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Determined not to seem nervous, she continued with only a hint of awkwardness in her voice. “We expect a level of viral response to the launch, given the nature of the project. Several women’s groups have expressed interest in promoting it to their following.”
“I see,” he said slowly. He shifted in his seat again.
The waiter reappeared, and Gael spoke in Spanish, presumably ordering their meals. Carrie wouldn’t show annoyance. After all, she’d agreed to this. For whatever reason, he’d taken exception to her love of vodka and lettuce. The look he shot her, pure arrogant challenge, confirmed that he was baiting her, and so Carrie withdrew even further behind her mask.
“Where is your hotel?” Gael asked, when the waiter had been dispatched to the kitchens.
“La Rambla?” She said, naming the collection of streets that overflowed with bright tourist attractions. She’d driven past an open-air flower market, an antique bazaar and several gorgeous boutiques.
“Good,” he said with a nod.
Carrie’s stomach dived to her feet. Instantly, she experienced a flashback of the two of them in his London hotel the night before. Only the night before? A frown tugged at her lips. She felt like it had been a lifetime ago. She swallowed, hoping she could forcibly push down the wave of desire that was swelling inside of her.
“Why good?” Her voice was husky. She cleared her throat, and sipped her wine.
“It is a nice area. If you are to be here a week, you should see the best of Barcelona.”
“I see,” she murmured, thinking that she might have already been seeing it. The first moment she’d met Gael had been at their parents’ wedding. Even though she’d been sixteen and completely green, she’d known enough to realise he was breathtaking. In fact, she’d felt it. Her breath had whooshed out of her body, reminding her of the time in Prep when she’d been winded by a medicine ball, aimed straight at her stomach. The feeling had burned, and the relief, when her lungs had finally begun to function again, had been one of euphoria. That same mix of intense pleasure and terrifying pain filled her every time she was with Gael.
Of course, the second time they’d seen one another had been disastrous. When she thought back to her seventeen year old self – still searching for her identity, her place in the world – she couldn’t help but blush. How had she honestly thought a man like Gael would be interested in her? She almost moaned as she remembered what she’d looked like then; all curvy girlhood. Breasts – new and rounded had been a strange addition, and Carrie had not known how to use them. She’d worn bras that were ill-fitting, because she’d been too embarrassed to ask an attendant for help and had simply grabbed whatever she liked the look of. She’d eaten like a horse and never exercised, and her hair was the same mousey brown she’d been cursed with from birth.
As if to reject everything she’d been then, Carrie leaned forward, aware that her blouse scooped lower over her cleavage.
“I’d be happy to show it to you, if you’re interested in seeing it.” The invitation was impossible to miss, and she saw Gael’s expression tighten in response.
“I am interested, believe me. But another time.”
Her disappointment was sharp and all-consuming.
Gael understood, and his laugh was soft. “I have a meeting straight after this. Come to my apartment. I’ll cook you dinner.”
“More food,” she responded with a roll of her eyes, to disguise the way her mood lifted instantly at his invitation.
His eyes were heavy as they rested on her beautiful, fragile face. “More of everything,” he promised seriously, reaching across and running his finger over her hand. His eyes were loaded with promise, and Carrie felt herself tumbling down a steep, slippery slope.
She nodded, her face poised in an expression of happiness. So happy that for a flash of a moment, Gael thought he glimpsed her. Teenage Carrie. Bathed in moonlight, innocent lips parted with sweet expectation, cheeks and décolletage flushed by hope.
He blinked.
It was an unwelcome image; an intrusion from the past into what they now were. She’s been so different then. So different that he could barely reconcile that image to the woman sitting across from him. It explained why he hadn’t known who she was, the night they’d slept together. Why he’d thought her only to be a beautiful, sexy stranger, rather than the slightly awkward, mousey girl he’d been obliged to think of as a step-sister. Her hair had been so soft, swept prettily back from her face, it had reminded him of the wings of a Lammergeier. It was the only thing about Carrie Beauchamp, as she’d been then, that could possibly have reminded him of a bird of prey.
She had been the prey.
His prey.
His eyes roamed her face freely, processing each difference as he noted them. Her hair now was the same shade of sunshine on bark, pale and shimmering. Her eyes, enormous and blue. Yes, they’d always been blue, but they’d been uncomplicated by life when he’d first met her. They’d contained hope and trust; now they were shaded by an edgy cynicism. A boredom, even. Her body too had been transformed. He supposed that was natural – the last vestiges of puppy fat had clung to her, lending her figure a pleasing roundness. There was nothing round about her now. Even her breasts were pert and slender.
“When did you colour your hair?” He asked, focussing on the sleek style.
She resisted the urge to lift her fingers to it. That would betray self-consciousness. Instead, she turned her hand upwards, capturing his fingers. She returned his gentle stroke, hoping that her touch sent the same shivers dancing along his spine that she was feeling.
“Oh, forever ago,” her answer showed practiced nonchalance. It had been a week after his rejection. She’d grown sick of the sight of herself. Every time she’d been compelled to see her face in the mirror, staring back at her, she’d winced. How could she ever have thought Gael would want to kiss her? She’d been disgusting. A fat, pale blob with yucky hair and no idea about men or the world.
“Forever ago?” He leaned forward, his lips twitching in a slightly mocking response to the vague answer. “As in a year? Two years?”
“What does it matter?” She shrugged.
“Three? Six?” He persisted, his eyebrows lifted meaningfully. She was mortified by the idea that he might be connecting the hair change with any of what had passed between them; that he might be assigning some kind of personal significance to the beginning of her transformation.
