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Authors: Laura Wilson
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new for him. He must have taken any number of female agents far more experienced than she out to dinner and probably - the thought was at the back of her mind throughout the meal - bedded them afterwards.
While he settled the bill and chatted to the maitre d’, she reflected that she hadn’t laughed so much in months. It occurred to her that Guy, with whom she’d been - or thought she’d been - herself so terrifically in love, had never made her laugh much. Telling herself that the comparison was a dangerous one - she wasn’t in love with Claude, and nor was she going to be - she snapped her compact shut and allowed herself to be helped into her coat with a full complement of bowing and general foreign flummery, before being escorted from the restaurant. The sudden fresh air made her aware of the effect of the wine she’d drunk with the meal, on top of the gin, and she allowed Claude to put a proprietorial arm round her as he ushered her towards another taxi. Like the first one, it seemed, despite the fact that it was now almost pitch dark, to appear out of nowhere as soon as they reached the kerb. Inside, after stating her address, she found that his hand was on hers (how had that happened?). It felt warm and nice, so she allowed it to remain there for the duration of the journey. She’d assumed that he would take the taxi on after seeing her to her door but he paid off the driver. She waited on the pavement while this was happening, feeling awkward. She must thank him - it would be unpardonably rude (as well as risky in the blackout) to rush off up the steps - but she wasn’t at all sure of what might happen next.
As the cab drove off and Ventriss turned to face her, she was struck afresh, even in the near darkness, by his looks. She took a step back, felt her shoulders collide with the railings, and then, in short order, felt his hand on her neck, forcing her head up (not that it needed much help), his mouth on her mouth, his thigh between her thighs, and his other hand inside her coat, cupping her breast. After the initial surprise, Diana quickly found herself struggling between arousal - his mouth was lovely, and his thumb, expertly caressing her nipple with just the right amount of pressure, was giving her an alarmingly liquid feeling - and wondering how long she dared let it go on before slapping his face. Not that she wanted to, but he’d done the whole thing without so much as a preamble and that wasn’t on, no matter how much she was enjoying it.
She was about to take action when he suddenly released her and, brushing her cheek with his lips, said, in a light, almost mocking tone, ‘Goodnight, my dear. No doubt I’ll see you soon.’ Before she had time to do more than take a breath, the darkness had reduced him to mere footsteps on the pavement. Goodnight, my dear! As if she were a . . . a barmaid or something. Who the hell did he think he was? She peered after him, but the feeble circles of light from the veiled lamp-posts illuminated nothing but the ground beneath them. Serve him right if he falls over a dustbin, she thought, angrily, and listened for the satisfying sound of a clang and a curse. When none came, she turned, and, using the railings as a guide, groped her way up the steps and, after a furious scrabble in her bag for keys, through the front door. Flustered and thoroughly humiliated, she set about undressing and preparing for bed, attacking her face with cream and avoiding her eyes in the mirror.
Lying in bed, Diana found her anger giving way to self-recrimination. What the hell was she playing at? She’d been warned, hadn’t she? Not that Lally or Jock, or anyone else for that matter, had been much help. Whatever she felt towards Guy, the man was fighting for his country, and she was carrying on like a . . . like what, exactly? She hadn’t done anything - except allow herself to be kissed. And enjoy allowing herself to be kissed. And . . . For God’s sake, she told herself
While he settled the bill and chatted to the maitre d’, she reflected that she hadn’t laughed so much in months. It occurred to her that Guy, with whom she’d been - or thought she’d been - herself so terrifically in love, had never made her laugh much. Telling herself that the comparison was a dangerous one - she wasn’t in love with Claude, and nor was she going to be - she snapped her compact shut and allowed herself to be helped into her coat with a full complement of bowing and general foreign flummery, before being escorted from the restaurant. The sudden fresh air made her aware of the effect of the wine she’d drunk with the meal, on top of the gin, and she allowed Claude to put a proprietorial arm round her as he ushered her towards another taxi. Like the first one, it seemed, despite the fact that it was now almost pitch dark, to appear out of nowhere as soon as they reached the kerb. Inside, after stating her address, she found that his hand was on hers (how had that happened?). It felt warm and nice, so she allowed it to remain there for the duration of the journey. She’d assumed that he would take the taxi on after seeing her to her door but he paid off the driver. She waited on the pavement while this was happening, feeling awkward. She must thank him - it would be unpardonably rude (as well as risky in the blackout) to rush off up the steps - but she wasn’t at all sure of what might happen next.
As the cab drove off and Ventriss turned to face her, she was struck afresh, even in the near darkness, by his looks. She took a step back, felt her shoulders collide with the railings, and then, in short order, felt his hand on her neck, forcing her head up (not that it needed much help), his mouth on her mouth, his thigh between her thighs, and his other hand inside her coat, cupping her breast. After the initial surprise, Diana quickly found herself struggling between arousal - his mouth was lovely, and his thumb, expertly caressing her nipple with just the right amount of pressure, was giving her an alarmingly liquid feeling - and wondering how long she dared let it go on before slapping his face. Not that she wanted to, but he’d done the whole thing without so much as a preamble and that wasn’t on, no matter how much she was enjoying it.
She was about to take action when he suddenly released her and, brushing her cheek with his lips, said, in a light, almost mocking tone, ‘Goodnight, my dear. No doubt I’ll see you soon.’ Before she had time to do more than take a breath, the darkness had reduced him to mere footsteps on the pavement. Goodnight, my dear! As if she were a . . . a barmaid or something. Who the hell did he think he was? She peered after him, but the feeble circles of light from the veiled lamp-posts illuminated nothing but the ground beneath them. Serve him right if he falls over a dustbin, she thought, angrily, and listened for the satisfying sound of a clang and a curse. When none came, she turned, and, using the railings as a guide, groped her way up the steps and, after a furious scrabble in her bag for keys, through the front door. Flustered and thoroughly humiliated, she set about undressing and preparing for bed, attacking her face with cream and avoiding her eyes in the mirror.
Lying in bed, Diana found her anger giving way to self-recrimination. What the hell was she playing at? She’d been warned, hadn’t she? Not that Lally or Jock, or anyone else for that matter, had been much help. Whatever she felt towards Guy, the man was fighting for his country, and she was carrying on like a . . . like what, exactly? She hadn’t done anything - except allow herself to be kissed. And enjoy allowing herself to be kissed. And . . . For God’s sake, she told herself
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