bed.”

  “He did what?” Matt’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t panic – it was pure Alan. About as threatening as a blancmange.”

  “Do you want me to thump him? To defend your honour?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hundred percent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And ruin my lovely hands?”

  She giggled and he took both her hands in his.

  “Are you honestly all right? If he’s hurt you or upset you I’ll kill him.”

  “I’m fine thanks. I can look after myself. I’m a big girl now.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  The rest of their visit passed pleasantly enough. Alan controlled himself. Nancy only bitched at Matt and Georgia a little bit. They got to leave relatively earl

  *

  “Do you mind if I do some gardening?” Matt asked when they got home.

  “Change into something warmer first. Don’t want you catching cold.”

  He went upstairs to find his fleece, delighted that she cared enough to fuss. She followed him into the bedroom to hang her jacket up.

  “So, show me what Alan did.” He was bare-chested, midway through changing. She admired his torso, broad and muscular but fit from digging rather than poncing about in a gym. Manly, not sculpted.

  “All right.” She led him to the bed and straddled him.

  “What happened next?” Matt gasped.

  “He asked me to slap him.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I’ve never slapped anyone before.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I shoved him, really hard.” She stroked Matt’s chest, as able to hurt him as she could push him out of a window. “And you heard the thud.”

  “Hmm.”

  Georgia detected a quickening in Matt’s breathing; either she was crushing him to death or he was aroused. She wriggled a little to see if there was any clue at below-belt level. Yup.

  Matt rolled on top of her and suddenly, all she could see was him: he smothered her but was careful not to rest his full weight against her. He’d removed his glasses – always a promising sign.

  “Maybe we can change the ending this time?” His eyes bored excitedly into hers.

  “I think we can. You’re not Alan after all.”

  “The gardening wasn’t that urgent.”

  *

  The Sunday tabloids upped the ante significantly. Matt bought them all. The Sun on Sunday appealed for information and offered £15,000. The Sunday Mirror claimed they’d had a lot of responses and were researching all leads. The Sunday Sport had three strippers claiming they’d been to a cocaine-fuelled orgy with Larry and he’d swung both ways. One of them claimed he was ‘hung like a donkey’ and had staying power ‘only matched by the Duracell bunny’.

  Matt was delighted.

  “I like that one the best. I might frame it.”

  Georgia said nothing. The press wouldn’t rest until they got some answers. One small story to them could be life-changing for the subjects.

  “What do you think then? About me and three strippers?” He nudged her.

  She looked at them in the photo with their clichéd lingerie and tired provocative poses.

  “I think if Larry slept with any of them it must’ve been a very dark room.”

  “They’re classy girls – look, they’ve lost all their clothes on this page.” He turned to a full page photo with them naked and thrusting their charms at the camera. “I’m glad Larry’s gay – I wouldn’t like him to get mixed up with women like that.”

  She got up, using his knee as a hand rest and phoned Fiona. “One time I want to speak to her and she’s got her answerphone on,” she muttered as Fiona asked her to leave a message. “Fi – it’s Georgia. Buy a copy of the Sunday Sport. Trust me. You’ll find it interesting.” She hung up.

  Chapter nineteen

  Fiona had a busy Saturday. While Matt and Georgia were at Nancy and Alan’s, she had two afternoon clients. Both wanted their men tested at a gym. Fiona didn’t mind, she was a member of the gym chain anyway but never usually went. She found the idea of seduction among sweaty bodies quite a turn-on. Both men were up for cheating and she felt a little swell of pride that she could pull in a place so stuffed full of beautiful young professionals.

  Her two early evening clients were straightforward: one polite refusal and one rather rude refusal. It was the third one who unsettled her. The client had requested elegance and chic on her questionnaire. Fiona wore a pale peach lace-trimmed slip dress and kitten-heeled strappy shoes. It wasn’t an ideal outfit for February so she teamed it with a heavy, fake fur coat. The client had put some imagination into the scenario; she had arranged to meet her boyfriend at a restaurant and would let him wait in the foyer before calling to cancel. Fiona would be there on the same pretence, the idea being he might then ask her to join him. The client had good taste in both the restaurant and men, Fiona thought as she sat on one of the sofas in the bar/waiting area. The décor was white with accents in natural creams and browns. It was like sitting in a cloud. The waiting staff all walked like they had broomsticks glued to their backs. The Rabbit was nice too. Tall but not Matt tall, dark and well groomed in the way she liked. He was wearing a good suit with open-necked shirt. His sapphire eyes settled on her as soon as she sat. Normally she found blue eyes a bit pale, as hers were, but his were rich – they reminded her of the sea in the South of France on the sunny day she was sick into it; she would’ve been about twelve and Emily had egged her on to eat some seaweed. She pushed the memory aside.

  “You’re waitin’ too are you?” he asked, with a hint of a Cockney accent. He tried to mask it but leaving the ‘g’ off the end of ‘waiting’ was the giveaway.

  “Yes. My boyfriend’s not normally late.” Fiona made her eyes wider. She sensed this Rabbit would go for the helpless, woman-in-peril routine.

  “He shouldn’t leave it too late – someone else might snap you up.”

  “I wish they would.”

  He had a lovely smile, great cheekbones that the lower half of his face hung from and his eyes crumpled. He’d look divine first thing in the morning with a hint of stubble.

  The Rabbit’s phone rang and he answered it anxiously. Fiona tried to look innocent, as if she didn’t know who it was and why.

  “Oh come on – you can’t stand me up now – I’m in the bloody foyer,” he whined.

  Fiona realised that
she couldn’t join him for dinner without some hint that her own date had been cancelled. She pretended the maître d’ had gestured to her and went over to him, asking him a question about booking for a party before returning to the sofa looking glum.

  “You look how I feel,” the Rabbit said.

  “I’ve been stood up.”

  “Me too.” He laughed and she wondered why he was so happy about it. A thought dawned across his face. “I’ve still got my table reservation though. For two.”

  “I haven’t – mine was in my boyfriend’s name and he cancelled it.”

  “Why don’t you join me then?” His face was friendly and kind; she couldn’t help feeling guilty about trying to deceive him. In some ways he reminded her of Matt – Matt’s smarter, tidier, slicker, more handsome brother. Much more handsome brother. The brother who had missed out on the geek gene.

  “Oh I couldn’t.” This is too easy, she congratulated herself, like taking candy from a baby.

  “Why not? It’s just dinner. I’ll let you pay your way if you want.” He held his hand out to her. “I’m Leo.”

  “As in the lion?” She smiled and gave him the full-beam effort. “Annabel.”

  “And is that what everyone calls you?” He kept hold of her hand and gently squeezed it in a disarmingly appealing way.

  “Colleagues and acquaintances call me Anna. Family, friends and lovers call me Bel.” She was particularly proud of that line and planned to use it a lot in the future.

  “Bel, will you dine with me?” He glanced at her hand and released it. She was instantly aware of the loss of contact.

  “I’d love to.”

  The waiter offered to take their coats and Leo helped her off with hers. He let out a whistle when he saw her dress.

  “Blimey! Your fella’s a real div to stand up a hot piece like you.” He realised straight away that his genteel veneer had slipped and he grinned. “I meant to say, you look stunning.”

  “I’d rather be a hot piece,” Fiona winked as she sashayed after the waiter to their table.

  After they’d ordered Fiona kicked off the small talk; there was no need to rush, she had a three-course meal to draw him into making an offer.

  “This is a lovely restaurant. I’ve not been here before.”

  “It’s worth coming for the desserts alone.” He leant a bit closer. “They do hot chocolate truffle dessert – I’m not kidding. It’s better than sex.”

  Fiona laughed but it didn’t come out as the polite, tinkly laugh she’d intended. This man could be her soul mate. She mirrored his action and leant closer to him.

  “Sounds like you’ve been having sex with the wrong people.”

  “Sounds like you haven’t had the chocolate truffle dessert.” He lost his nerve and looked away, fiddling with his napkin.

  “What do you do for a living then?” Fiona asked after they had ordered. She knew already from the questionnaire he was a lawyer.

  “Lawyer.”

  “What area?”

  “North London,” he grinned. His teeth were even and shiny.

  “I meant what’s your specialism?”

  “Oh… ehm… companies. Big business. That sort of thing.”

  She giggled.

  “But no one just does company law – you must specialise within that field. I assume you’re qualified?” He nodded. “And your firm doesn’t want you to specialise?”

  “I do deals – takeovers.” He flushed and broke eye contact. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here boring you about my job.”

  “You’re not boring me.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable. A burning sensation made rapid progress in her ribcage. He was lying. He was no more a lawyer than she was. No, that’s not right, she thought, I am a lawyer. He was lying and the client had lied, unless she didn’t know and he told her he was a lawyer too. Either way something was amiss.

  “What about you? I bet your job’s far more interesting – let me guess, international model? Fashion designer?”

  “I’m a barrister.” She didn’t want to tell him the truth but she wanted him to know she was in the legal profession and that she was unconvinced by his description of his job.

  “Barrister? Brains and looks. Lucky girl.” His voice remained calm but she detected him squirm slightly in his seat. “Phew. Is it me or is it boiling in here?”

  He shrugged off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair looking even sexier in his well-cut light blue shirt. Fiona decided to ease up on him, partly because he was good company, partly because she fancied him like mad. He didn’t leer down her front, he didn’t make crude innuendos, he had a good sense of humour, he asked tons of questions about her actually seeming interested in the answers and, lawyer though he wasn’t, he was intelligent. He spoke briefly about himself, enough for her to glean that he was born into a large Irish family who’d decamped to Highbury, North London before he was born, that he was the youngest of six children, four of whom were girls, that he was a fanatical supporter of Arsenal FC (he lost marks for droning about their current form) and that he was at a point in his life where he wanted to settle down. He rattled through his biography and seemed eager to turn the spotlight back on her.

  “Tell me Bel, what do you get up to in your spare time?” He leant towards her, elbow on the table, and took a long sip of wine, his eyes not leaving hers for a second.

  “Not much. Go out with friends. Try and keep fit. The usual boring things.”

  “Would you like to see the dessert menu?” the waiter asked.

  “No thanks,” Leo said. “Two hot chocolate truffles please.”

  Fiona wondered whether she should be annoyed. She wasn’t a dimwit; she could select her own dessert. But she forgave him when he winked at her and said, “Better than sex – trust me.” He stood up. “Will you excuse me a mo? Call of nature.”

  She smiled and watched him weave his way between the tables to the toilets. He had a good figure, tall and broad with slim hips and a pert bottom – the kind most women would kill for. She stretched her legs out under the table and wondered if anyone in the world enjoyed their job more than she did right then. The restaurant was packed and the persistent hum of chatter all but masked the inoffensive piano music wafting out of strategically placed speakers. The tablecloth was white and crisp. It pleased her. Her reverie was broken by a mobile phone ring tone playing the theme to Match of the Day. She looked around for whose it was before realising it was coming from Leo’s pocket. He wasn’t back from the toilet. She reached into his pocket and took the phone out as other diners were glancing at her to show their irritability at the noise. The display flashed, ‘Jane, Features’. She turned the phone off and slipped it back into his pocket.

  Jane, Features. Unusual name. And why the comma? Unless it was actually Jane – Features. Lawyers didn’t have features departments. Journalists did. Oh shit. She’d been chatting to a journalist. The whole thing was a set-up. No wonder he’d been so interested in the answers she’d given to his questions. Thank God most of it was untrue. She should leave now before it got any worse. But that would mean missing out on a dessert. And he was adorable to look at. Be professional, a warning voice chanted in her head. Stay for the pudding, her stomach demanded.

  “You look deep in thought.” He plonked back in his seat.

  “Hmm,” she said, grappling to get her emotions under control.

  “Finding the wait for the choccie truffle pud too hard to bear?” He stroked her arm; it felt lovely – damn him.

  “I don’t think you should be doing that. You’ve got a girlfriend. Remember?” She probably wasn’t his girlfriend. She probably wrote the problem page.

  “And I’ve never enjoyed an evening with her as much as I am this one with you.” He said it so convincingly that her heart faltered. She forced herself to focus on the fact he was trying to upset everything that she, Georgia and Matt had worked for and the feeling passed.

  Fiona tried to think of a pithy response and was saved
by the arrival of their desserts. Her nostrils gorged themselves on the smell of chocolate. Rich chocolate sponge with vanilla ice cream. She took a spoonful of the sponge and the thickest, gooiest, naughtiest chocolate sauce oozed out into the bowl. It was even better when it reached her mouth. The combination of textures and tastes was sublime. He was right. Not even the thought that each spoonful probably contained a thousand calories or that her companion was from the gutter press could spoil the moment.

  “It’s good isn’t it?” He tucked in so enthusiastically that he smeared some sauce around his mouth. She told him. “Where? Show me?” He held his face towards her.

  She wiped it away with her finger, the fact she should have used a napkin dawned on her too late. He took her hand and sucked the sauce letting his tongue circle her finger. It was the most erotic sensation she’d ever had. She withdrew her hand not knowing what to say. If only the circumstances were different she could fall for him in a big way. He loved chocolate. He was gorgeous. His blue eyes benefited from the white, clean lighting: sparkling mischievous gems. Her heart bunny-hopped like a learner driver. It was all wrong. He didn’t even like her – he was researching a story.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she blurted. “I’m sorry.” She fled from the table. He was so stunned by her bolting that he was slower to react. She grabbed her coat and was out in the street hailing a taxi before he was even at the door. He watched her taxi head off into the night towards anywhere, hands on hips in annoyance.

  “Excuse me Mr Kelly – have you finished dining? I noticed your companion leave.” The waiter hovered a polite distance behind Leo.

  “Yeah. She has. Thanks – it was a great meal. Put it on the account.”

  “I’ll need your signature.”

  Leo followed him and signed the receipt approving it for charging to his employer’s account, the Daily Mirror. He went back to collect his jacket, genuinely bemused at why she’d fled. He’d thought she was enjoying his company. He checked his phone for messages and frowned; he never switched it off. Why was it off? Switching it on, he checked if anyone had called. His features editor had called at – bugger – when he went to the toilet. He knew it was then because he’d admired the large art deco clock in the men’s toilets. Bel must have switched it off and twigged what was going on. He’d only put ‘features’ after her name to stop him getting confused with his then-girlfriend with the same name. They’d split up over six months ago – he should’ve changed it. It was sloppy. He’d never be a top journalist if he missed important details like that. Failing to get a story was irritating but falling in love with Bel was infuriating – he hadn’t even got her surname or phone number.