The Unbreakable Trilogy

I fuss with my sore ankle. He walks across the gloaming. There’s that insouciant swagger again, the slight sway of his slim hips, the macho yet gymnastic control of his walk which is totally different from the reined-in stride of the man back in London. The tight breeches and boots make him move in that sinuous way. My eyes are drawn again to the muscled contours of his thighs in the black fabric, my gaze dragged towards his enclosed crotch. Is the bulge there bigger than before?

Am I ever going to wind my tongue in?

Gustav steps over me, apparently unaware of how close his groin is to my gawping face. He gives my horse some sugar lumps, too. His long fingers in their black gloves move over her nose to stroke it thoughtfully.

‘Not cutesy. Not wonderful. Not rubbing your nose in anything. But I should have been more sensitive.’

‘So much for seeing clearly at last.’

‘I wanted to share my favourite view with you, that’s all. If I’m honest I wanted you by my side when I drank it all in for the last time.’ He closes his eyes and leans against the horse’s forehead, his black hair mingling with her chestnut forelock. Her huge eyes blink down at me as if asking, you any idea what he’s banging on about? ‘I’m glad you were there.’

‘Well, I’m not glad,’ I snap. ‘It is a stunning view. But it’s your view. Your history. Your house. Your past. Your wife. Not mine.’

The horses chomp on their sugar. Mine pushes cheekily at Gustav, so unexpectedly that I hear his teeth bite together as her bony forehead knocks him. He rubs his cheek, already coming up a livid red, but he barely flinches.

‘Should I be flattered? I mean, that you feel hurt? Jealous, even, or am I wide of the mark?’ His voice is low, almost as if he hardly dares ask the question. A spot of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth where he must have bitten his tongue. ‘Do you really care about me that much?’

My insides churn, sharing the anxiety I can see burning in his eyes. The furrowed emphasis of his thick eyebrows casts a shadow over his face. He’s still unaware of the blood smeared on his lip. I so want to wipe it off for him. I’m so afraid of all this. I’m so afraid of what he’s doing to me.

I take a breath, wonder if my eyes are reading his correctly. Wondering if he can read mine.

‘You brought me to Switzerland to help you. But seeing that chapel, feeling like a tiny dot on this vast landscape, I can’t be any use to you.’ I struggle to wring the words dry of emotion. ‘And I feel a long way from home.’

He senses the wetness on his lip at last and wipes the blood, staring at it gleaming red on his upheld finger. ‘While you were working yourself into a froth about some stupid chapel, I was thinking how ready I am to find a new view, Serena. A new horizon. One that we can enjoy together. I was just about to say so when – I’m sorry. Yet again I’ve handled this episode badly.’

My horse swings her head up at the same time as I do. She is obviously equally astonished at this unheard-of apology.

‘And what’s more you should discipline your horses better!’ I yank off my helmet and let it bounce across the ground as I brush mud and leaves off me. ‘She threw me off. Admittedly I’m out of practice, but she bucked. There was nothing I could do. I’m bloody livid with you, Gustav. And to cap it all I think I’ve twisted my ankle.’

‘Mea culpa. Let me take a look. Let’s see if you can put weight on it.’

He offers his hand. I hesitate, then let him pull me to my feet. Our hands are sexless in the riding gloves, but they still conduct the heat between us. I’m level with his darkly stubbled chin, his mouth, half open, tiny spotlets of blood on his lower lip.

He takes his red scarf off and wraps it round my neck and shoulders to warm me. I’m stunned afresh by the tenderness in his eyes, in the gesture. I also realise I’m shivering with shock and pain.

‘Another apology, even if it is in Latin!’ I mutter. ‘Why can’t you just act like a normal person for once in a blue moon?’

There are red flashes in his cheeks, and not just where the horse bashed him. Anger, remorse, or the bite of the wind? He leans back against the tree and folds his arms.

‘Ah, that’s more like it. The rude girl I know and – the stroppy girl I met on Halloween night who thinks nothing of hurling the odd insult at her master.’ He lifts up my gloves. ‘The master who holds her future in his hands.’

‘We both signed that agreement, remember?’ I exchange sulky looks with my bemused horse. ‘I’ve delivered my work. I’ve let you tie me with that silver chain. I’ve given you as much pleasure as you’ll let me. You’re still bound to honour your part of the bargain.’

He turns my face towards his serious, pale features. So close, so close. His dark eyes are blurring as he tugs me closer, a coal-like gleam. That mouth, oh, that sexy, half-open, mocking mouth. ‘What am I going to do with you, Serena?’

We half-stumble against the tree trunk. Our bodies are pressed against each other now, the smooth fabric of our jodhpurs such a flimsy barrier against the fierce heat. I can feel every stretch of muscle in his rangy limbs. Every push of his male response against my stomach.

The closeness of him stops me thinking straight. I push my mouth up against his.

‘You could take me, right here, al fresco against this tree. How about that? Show me you’re a real man,’ I murmur dirtily, coiling my arms around his neck. I remember my conversation with Crystal, when I asked her if there was something wrong with him. What was her answer?

‘Ravish you in the open air?’

I am reflected in the black depths of Gustav’s eyes, the desire flaming into life as he takes hold of my hips, fans his fingers over my bottom to yank me, grind me against him. Our lips are practically touching, breath panting. The kiss of life.

‘Yes. Your droit de seigneur.’

He chuckles deeply. ‘I like it. My wicked wench. Have you any idea how savagely adorable you are right now?’

‘That’s because you’ve made me so angry!’

‘No. It’s because you want me, Serena. You can’t back-pedal when you’ve just made such an outrageous suggestion. I love that you’re an open book. A volume of stubborn sexiness. And what did Oscar Wilde say? I can resist anything but temptation.’

‘So why resist?’

‘My woodland nymph. Look at you!’ His voice is rough now. ‘I knew it would suit you. A vigorous bout of riding. Still so touchy, but you’re in your element out here. You’re on fire, if that makes sense in sub-zero temperatures.’ His body is pressed so hard against mine that I can hardly breathe. My legs part slightly to invite him in. ‘Why don’t you try lording, or ladying it, over me?’

‘If you would only stop talking.’

I flatten one hand over the front of his jodhpurs, pause for permission, start to fondle the obvious, solid shape throbbing there. I expect him to rear away, slap me off, hiss some cutting word of rejection, but this is our new verb. Ladying. I’ve tasered him. I can see every rippling muscle in his exposed neck now that I have his scarf. He is swallowing, his Adam’s apple jutting. I can see the thick black bristles peppering his strong neck. That familiar fast pulse pushing at his skin.

Then his mouth opens again, I’m making him breathless, but he remains quiet, just nudges himself harder into my softly stroking hand. I’m being impudent now, taking a risk, but he doesn’t resist. I watch his mouth struggle open as he gasps softly.

So I do it some more, relish the pulsing hardness growing under my touch. He reaches down and twines his fingers with my roving hand, urging it to work harder and faster.

‘What was that you said about working up a sweat?’ I murmur, moving my lips against his.

Oh, what was Crystal’s reply to my question?

Gustav closes his eyes, lets his warm mouth travel across my mouth, across my cheek, down my jaw, and then with a gentleness that makes me moan he lifts my hair and kisses my neck, my throat, under my ear, where my own pulse is pounding.

I arch my throat under his mouth, shuddering as his lips tickle and tantalise the tender skin. I’m so damp now.

The bitter wind is whipping up my blood at the same time as slowly freezing my skin.

My white jacket rucks up as we rock more insistently against the tree, the weight of him rubbing my bare back against the rough bark and thrilling me with the brief scrape of pain. Gustav’s free hand edges in between my legs.

He is nibbling on my neck, moving down to my collar bone, his tongue licking, his lips sucking. My breasts swell with longing under all that clothing. I ride on his hand, push against him, every part of me singing hopelessly with desire and desperation. My legs are shaking from the ride, the stress, the insistent pain in my ankle nagging, distracting. I can feel his breath on my neck, his restless fingers leaving mine to open my jacket now, his breath as ragged and hot as mine.

Nothing wrong with him at all. Not physically. He’s all red-blooded male.

He is going for the zipper of my jodhpurs. I start to scrabble with his trousers, too, but it’s impossible in these gloves. We’re in too much of a rush. He takes the tab of my zip, starts to undo it, and then my ankle gives.

I stumble sideways, moaning in pain as my leg loses its strength and jerks from under me.

He stops what he’s doing. We both stop. We are staring, wild-eyed, open-mouthed, our hands still poised over each other’s zippers. His dark, hypnotic eyes.

‘Gustav, I – oh, God, my ankle!’

Pain shoots up the tendons in my foot and the back of my leg. I’m torn, so torn. All of me throbs with cold and wanting, but the ankle is seizing up now.

Gustav straightens, smoothes my hair back. Watches me attentively as I bite my lips with pain. Whatever we started has finished for now. He tidies my jacket over my hips. He takes his time. Still so tender. Then he kneels down, yanks the gloves off with his teeth.

‘Let’s take a look.’ He cradles the sore, discoloured foot in his long, bare fingers. His black hair falls over his face as he examines my ankle. I long to stroke it. ‘No wonder you’re in such a state. This looks nasty.’

Nasty or not, I could still come with that one touch of his fingers on the arch of my foot. I rest my head against the tree. I look past Gustav’s dark head, avoid the temptation to tangle my fingers through his hair, to push his face against the part of me that he knows is still aching for him, because the moment has passed. I blink up at the dark grey sky glowing orange from the lakeside city below.

The bony fingers of the branches around us have calmed down as if they are also waiting to see what he will do next.

For a few more precious moments Gustav Levi is focusing on me. The brittle mask is torn away. The constant demands are gone. He’s far from the phone calls, the people, the ghosts. For a few minutes more it’s just the two of us. But the kaleidoscope of this last hour or so, the cold clarity of the air, the rush of blood as we galloped side by side, the stark reality of that chapel, the pain in my foot, all of it has been shaken into place.

I stammer into the silence. ‘Please, Gustav. Either bind up this ankle and get me back up on the horse, or get me to a doctor.’

‘Come on, Hiawatha,’ he murmurs at last, moving away as if his legs are made of lead. The shyness creeps back as the distance lets in the cold. Fragile, and foolish, is how I feel now. Weak, cold, and defeated.

He takes my horse and walks it over to his. Those gorgeous long, strong legs, that were measured up against mine just now. I am still weak with wanting, weak with all of it. Slowly we push through the curtain of ivy and there we are, ridiculously, come full circle and right back in the stable yard. No wonder my horse stopped dead.

Gustav ties up the steeds, wolf-whistles through his teeth for the invisible grooms, and helps me over to the Lexus which is once more parked by the archway.

‘How about a quick spin down into Lugano? You won’t be doing much hiking with that ankle, so why don’t I treat you to a hot chocolate by the lake?’

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness and confusion. I ease my aching foot into the car. ‘Hot chocolate is just what the doctor ordered.’

We drive down the road, past a couple of cosy-looking bistros. Gustav tells me they are called grottos because they used to be carved from caves in the hillside.

It’s not long before we’re approaching the immaculate promenade lit by the glowing bulbs of streetlamps. He drives along the edge of the lake for a while, navigates some corners, then brings us out onto a quiet stretch of bars and restaurants. He parks outside a particularly pretty bar illuminated with fairy lights, its wooden verandah glassed in and heated for the winter but suspended over the flat, black water. As we walk slowly towards it I see a boat house full of polished wooden boats hauled up, waiting for the summer season when they will roar across the water once again looking like something Gregory Peck would drive in Roman Holiday.

We take our seats by the windows. The mountains sprawl around, listening in. Night drops round us like a blindfold as soon as we blow on the huge, creamy mugs of chocolate sprinkled with cinnamon.

‘What a day. This is going to sound crazy,’ he remarks when the waitress has withdrawn. ‘But you have never been so irresistible as you were just then, Serena. Still my wild child, but scared, in pain, and oh so angry.’

His face is boyishly open tonight, still flushed from our lustful encounter against the tree, fresh and lively. He thinks he’s got it made.

‘I’m not your anything.’

‘You are. You nearly were just then. You got me worked up like some kind of horny teenager! Perhaps it’s a good thing that we didn’t – that wasn’t exactly the setting I had in mind when I drew up that contract. But we’re off-piste now. I’m trying to tell you how captivating you are. You always have been, you little sprite. Your photographs are magical enough, but it’s you that grabs me.’ He takes the silver chain out of his pocket and clears his throat. ‘It’s you.’

I take a sip of chocolate. The sugar hits me immediately and decisively. ‘I thought I was just another scared, pained, angry woman. You prefer us vulnerable, don’t you?’

‘Yet again I’ve expressed myself clumsily.’ He frowns down at the silver thread. ‘Because that sounds as if I revel in causing you pain.’

I look across the lake. The rocky outline against the star-punched sky resembles the shoulders and hips of sleeping women. ‘You did last night. When you whipped me.’

‘That’s not fair. You were revelling in that pain. Not me. But if you’d asked me to stop, of course I would. I did that because you wanted it and because every stroke was liberating you. Perhaps you still don’t fully understand what was happening.’ He strokes his chin for a moment before calling for the bill and counting out crisp Swiss francs. ‘You were the very opposite of vulnerable.’

‘I’m not talking about me, now, Gustav. I’m talking about another thing that’s troubling me. The others.’ I give him my arm to help me up. ‘The floozies.’

‘Floozies? What on earth kind of cheap nasty word is that?’

‘Damsels in distress, then. Tarts. Petites amies? The other women you’ve ensnared over the years. The pain is one thing. But you certainly like them pathetic and disposable.’

He takes me roughly by the arm and we stumble too quickly and awkwardly out onto the wooden verandah. The lake is wreathed in lacy mist. The lights from the buildings sway and sparkle on its surface. My words scatter like marbles into the freezing night.

‘Why do you do this, Serena? Rake over all these dead coals? You’re like a terrier with a bone. And you’ve got me so wrong. But perhaps that’s my fault for being so goddamn inarticulate.’

He sighs and reaches into his leather rucksack. What’s he getting out now? A gun? My little whip? But he removes my mother-of-pearl gloves with their fur trim, waggles them in front of his face. Automatically I put my hands out for him to ease the gloves on. He smiles at the unspoken familiarity. Gently, as always, he slides in one finger at a time, pausing, tugging that one down, running his own fingers between the gaps, turning my hands over to button the fur cuff and make sure it all fits.

It would be so churlish to relinquish this sweet ritual. How can I, especially when it is going to be so short-lived?

His black hair blows wildly in the unkind breeze coming off the cold lake. He pushes my gloved hands down into the pockets of my white jacket. For a moment he is brushing my stomach, wandering over my hips. So close. Come closer. Inside me an answering jolt of desire even as I’m struggling with it. Even as he turns away.

‘You don’t have to explain,’ I mutter, pulling my arms tight into my sides as we start to walk down the windy promenade towards the car. ‘Men have needs, even you. You need women, and sex – just not with me, that’s all.’

‘So who was that flame-haired girl I was grappling with just now, tempting me to take her al fresco against the tree?’ He stops again and grabs my stiff, unfriendly arms in a vice-like grip and gives me a shake. ‘Was she a figment? Just one of a long line? Oh, I wish you’d shut that pouting sulky mouth of yours for just one minute!’

Now it’s his voice ringing out over the water. A smart group of people all wearing dark green or navy Loden coats turn towards the commotion. Gustav calls out something in Italian which makes them laugh and wave. He marches me swiftly on then stabs his key at the car to open it.

I flinch at the emotion in his voice, allow myself a secret shiver of triumph that I’ve scratched more than his surface. I limp towards the car.

‘I thought you were different, Serena. But like every other woman on the planet you’ve just managed to trick me into sounding crass, twisting the conversation to put me in the wrong.’ He wrenches open the passenger door. ‘Look. I was open with you. I told you from the start that since my marriage there have been – other females. Arm candy, some. Gold diggers, mostly. But the reason none of them remained in my life and certainly are not here in Lugano is that ultimately they didn’t do it for me. Sorry. I know that sounds arrogant.’

‘Yes. It does.’

He really can read my mind. Or at least my face, even out here, in the dark. But now I can’t read his.

‘They considered me cold, careless and uncommitted. And they were right.’

I wait for him to hand me into the car which he does with cold chivalry, and we drive away from the lake in silence. I’m relieved when we only drive up the mountain a short distance. The boulders and trees melt away and all at once we’ve arrived.

This is as far away from the grey turreted Colditz I imagined, with iron eagles guarding the ramparts and a spiked moat repelling invaders, as Polly’s bright flat is from the grim house on the cliffs.

Because welcoming us with great open squares of flooding warm light and glimpses of roaring fires spilling woodsmoke from stone-built chimneys is a huge wooden chalet raised up on pillars the size of great American redwoods. Wooden gables and eaves and traditionally carved balconies sprout joyously from every angle, but they are the ornate frame to a super-chic structure with vast glass windows and doors. Tucked beneath the baronial front door is the garage, opening slowly to admit the car and displaying snow skis and water skis hanging on neat racks along its walls. And under what must be the main salon is a glass-walled wine cellar with rows of wine bottles.

Best of all is the blue glint of a steaming infinity pool partly laid half in the grass bank overlooking the lake and glittering with frost, and partly disappearing inside the basement of the house.

Gustav hands me over to Dickson who hoists me into his arms and deposits me, slightly over-emphatically, onto one of the enormous white sofas in front of the fire. They both fuss about finding footstools and compresses. Dickson disappears to chop and baste and finish preparing a huge roast, which he carves and lays on a tray. A haunch of venison with vegetables baked with rosemary and thyme and other aromatic herbs I’ve never tasted before, followed by a treacle pudding big enough to do yoga on, all washed down with gallons of ruby-red wine. I remember my manners and thank them both, but otherwise say nothing.

When Dickson retires, Gustav takes up his favourite position beside the wide wooden mantelpiece, jabbing at the logs with a long iron poker. He’s taken off his jacket and is wearing a black sweater which hints at the broad chest and flat stomach beneath. I slide my eyes away to stare into the dancing flames and let them blur into dancing feathers as I half close my eyes. As soon as I do that I can feel the exhaustion washing over me. He continues the conversation as if we haven’t left off.

‘Yet again, I’m sorry. I’m to blame for mucking about and galloping off earlier. For misreading the situation. For imposing my selfish needs onto you. You were scared and hurt and you needed me. Being needed by someone is different from having power over them, and far more alluring, and I’m a fool for not recognising that. I’m a fool for not recognising you.’ He takes the silver chain out of his pocket. ‘You’re the one who’s got under my skin, Folkes. You’re the one I want by my side, as I said before, particularly now. Particularly here. And then when this is all done, those new horizons I was talking about.’

It’s all too much for now. Who knew that a sore foot could affect an aching head? So instead of holding out my wrist for him to hook us together I pull the big fur rug right over me and settle myself as far back into the corner of the sofa as I can. I turn to stare out at the plunging mountain road leading back to civilisation, the winking lights of Lake Lugano spread out like a welcome mat below.

‘It’s so much white noise, Gustav. The idea was for me to come to Lake Lugano to help you with the ghosts, but I still think you’re all locked in here together.’ I start to shiver suddenly. I assume it’s the cold, and the pain in my foot, and the delayed shock. ‘I’ll always be the outsider. I’m not the woman you need, Gustav.’

‘I didn’t say need. I said want.’ Gustav holds the silver chain up to the light and watches it sparkle between his fingers. The light dances on his face, all sharp planes and deep shadows now. The chain has never looked so pretty, and so flimsy. ‘But you know what? I think the ghosts have already fled.’

He looks down and I look up at the same time, and our eyes lock. His eyes are soft dark pools. The hard glitter has gone. The fever has gone. I think I can read tenderness there. Even pleading. But if his ghosts have fled, mine seem to be stirring sluggishly from wherever they are buried.

I lie there on the sofa, under the rug, the wind buffeting the windows and agitating the fire. I wonder if Gustav can see the weight of sadness in my eyes. He’s never looked so handsome, and so elusive.

‘Only you know that for sure,’ I shrug wearily. ‘As for clearing out the furniture or whatever you needed me to do, I can’t be much use to you with this sore foot, can I? So I may as well go home tomorrow.’

Gustav comes and sits next to me. ‘You’re not going anywhere, my headstrong little filly. We’re so close to the end now.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.