Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

“Let go,” he panted, kissing her, licking into her mouth. “Let go.”

As he said it he changed the angle so he was rubbing her clit and nudging her G-spot, and it didn’t take anything else to send her over the edge with a wild cry. Her body went crazy, bucking and rolling, pushing up, up, even as he thrust. She was clinging to him, feeling her body spasm around him, and then the motion grew even more frenzied as he threw back his head and groaned, spilling deep inside of her.

She wrapped her legs around him and held him tight against her. “Don’t leave,” she whispered, and he seemed to understand what she needed, continuing to move until she cried out once more against his shoulder.

“Any more waiting in the wings?” he whispered.

She snorted. Then started to laugh. “I can’t help it.”

“Darling, don’t ever change.”

“I was a little…uh, needy, I guess.”

“I was fairly needy myself.” He sighed. “Now I’ve got a few of my wits back, I can kiss you properly.” And he did. So properly that it was another hour before they were ready to leave.

“Should I dress for dinner?” she called out to him from the bathroom upstairs. It was en suite to his bedroom, which was as sleek, masculine, and neat as the other rooms.

“Yes.”

She had no idea how fancy dinner would be, so she’d packed a classic little black dress and borrowed a red pashmina shawl from Maxine. Her quick shower had caused her hair to bush out, of course, but she was used to that, and pinned it back with quick efficiency.

She felt well-sexed, as attractive as it was possible for her to look, and excited about the rest of the weekend. She had no idea what the rules were for this kind of casual relationship, but a whole weekend with Jack seemed like an enormous treat and one she wasn’t going to waste a moment of. By next weekend, she might well have been supplanted by an acting student from RADA or a European banking colleague.

When she emerged downstairs, he was talking on his cell phone. He waved to her and kissed his fingers to his mouth to her, Italian style.

“No, of course I understand.”

She could tell it was a woman he was talking to and turned away to examine the books in his bookcase. She couldn’t have said, afterward, whether he read philosophy or graphic comics-all her attention was on eavesdropping.

Instead of furtively skulking around the corner, Jack followed her into the room, phone still glued to his ear. He seemed to be doing a lot of reassuring and calming. Finally he said, “Look. Everything’s going to be fine. Try not to worry so much. All right. Love you, too. Good-bye, darling.”

Her spine stiffened. Every muscle in her body stiffened. Darling? Were these the rules of casual dating in Notting Hill? You banged one woman and within the hour were calling somebody else darling?

When he clicked off the phone, she smiled brightly. “I hope I’m not overdressed.”

He’d opened his mouth to speak and now closed it. Blinking at her. “Don’t you want to know who that was?”

She kept her face carefully neutral. “I don’t think so.”

He still looked at her oddly. “Well, you should. It was my sister.” He grimaced. “She’s having second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts?” It was his sister. Yeah, sure it was. But what if it was his sister? Wouldn’t she feel like a suspicious fool. “What do you mean she’s having second thoughts?”

“The wedding. The one you’re catering? She’s having second thoughts about getting married.”

“Oh. That sister.” Okay, so it really was his sister, and he was right. If the wedding was off, Maxine was going to be seriously peeved. A lot of work had gone into that catering plan and the arrangements. The wedding, which would naturally be heavily featured in the society pages, was going to be a real showstopper, the kind of event that could set a trend. Maxine had hoped to see a lot of big, expensive weddings grace the grounds of Hart House. If Jack’s sister cancelled…

“How serious do you think she is? Would she actually cancel the wedding?”

“Hard to tell with Chloe. She’s chucked a wobbly in front of Mario, her fiancé. If he didn’t bend to her will, she’ll be in a right snit.”

“Wow. I hope for George and Maxine’s sake she goes ahead with her wedding.” Rachel wasn’t entirely sure what wobblies were, but felt confident Max wouldn’t want them chucked at Hart House.

“Let’s not worry about it now. She and the fiancé have had a row. Most likely they’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”

Rachel probably ought to have been worried for Hart House’s sake, but she was too glad to find that the woman Jack had called darling was in fact his sister.

Not that she was in any doubt about his lifestyle, or under any illusions about the future, but it was nice to know he had more class than to talk to one lover in the presence of another.

“Right, we can catch a few shops, and then we’ll go to dinner.”

“Sounds good. I worked up quite an appetite.”

“Do you fancy walking? You’ll see a bit of the area that way.”

“Oh, yeah. That would be great.” They set out and she saw the market stalls full of everything from produce to third and fourth-hand evening bags. The street was busy with Smart Cars and Mini Coopers and cabs. They passed bakeries, independent record shops, tiny restaurants, and a sea of very trendy pedestrians.

“I thought you might be interested in that shop over there.”

She followed his pointing finger. A store selling nothing but cookbooks. “Oh, how cool.” She ran forward and peered into the window. “They’re closed.”

“Never mind. We can come back tomorrow.”

She pressed her nose against the window a little longer, seeing cookbooks she’d never heard of. Mostly European and British ones. “I think I could spend days in there.”

“If I hadn’t ravished you all afternoon, we’d have got there before closing. Oh, well, at least we haven’t missed our dinner reservation.”

“Where are we going?”

“Fleur de Lys.”

She stopped dead, so quickly that a man running in the opposite direction with a bouquet of flowers almost crashed into her. “Fleur de Lys? Are you kidding me?” She was so excited she was squeaking.

Jack allowed himself a tiny smirk. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Pleased? I’m floored. Flabbergasted. You can’t get a reservation there for months. I know, because I e-mailed them from the States. The chef, Jerome Smollet, is the most amazing chef in Europe.” She was so excited she was talking faster and faster and her words were running together. Finally she dragged in a quick breath. “Are we talking about the same Fleur de Lys?”

“I helped with the financing,” he said. As though that answered it all. Which, she supposed, it did.

She didn’t care that they were in the middle of Portobello Road and that this was a casual, short-term relationship. She threw her arms around Jack’s neck and kissed him.

“This is a great surprise. It’s the best surprise ever.” Her heart was pounding. “This is better than meeting the queen.”

He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth. “You’re a lot of fun, Rachel, do you know that?”

Everything about Fleur de Lys thrilled her. She loved the blue and gold door, the black and white entrance hall, the air of laid-back, trendy elegance. The hushed atmosphere of diners who appreciate food and know they are about to have their palates pampered. The maitre d’ recognized Jack and welcomed him.

This was one of the top five restaurants in the world and the maitre d’ knew Jack by name. Okay, she was impressed.

They were led to a wonderful, intimate table for two in a corner that still gave her a good view of the room.