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Carrie felt like a stone was dropping through her body, starting at the top of her head and falling through her chest cavity, to the pit of her stomach.
“If we are to discuss children who morph into their parents, let us discuss your stunning transformation into your mother.” That metallic distaste passed through his mouth.
“Surprised?” Carrie asked, for something to say. Her mind was reeling. She and Alexandra were polar opposites. Age had shown her that her mother, despite being the only true family she had left, was not a kind person. She’d given up trying to gain her approval many years earlier. Now, she just tried to avoid Alexandra’s attention altogether.
“Mmm.” He stood, and her eyes clung to him with concern. Concern that he might be leaving. But he was simply shifting into the seat beside her. He reached over and lifted an olive. He placed it on her lips, and waited with searing eyes until her mouth opened, and then he pushed it inside. Carrie, her blue eyes haunted as they stared at him, chewed. It was nice. Flavoured with saffron, and coated in crispy crumbs.
Beneath the table, his spare hand lifted the hem of her skirt, so that he could pad his fingers against the flimsy silk of her underwear. Carrie’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t stop him. The tablecloth would ensure no one else could see what Gael was doing. She bit down on her lower lip, her eyes wide, her cheeks pink.
Her body was catching fire, as it always did when he touched her. She tried to focus her mind. “How well do you know her?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “She is my father’s wife.”
Carrie moaned softly, as he pushed aside the fabric and touched her flesh. “That’s not an answer,” she responded breathily. It was becoming difficult not to visibly react to his sweet nearness.
He had one hand on the table, he used it now to place another olive on her sweet pink lips. Carrie’s eyes widened; but she bit it between her teeth and then took it in her mouth. Conflicting emotions were tearing through him. Anger, desire, lust, need, fury, pity, worry. He didn’t understand half of them.
He held onto his anger, for it served him best with Carrie. “Ask a real question then.”
Her blue eyes showed her own pain and confusion, and briefly he regretted speaking to her so harshly.
“I …” she shook her head, unable now to form the words.
“You want to know if your mother and I fucked?” He leaned his head forward, on the pretence of whispering
in her ear. He used the cover to slide a finger deep inside of her, and held her body steady when she would otherwise have arched her back instinctively. “You want to know if I took her breasts in my mouth, as I love to do with yours? If I took her to the room beside my father’s and held my hand over her mouth, so that her moans wouldn’t wake the sleeping old man?”
He moved further inside of her and she made an involuntary sound of pleasure.
“No, Carrie, your mother and I never slept together. I would not touch a married woman; particularly not one married to my own father.”
Carrie felt a sob in her chest. She wouldn’t give into it. Her body was soaked with pleasure, but her mind was dancing on hot coals. If Gael had taught her anything, it was to obey her mind. To listen to her head’s commands over all the silly wishes of her heart. Beneath the table, she reached for his tanned forearm and squeezed into it with her nails, until he released his slow, sweet invasion of her. He lifted his head away, and saw the gentle pain in her expression had morphed into an ice-cold contempt.
She lifted her napkin and wiped her mouth, then stood. Her skirt was high on her legs. She pushed it down without taking her eyes off him. She noticed, in a small recess of her mind, that she’d surprised him. And she was glad.
There was no need for words.
What could she say that would communicate her feelings better than her silence and absence? She lifted her bag and scooped it over her shoulder.
“Carrie,” he said, when she turned to leave. She didn’t stop. She was terrified that if she did, she might cry. And she wouldn’t let him see her cry.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Spanish sky was strangely blue and sun-filled. Strange only because her mood was so bleak. She weaved away from the restaurant quickly, grateful for the afternoon crowds. The group of people moved as one, absorbing her willingly into their multi-coloured fabric. She walked without destination, simply needing to get away from Gael Vivas.
Her heart lurched painfully as she replayed their lunch conversation.
She couldn’t understand why he’d become so furious. Why he’d taken her question and turned it into an accusation. Though she had been accusing him; doubting him.
She’d seen Alexandra kiss him, and it had played on the corners of her mind ever since. Her heart broke at the memory and she let one stupid tear roll down her cheek before squashing it purposefully between her fingers and face.
The things he’d said – the imagery of him making love to her mother –would now never leave her. He’d denied it, but in the worst possible way; in a manner that paved a path to even greater doubts.
She hailed a passing cab eventually, and made her way back to her hotel. She would get their relationship onto a professional footing. If it weren’t for NewNetwork, she’d get up and walk away altogether. But she owed it to the project to see it through.
Once back in the comfort and privacy of her hotel room, she lifted her computer out of her bag and flicked it to life.
She had thirty seven emails waiting for her. Seventeen from Juanita with various ‘bridal emergencies’, such as whether cream frosting on both the wedding cake and the cupcakes would be too much cream frosting. Smothering an indulgent smile, Carrie tapped her finger through her inbox, briefly scanning her eyes over each email as she went. She’d reply to them later.
