CHAPTER THREE
The impromptu fresco dinner took place on the upper rooftop of our private cliff house, with its glass railing balcony, lounge-style seating area, undulated marble fire pit and panoramic views of the starry night and the sandy coastline.
Unlike the other talkative gormandisers strategically seated around the marble-topped table, festooned with crisp white linen, pillar candles, polished silverware and bottles of white wine, I stared at the strip of twinkling lights below, where, at the heart of the town, social butterflies explored the pedestrianised square of live entertainment and timeless thoroughfares of quaint alleyways, cobbled streets, bars and restaurants.
“What’s happening with the boat?” Solomon Everett, Daniel’s close friend and fellow golfman, wants to buy our well-protected multi-million-pound superyacht in the harbour. “Is it still for sale? I am happy to take it off your hands. All you have to do is ask.”
Daniel, whose arm casually rested across my shoulders, turned to me, an unasked question aflame in his eyes. “Olivia?”
“No,” I declined Solomon’s offer before he could even present it. “I am yet to understand why the harbour committee impounded the yacht in the first place.”
“I told you,” Daniel whispered for my ears only. “You forgot to pay the harbour’s annual berth fee.”
That’s right. Pre-accident-Olivia was unreliable, irresponsible and forgetful. Of course, she neglected her duty of care to her father’s most prized possession. He loved that yacht and only parted with it because I promised to take care of it.
“The harbour committee does not mess around, Olivia.” Daniel lifted our joint hands to his lips and gently kissed my knuckles. “If we fail to comply with Bye-Laws, the Harbour Master is not afraid to present penalties and breaches in the court of law.”
I gave him a morose smile.
“Luckily for you,” Daniel said throatily, his teeth nipping the shell of my ear, “I am friends with the chairman of the harbour committee. He returned the boat for the right price.”
And for that, I am grateful. I might not board the boat often, but she will always have a special place in my heart. I spent many a summer at sea with my father in the cabin, operating the marine radio, safety equipment and steering controls, whilst my mother, clad in swimwear, oversized sunglasses and a floppy hat, soaked up the sun on the deck.
“The yacht is not for sale,” I told Solomon, and he side-eyed his wife, Rochelle, who’s had her eye on that boat since Daniel’s at-sea birthday party four years ago. “It belonged to my father.”
“Why do you care?” Jacqueline Vargas scraped smoky cuts of chargrilled meat onto her plate. Her husband, Oscar Vargas, received a second helping, too, when she dumped a leafy salad onto the stone-baked bread he’d previously mauled and dismembered. “You hate Ezra. Fuck his boat.”
Yes, that’s how the story goes.
According to everyone attending tonight’s dinner, I disowned my parents seventeen months ago when my father assaulted my husband during a charity event for not agreeing to bail him out of gambling debts.
Thanks to the uncompromising part of my brain, I have no memory of the argument, the fight or the event itself. But I do know that my mother used to call most nights, when she was drunk and weepy, because of the consequences of my father’s gambling addiction, so an emotional outburst on my father’s part does not come as a surprise. He is renowned for throwing a gasket when life knocks him down.
My father quite literally gambled away his fortune and declared himself bankrupt. And my mother, who should have divorced his arse years ago, blamed her son-in-law for our family breakdown and took her husband’s side.
I suppose I was collateral damage.
Even after the accident, I never heard a peep from either of my parents. Not one call or text message to see if I was okay.
Nevertheless, I missed both of them. You only have one mother and one father; mine lived merely thirty minutes down the road, and I never got to see them.
“I do not hate Ezra,” I said, and Jacqueline shot me a questioning glance, her piercing blue eyes shining owlishly. “Am I angry at him for allowing his addiction to destroy his family? Yes, I am. But he is still my father. You do not stop caring about the people you love just because of their bad decision-making.”
“Oli?” Rochelle’s extra-long feed-in braid, wrapped around in a tight ponytail, fell to the base of her spine. “I exist because of my sperm donor, too, but I do not owe that deadbeat arsehole anything, let alone acknowledgement. You will do better in life without the burden of Ezra.”
Solomon, with the prettiest of white teeth, smiled widely at me, discreetly tapping Rochelle’s knee under the table, a silent order to keep her opinions to herself.
“It’s okay, Oli.” Hannah Robinson, who is married to Keith Robinson, the other golf aficionado, is next to slide into conversation. “You love your old man. We understand.” Uncorking a bottle of white wine, she poured bubbles into her husband’s wine glass. “Daniel mentioned that you guys are trying for a baby.”
I choked mid-drink, spraying wine onto the chicken risotto. “What?” My wide eyes landed on the man in question. “Daniel?”
“Do not pretend to be shy, Oli.” Keith, my least favourite person on the planet, is as drunk as a skunk and practically licking his wife’s cheek. “We know how much you want a baby after—” Hannah elbowed him in the ribs. “What?”
“After I killed mine?” I mused over the hospital room when the bespectacled female doctor sat on the edge of the bed with a clipboard of medical notes and explained how the collision precipitated direct foetal trauma. My unborn child, to which I have no emotional connection, as I do not remember the pregnancy, died on impact. “Daniel, I think some conversations should be private.” My stare travelled over the table of dinner guests. “No offence.”
“It’s my fault.” My husband winced, curling his fingers around the wine glass. “I got over-excited at the game last Friday and told Keith about our baby plans.” He scowled at the blabbermouth across the table. “Apparently, he talks more than he listens.”
“My apologies.” Keith, the intolerable sod, is anything but regretful. “I assumed you told Hannah everything.” He twirled the wine glass and its liquid contents, then knocked back a massive mouthful of wine as if he depended on fruity bubbles to function. “Naturally, I did not think the possibility of a new baby would cause any upset.”
Honestly, in my condition, the last thing I wanted to be was a mother. I am not in the right frame of mind to look after myself, much less a newborn baby. But I did agree to give the idea some thought for Daniel’s sake. He is ready to extend our family and become a father.
“Olivia!” Hannah is keen to change the subject. “I love the dessert.” A large spoonful of watermelon and lavender sorbet went into her mouth. “Did you make it yourself?”
“Obviously.” Rochelle chimed in with a flick of the hair. “Everyone knows she is exceptional in the kitchen. And who can hardly blame her? The hours she spends on new ideas and recipes for her darling husband puts other wives to shame.” Her eyebrow canted. “Isn’t that right, Olivia?”
Well, I am not a novice. I have a wide range of culinary skills and a taste for good cuisine. But a few measly tartlets is not enough to put me on par with Chef Ramsay. More to the point, these days, I had nothing better to do with my time. A half-hearted attempt at baking or cooking helped to occupy the mind.
“I am not a fan of sorbet.” Oscar is on his fifth glass of white wine and undeniably inebriated. If the slurred speech did not give him away, then the red-rimmed eyes certainly did. “I prefer caviar and honey.”
Despite my headache, I listened to the group of opinionated conversationalists without much interest. I could have indulged in the tales of the town with the others, but I decided to eat my weight in watermelon slices instead. I am partial to its juicy health benefits. A summer favourite for sure.
“Oh, I give up on that one.” Hannah’s finger outlined the circumference of the wine glass, the slow, subtle movement producing somniferous music. “He is a lost cause.”
I sat taller. “Who is a lost cause?”
“Drew.” Jacqueline snuggled into her long-sleeved cardigan once she’d stacked the empty plates in the middle of the table. “Hannah’s brother.” Stood with arms akimbo, her face pensive in contemplation, she swiped the unopened bottle of wine and, hips swaying mesmerisingly, relocated to the plush sofa by the outdoor heaters. “Tell her what he did to your car, Han!”
“I need more wine for this conversation!” Hannah staggered to her feet, almost knocking over the trio of pillar candles, and danced her way over to the sofa. “Come along, Ladies. I have a selfish brother to bitch about.”
“Go ahead.” Daniel kissed my cheek, his soft lips warm to my cold skin. “I will be over by the fire pit with those idiots.” Oscar, Keith and Solomon had already moseyed along for late-night cigars and distilled whiskey. “Oh, before I forget.” The intensity of his hard stare evoked memories of our first time together, when he braced himself above me, on the world’s comfiest king-size bed, at his parent’s house, in his old bedroom, a mere second before we made love, and he whispered how much he loved me. “I love you, Olivia.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too,” I admitted, somewhat meek, and he sighed with relief. “It’s been a lovely night, but can we turn in soon?” My headache had worsened in the last thirty minutes. “I am exhausted.”
Daniel nodded.
Leaving him to his own devices, I picked up the wine flute and joined the ladies on the comfortable sofa.
They had kicked their shoes off, tucked their feet into crossed-legged positions and ransacked the basket of spare throw blankets to stay warm.
“Have I ever met your brother?” I asked Hannah as I slipped under the warm, fluffy blanket beside her, the cushioned sofa bracing the weight of my tired body. “If so, I apologise in advance. I do not have the slightest idea who he is or what he looks like.”
“Drew is a brattier version of me,” Hannah said with a proud smile, and a chorus of laughter followed. “Can you believe he is twenty-eight next week and still acts like an eighteen-year-old? I don’t know what I am going to do with him.”
“Oh, Sweetie.” Jacqueline reached over the coffee table and tapped Hannah’s knee in an attempt to comfort her. “Drew is not your responsibility. If he wants to slum it with a bunch of disreputable hooligans, that is his prerogative. You cannot help someone that does not want to be helped.”
“I know.” Hannah’s shoulders slumped despondently. “I just want more for him. He is better than thrill-seeking car racing and cheap ale outside of that ramshackle the locals dare to call a sports bar.” Her face looked pained. “He lost my car in a bet, Olivia. Like, who does that to their sister? He promised me that he’d bring Sadie back”—she is referring to the Mercedes-Benz, a luxury vehicle she purchased approximately three years ago—“within twenty-four hours. Yet, the next morning, I woke up to a partially empty driveway. My baby was nowhere to be seen. He never had the decency to give me the heads up.”
“You should beat his arse with your husband’s golf club. Or better yet, let Keith pull him into line,” Rochelle suggested, knowing full well that Keith would take great pleasure in beating someone to a pulp with his trusty stick. “It’s only what he deserves for giving you grey hair. I mean, look at your fringe. It’s silver, for crying out loud. You need to visit the hair salon—pronto.”
Hannah’s hand shot up and examined the fresh curtain of bangs. “Is it bad?”
“Bad? Girl, I feel sorry for you.” Rochelle’s sympathetic eyes narrowed. “That son of a bitch has aged you about ten years.”
“Great.” Hannah, with a stroppy pout, left her wine glass on the low table and folded her arms. “Perhaps I need Botox.”
I disagreed. “No—”
“Yes!” Jacqueline clapped her hands with excitement. “You can come with me next Friday. I am due a little top-up.” She outlined her mouth with a pointer finger. “We can get some lip filler whilst we’re at it. Don’t knock it until you try it!” She added, and Hannah’s mouth wired shut. “It’ll be the best present you have ever given that husband of yours, too. Ain’t no man ever said no to a woman with blow-job lips.”
Hannah smiled, albeit her ebullience did not reach her eyes. Her gaze drifted over the glass balcony and homed in on the strip of clubs and bars below. “I bet he is down there now, pissing away every penny he has,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “A life without a care in the world. It sounds like heaven to me.”
My eyebrows incurved.
I wanted to ask what Hannah meant by that, a heavenly, carefree life, but I waited for a private moment without judgement. Rochelle will jump down my throat if I entertain sad or depressing conversations tonight.
“No.” Rochelle flung Hannah a scathing glare. “I could not think of anything worse. We do not belong down there withthem.” Her diamond-bedecked finger waved aimlessly toward the strip, where music belted into the atmosphere in sporadic bursts. “Can you imagine? Who knows what those delinquents are capable of? I would not put anything past such vile individuals.”
I think it’s pretty shitty to assume the less fortunate are likely to commit unspeakable crimes just because they do not boast more than six-figure incomes.
Jacqueline is glaring at her husband, Oscar, with homicidal intent. If she holds the wine glass any tighter, the glass will shatter in her rigid fingers.
Mildly surprised by the suddenness of her pissed-off attitude, I followed her line of vision to where the men, smoking Cuban cigars, imbibing whiskey on ice and laughing amongst themselves, stood around the fire pit of billowing smoke and burning embers. “Jacqueline, is everything okay?”
“Do you think he is talking about her?” Jacqueline’s question was barely audible. “Eloise Nightingale.”
My nose wrinkled. “Who the Hell is Eloise Nightingale?”
“Oh, that’s right. You have been out of town,” Jacqueline said, a tad bit insensitive, considering I never asked to lose two years’ worth of memories. “Eloise is Oscar’swhore.”
“What?” I whisper-shouted, and Hannah slapped a hand over my mouth to silence me, which I yanked down quickly. “What do you mean? Oscar would never...” Three pairs of knowing eyes stared pointedly at me. “But you are his wife. He took vows. He is not allowed to sleep with other women.”
“It comes with the territory, Olivia.” Rochelle is looking at me like I am a foreign object. “Come on, Sweetie. Do not act like Daniel has never crawled out of your bed and star-fished into another.”
My mouth was agape.
And then, not quite sure how I felt about this unexpected turn of events, I peeked at the men across the rooftop. Look at them, all dressed in ironed trousers, silk shirts and leather shoes as if butter would not melt in their mouths.
Daniel engaged in what appeared to be a meaningful conversation, but he sensed the inquisitiveness of others. He furtively studied me over the rim of his whiskey glass and winked.
Yet, I felt too sick to acknowledge him in return. I turned my back to him, drained the rest of my wine glass and hearkened to Jaqueline’s comprehensive plan of how to murder Miss Nightingale and get away with it.
***
Freshly showered and clean-shaven, Daniel came to the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher while I covered leftover food and stored containers in the fridge. He also cleared the rooftop earlier, when our dinner guests alternately checked out and travelled home via taxi service.
“You looked lovely tonight,” Daniel complimented as he dried his hands with a lemon-patterned tea towel. “Although I must admit, I was jealous.”
“Jealous?” My bare feet wandered around the kitchen. “Why?”
“Keith appreciated the view.” His eyes dripped to my chest, where an outline of cleavage showed from behind my floral print plunge dress. “I almost lunged across the table and decked him. You would never think his wife was in attendance.”
“Well, unfortunately for Keith, I am married,” I reassured my husband, not that his smile mirrored my own. If anything, he was royally pissed at his friend. “You needn’t worry, Daniel. I only have eyes for you.” Speaking of disrespectful husbands, I seized the opportunity to have a rather uncomfortable conversation. “Are you familiar with the name Eloise Nightingale?”
Daniel’s eyes jerked up and crashed into mine. “Why?”
“Jacqueline might have mentioned her name this evening.” Hands sliding to my hips, I put my back to the kitchen counter. “I think the word she used waswhore.”
“Ouch.” Daniel scratched his bare chest. “How did she find out?”
“I never asked.” Although, I probably should have pestered her for details before I cornered my husband. “Have you met her?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation, and I scoffed in disappointment. “Olivia, I am not responsible for Oscar’s extramarital affairs.”
My bottom lip rolled between my teeth. “How did you meet her?”
“She works behind the reception desk at the club.” He meant the golf club at the heart of the English Riviera, the sanctuary our husbands frequented most Sundays. “Do not look at me like that. I never said that I condoned his behaviour.”
“What about you?” I fished for information and, mentally equipping himself for an unpreventable debate, he warily set the whiskey glass onto the kitchen counter. “Rochelle said it comes with the territory.”
Daniel’s shoulders squared. “What comes with the territory?”
“A mistress,” I pointed out, and his chin hit the floor in complete and utter shock. “Is it true? Do you starfish into another woman’s bed? I would probably understand—not that I would ever agree to an open marriage—but I have been distant lately. You have needs and sexual urges—”
“Olivia, stop. I could never hurt you like that.” He powered toward me like a man on a mission. “Why would I cheat on you? I love you.” When I never replied, he cupped my cheek, tender and loving, and brushed a thumb over my lips. “I would wait an eternity for you to come back to me. Even if sex is not on the table, I will survive. I do not need to chase the next available skirt to be happy.”
“Promise?” I whispered, and he nodded, his forehead lowering to mine. “I am sorry, Daniel. I think it’s the wine talking. Ignore me.”
“Ignore you? Never.” He smiled against my lips and, without warning, licked the seam of my mouth. I flinched at the unexpectancy of his unbridled desire, not that he noticed. His arm came around my waist, inexorably tight, and he held me close to his chest, “It’s only a kiss.” In search of reciprocation, he tilted my head back and stared deeply into my eyes as if to beckon me to lower those guarded walls I had built around myself. “Will you kiss me for old-time’s sake, Olivia?”
Feeling brave with the liquid courage in my system, I smoothed my hands up his chest and moved them along his broad shoulders with investigatory fingertips.
He inhaled a sharp breath when our lips grazed, a low, savage groan falling from his mouth to mine.
I kissed him, waiting for him to take control, to deepen the kiss and claim me the way he did when I first met him.
“Touch me,” I encouraged, too shy to open my eyes and watch his reaction as I unbuttoned the front of my dress, exposing my breasts held together by flimsy lace. “Do it before I change my mind.”
“No.” His hand closed around mine to stop me from revealing myself to him. “Not like this. The next time I make love to my wife, I want her toneedme. Right now, it feels like an obligation, and that’s not us, Olivia.”
I doneedmy husband. He is right, though. There is something inexplainable keeping us away from each other.
“Why is it unnatural to be with you.” My eyes were saturated with unshed tears of frustration. “You are all I have ever known, but you feel like a stranger, Daniel. Why? Please, help me to understand. Tell me what happened back then for us to have drifted miles apart.”
Daniel is conflicted. He is not supposed to jog my memory. I had to connect the doubts to avoid misinterpretation.
“Truthfully,” he croaked, and I nodded, eager, wanting to know everything aboutanything. “I neglected our marriage. I put my job first and forgot to prioritise my wife.” His lips smashed together. “And she hated me for it.”
I could never hate him.
“You were lonely, Olivia.” He stepped back, spearing a hand through his dishevelled hair. “You needed more from me, and I let you down. I will never make that mistake again.”
When Daniel eyed the bedroom door down the hall, I knew he would run and hide. He does that when our relationship is too challenging for him to endure. He goes to the bedroom and falls asleep. Not tonight. I had to reassure him that I still loved him with everything I had despite our rocky, emotional past.
Popping open the final button of my dress, I let the material fall to my feet and kicked it aside. My underwear soon followed alongside the clip holding my hair together. And God, did he approve. His hungry eyes swept over my body like I was a meal he wanted to feast upon.
“You are trying to kill me.” He picked me up like I weighed nothing, carrying me to the bedroom with one hand beneath my arse, the other tangled in my hair. “Shit, Oli. I missed you so much.”
I landed on the bed with him on top of me. He worked frantically to remove his pyjama bottoms and free his engorged cock. Too desperate to sheath himself with a condom or explore oral play, he lined himself up at my entrance, completely bare, and slid home with one hard thrust.
“Olivia,” he moaned in my ear, his hips slowly moving into a rhythm between my widened thighs. “Shit, I am close already. It’s been too long.”
Grasping onto his arms for dear life, I stared at the ceiling as he pounded me into the mattress, the bed protesting under our weight, the headboard banging against the wall and display cushions tumbling overboard.
“You feel so fucking good.” His hand latched onto my breast as his hips rolled with precision to locate my G-spot. “So tight, Oli.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I blocked out the smell of sweaty sex and the feel of his ragged breath on my throat as he suckled and left passion marks on my skin.
I thought back to the night we argued again. It was intense, toxic and volatile, yet I loved how he fought for my attention and behaved like a possessive caveman.
For reasons I cannot remember, he was mad at me. He acted like an uncaged animal, throwing furniture across the room, punching seven kinds of shit out of the wall.
Why does the toxicity of our past turn me on?
Why do I want his hand wrapped around my throat?
Why do Ineedhim to smack my arse raw for daring to look at another man?
Why, in my warped mind, is our sex better when he is punishing me for not loving him with the same passion that he loves me?
“Daniel.” My sob of pleasure coincided with my fingernails raking down his muscular back. ”Harder. I want you to fuck me like you hate me.”
“I could never hate you, Olivia,” he groaned, his body convulsing as he teetered on the edge of an explosive orgasm. “I love you.”
And just like that, I sobered up, the excitement I once felt slipping through my fingers.
I felt dirty and disgusted with myself for picturing a different scenario when my husband was doing everything in his power to make me feel loved and special.
“Please, tell me, you are close.” His cock impaled me rhythmically. “Oh, Olivia. I can’t hold off. I need to...” His mouth rounded on a silent moan. “Yes!” His cock throbbed, twitched and emptied inside me, and I lay beneath him like a plank of wood. I daren’t tell him that Ineverexperienced a simultaneous orgasm. “Shit.” A choppy breath. “That was incredible.”
“Yes,” I panted, though I had no reason to be out of breath. I think I might be in shock. “Daniel, I can barely breathe.”
“Shit.” He pushed off his hands, freeing me from the weight of his body, and rolled onto the bed next to me with a satisfied sigh. “It’s been a while since you cum that hard, huh? I can go again in thirty minutes.”
Daniel never kept his promise. He fell asleep within seconds, snoring lightly into the pillow, the duvet trapped underneath his comatose body.
I left a kiss on his cheek, then covered him with a fluffy throw blanket before I got comfortable on the sofa.
Naked and dripping with my husband’s sweat, I gazed out the window, down to the strip of lights, where people continued to drink and party into the night, wishing I could work out why the gravitational pull of unknown entities demanded my attention.
Maybe, deep down, I am destined to look for answers, but fate can piss right off. I know better than to regress to recklessness.
Inside the cliff house is where I am safe, with my dutiful husband and easy, carefree life.
Daniel mumbled in his sleep.
My heart sank.
He made love to me tonight, but the sex was not how I remembered.
An anti-climax would be an understatement.
