Read Online The Beach Hut by Veronica Henry - Free Book Online Page B

obviously going, and that was that.
    ‘There’s no need to be churlish. It costs a fortune to hire a box. You should be flattered.’
    ‘I’m flattered. I’m . . . very flattered.’ He looked at her doubtfully. ‘Really.’
    She drank two more glasses of champagne to get her through the rest of the evening. Twice she caught Oliver’s eye but avoided talking to him. She couldn’t cope in public with the way he made her feel. In the short space of time since they had met, he had made her ask herself too many questions.
    He caught up with her just as they were leaving. She was coming out of the master bedroom where her coat had been on the bed. There was just the two of them in the corridor.
    ‘We’re going now,’ she said, flustered.
    ‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘Well, that’s a shame. It was nice meeting you.’
    He leaned in towards her. She turned her cheek, ready for the usual air-kiss, but he put a finger on her jaw and brought her mouth round until it was nearly touching his and brushed his lips, fleetingly, along the length of hers. Nothing invasive. Then he shut his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. She breathed in the smell of him, the clean shampoo, the musky cologne, the cigarettes. He gave a tiny sigh of longing. Then pulled away reluctantly.
    He was playing her. Of course he was. If he’d pounced on her and shoved his tongue down her throat, she would have pulled away in revulsion. It was so subtle, so very nearly almost nothing, that she was screaming inside for more.
    He walked backwards, holding her gaze for a couple of moments before wiggling his fingers in a gesture of farewell.
    ‘See you. Sarah.’
    Oh my God.
    Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall for it, Sarah. He’s a bloody barrister. He’s used to putting on an act. Convincing people. Taking them in. He’s a walking cliché - rehearsed, practised, word perfect. And don’t kid yourself you’re the first. If you were watching the movie, you’d scream at the television: ‘Don’t do it!’
    It was no good. She switched off the voice in her head and touched the phone in her pocket with a smile.
    He made her feel feminine.
    Interesting.
    Mysterious.
    And as horny as hell . . .
     
    When she got home, she pulled out her phone. His number was there under ‘missed call’. She sat fully dressed on the loo seat in the bathroom, staring at it, agonising for ages. Should she add him to her directory? Or leave him out, so if he did send a suggestive text and Ian happened to find it she could deny all knowledge? Should she put him unashamedly under Oliver Bishop? Or file him under Plumber or Garage Man, or even Olivia? So that if he rang at an inopportune moment she could ignore it?
    In the end she put him under Bishop. He wouldn’t phone. After all, she realised, as the champagne she had drunk evaporated, she had just been a mild distraction for him at a boring party. Nothing more.
     
    He phoned nine days later. Perfectly, cleverly timed. Just when she had given up hope of ever hearing from him, but before the memory of the effect he’d had on her faded. So that when she saw his name come up, her heart leapt in unison with something further down in her loins and her pulse tripled. A thousand questions crowded her mind - what did he want, what should she do, where did they go from here? Questions that could only be answered if she answered.
    She grabbed the phone. Should she answer it knowingly, thereby admitting she had programmed his number into her phone? Or with curt efficiency?
    ‘Sarah Palmer?’ She spoke her name with a slight query, as if she was no longer quite sure that was indeed who she was.
    ‘Sarah Palmer.’ He spoke her name with a teasing wonder and reverence.
    Something delicious slithered its way down her spine.
    ‘Yes?’ She tried to sound officious, but she couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice.
    ‘I was wondering about that lunch.’
    There was no point in carrying on the pretence that she didn’t know who