check again the following night.
Happy now?
She ran a hand through her hair, catching a brief glimpse of her naked image in the mirror on the wardrobe door opposite.
For interminable seconds she stared at it, studying her own features as if she was seeing them for the first time.
The narrow face and the pointed chin, the finely chiselled cheekbones.
She allowed the sheet to slip down to reveal her firm breasts, her flat stomach.
Hailey rose up on her knees, still watching the figure of the woman in the mirror. She allowed her gaze to rove, to trace the curve of her hips, the small triangle of downy hair between her thighs. She touched one index finger to her slim legs, and felt how smooth her skin was.
What was so wrong with this body?
Her image stared back.
She sank down onto her heels again, then lay down, covering herself with the sheet, pulling it tightly around her neck like a cocoon.
Still sleep eluded her.
There was a portable TV in the room, but she decided not to switch it on in case it woke Becky. There were books on the cabinets on both sides of the bed. Rob was reading a biography of Michelle Pfeiffer. It was propped on top of another hardback, about the class system in Britain.
On her own side of the bed there were a couple of thrillers, neither of which tempted her.
Inside the bedside cabinet was her Walkman and a handful of tapes, and for a second she considered trying to drift off to sleep with the aid of music. In the end that idea didn’t appeal either.
She wondered what Rob was doing.
Sleeping soundly, she guessed. He never had trouble sleeping alone – or in strange beds.
Well, he’d had more practice, hadn’t he?
She reached out a hand towards his side of the bed, longing to feel him there.
For the first time in months, as she thought about him
( and the affair )
she was filled not just with anger but also with a feeling of incredible sadness. It felt as if she was in mourning.
She wondered how much longer the feeling would last.
Weeks?
Months?
Years?
As the first tears began to flow, she turned her head into the pillow.
CASA CASUARINA, OCEAN DRIVE, MIAMI, FLORIDA
The bullets felt heavy in his hand.
The young man in the white shirt and grey shorts fed the .40-calibre rounds into the magazine, and watched: eyes alert for the one he sought.
He would not be difficult to spot.
The target’s routine was so predictable it was almost robotic.
Every morning around 8.30, the man with the silver-grey hair would exit through the ornate wrought-iron gates of the mansion. He would then walk a few blocks at a leisurely pace, enjoying the magnificent weather, occasionally nodding greetings to those he recognized.
Then he would return, to be swallowed up again by the palatial grandeur of the residence he loved.
So predictable.
The young man studied the huge villa – seeing others walk past its stone steps.
Some would look up towards the Mediterranean-style gates. Others merely passed by.
The young man watched as patiently as a bird-watcher waiting to get a glimpse of some incredibly rare species.
He hefted the pistol in his hand, feeling its weight. The coldness of the steel was a marked contrast to the warmth he felt on his bare flesh.
The sun in Miami that morning was warm, even at such an early hour. It hung in the sky like a burnished talisman, suspended in a cloudless firmament.
The young man took off his dark glasses for a moment, wincing up at the sun.
He didn’t look at his watch. He hardly needed to. The man he waited for seemed to have his own built-in timing device. His morning stroll was like a ritual.
The young man knew: he had watched him perform it enough times.
When he saw the grey-headed figure approaching the gates, his expression didn’t change. He merely watched as the older man mounted the steps, newly purchased magazines gripped in one hand.
He began to pull open the ornate gates.
The young man strode towards him, his heart thudding harder
Happy now?
She ran a hand through her hair, catching a brief glimpse of her naked image in the mirror on the wardrobe door opposite.
For interminable seconds she stared at it, studying her own features as if she was seeing them for the first time.
The narrow face and the pointed chin, the finely chiselled cheekbones.
She allowed the sheet to slip down to reveal her firm breasts, her flat stomach.
Hailey rose up on her knees, still watching the figure of the woman in the mirror. She allowed her gaze to rove, to trace the curve of her hips, the small triangle of downy hair between her thighs. She touched one index finger to her slim legs, and felt how smooth her skin was.
What was so wrong with this body?
Her image stared back.
She sank down onto her heels again, then lay down, covering herself with the sheet, pulling it tightly around her neck like a cocoon.
Still sleep eluded her.
There was a portable TV in the room, but she decided not to switch it on in case it woke Becky. There were books on the cabinets on both sides of the bed. Rob was reading a biography of Michelle Pfeiffer. It was propped on top of another hardback, about the class system in Britain.
On her own side of the bed there were a couple of thrillers, neither of which tempted her.
Inside the bedside cabinet was her Walkman and a handful of tapes, and for a second she considered trying to drift off to sleep with the aid of music. In the end that idea didn’t appeal either.
She wondered what Rob was doing.
Sleeping soundly, she guessed. He never had trouble sleeping alone – or in strange beds.
Well, he’d had more practice, hadn’t he?
She reached out a hand towards his side of the bed, longing to feel him there.
For the first time in months, as she thought about him
( and the affair )
she was filled not just with anger but also with a feeling of incredible sadness. It felt as if she was in mourning.
She wondered how much longer the feeling would last.
Weeks?
Months?
Years?
As the first tears began to flow, she turned her head into the pillow.
CASA CASUARINA, OCEAN DRIVE, MIAMI, FLORIDA
The bullets felt heavy in his hand.
The young man in the white shirt and grey shorts fed the .40-calibre rounds into the magazine, and watched: eyes alert for the one he sought.
He would not be difficult to spot.
The target’s routine was so predictable it was almost robotic.
Every morning around 8.30, the man with the silver-grey hair would exit through the ornate wrought-iron gates of the mansion. He would then walk a few blocks at a leisurely pace, enjoying the magnificent weather, occasionally nodding greetings to those he recognized.
Then he would return, to be swallowed up again by the palatial grandeur of the residence he loved.
So predictable.
The young man studied the huge villa – seeing others walk past its stone steps.
Some would look up towards the Mediterranean-style gates. Others merely passed by.
The young man watched as patiently as a bird-watcher waiting to get a glimpse of some incredibly rare species.
He hefted the pistol in his hand, feeling its weight. The coldness of the steel was a marked contrast to the warmth he felt on his bare flesh.
The sun in Miami that morning was warm, even at such an early hour. It hung in the sky like a burnished talisman, suspended in a cloudless firmament.
The young man took off his dark glasses for a moment, wincing up at the sun.
He didn’t look at his watch. He hardly needed to. The man he waited for seemed to have his own built-in timing device. His morning stroll was like a ritual.
The young man knew: he had watched him perform it enough times.
When he saw the grey-headed figure approaching the gates, his expression didn’t change. He merely watched as the older man mounted the steps, newly purchased magazines gripped in one hand.
He began to pull open the ornate gates.
The young man strode towards him, his heart thudding harder
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