Read Online In Too Deep by Portia Da Costa - Free Book Online

whoever runs the site is a wizard with the capture software, because in most shots he looks far more like a pin-up than a professor. Here, his shirt has come slightly unbuttoned, and there’s a hint of his delicious dark chest hair. Here, his sleeves are rolled up, showing his muscular arms. Here, he’s actually wearing shorts, wahey! And here, the way he’s standing, with one foot up on the tumbled blocks of some historical ruin, shows his elegant chinos stretched tight across his package.
    Swigging a mouthful of supermarket plonk, I wonder vaguely if I’m turning into an alcoholic, drinking two nights on the trot. I wonder how the besotted girlies who’ve put this site together would react if they’d seen what I saw this afternoon? They’d probably expire of ecstasy on the spot. I wasn’t far from it myself, and I’m starting to veer in that direction again right now, just from thinking about it. I try to put it out of my mind, and start clicking on other pages in the site. Soon I’m feeling almost as dirty and voyeuristic as I did this afternoon. Where have they dug all this personal info up from? Doesn’t anyone have any secrets these days?
    What a hypocrite I am. This is just the sort of intimate background skinny that I’m after. According to the ‘dating history’ page, Daniel doesn’t have a girlfriend at the moment. Unable to stop myself, I check the ‘date last updated’ and see it’s only a few weeks old. I shouldn’t be sighing with relief, because I don’t seriously believe there can be anything between us … but I am.
    But he has had a rather colourful series of relationships. Lots of beautiful and quite high-profile women have succumbed to his charms, the most notable Larena Palmer, a socialite with whom he lived for several years, and whom he was expected to marry. I wonder how hurt he was when she ditched him for the son of a duke and became part of the landed gentry? Horrible bitch! How could she?
    Am I feeling sorry for him? I think of my own defunct marriage. I was glad to be out of it, really, because once we got back from our honeymoon my ex-husband quickly developed the annoying habit of believing he was right and telling me what to do all the time. But it still stings a little to have failed in something that once meant so much to me. Frowning, and not sure whether it’s over my own relationship history or Daniel’s, I turn away from the screen and top up my glass. No alcohol tomorrow, and that’s a promise.
    The family background proves interesting too. His mother was a brilliant scientist, as much a luminary in her field as her son is in his. But she gave it all up, ditching her career to nurse his father when he became ill with a chronic condition. There’s a picture of her with Daniel and, even though it’s a candid, it’s acutely revealing. Her face is sad and lost, even though she’s trying to smile, and the expression is somehow reflected in her son’s, as if he comprehends the bitter impact of her sacrifice.
    He’s got issues. Stuff in his life that’s scarred him. People like that do strange things. But are they quite as strange as sending secret, floridly erotic letters to women they barely know, and then bluffing denial?
    I flick back to the Uni site and click the email link. Does he still check this one? Will he answer if I mail him? Thunderbird opens and immediately I close the new message window. No, I’m not going to email him. It’s too risky because when I’m online I have a nasty habit of saying far more than I mean to.
    My glass of wine calls to me, and so does the strangest little frisson of fear-slash-excitement. I click ‘check mail’. A couple of spam messages and a newsletter from Amazon arrive, and then …
    ‘You have a message from Nemesis.’
    It just sits there, almost pulsating on the screen. I go hot and cold, terrified for a moment, wondering how he’s found me , and then I realise it’s come via a social networking site I signed up