The Notting Hill Diaries: Ripped / Burned

And behind the fascinated horror was the delight some people felt when they witnessed someone else’s public humiliation. They’d be talking about this moment for weeks. Who was I kidding? Years. One thing I knew for sure—I was never trusting a condom again.

But I had more immediate problems to worry about.

I had no idea where we were going.

This was a small private church in the grounds of a stately home. England was full of that sort of thing and, since the credit crunch, even the very rich were looking for ways to supplement their income. Hiring out the dusty family chapel for weddings was a clever way of allowing less privileged folk to pretend for that one day of their lives that they actually lived like this. I didn’t think it was any more fake than exchanging vows and promises about loving each other forever and then splitting up a few years later. In other words, none of it meant anything, so why not go over the top? If dressing like an over-whipped dessert made you happy, then go for it I say (but for God’s sake get one that fits).

Everyone wanted to get married in this particular chapel, not for religious reasons but because the door was pretty and looked good in the photos.

‘Oh, God, the photos! What about the photos?’ I stopped dead, but he pushed me forward into a room and slammed the door.

It was just the two of us and the silence was really loud.

I looked around me and saw we were in a room with wood paneling and portraits of unsmiling dukes on unsmiling horses. In the corner was a perfectly decorated Christmas tree. No wonky home-made decorations like the ones Rosie and I used in our apartment, but designer perfection.

I was pretty sure we weren’t supposed to be here, but I guessed Nico wasn’t giving much thought to protecting the assets of our hosts. He was more interested in hiding my assets from the gawping guests.

What was I supposed to say?

What was the etiquette for a serious wardrobe malfunction?

I had a feeling ‘oops’ wasn’t going to cut it and asking for a needle and thread would have been like asking for a teacup to bail out the Titanic.

‘Er—nice jacket.’ And because I was wearing his jacket, he was in his shirtsleeves and I could see the swell of hard male muscle pressing against the fabric. His shirt was pristine white and I noticed his skin was golden, not pale and pasty like Charlie’s, and his jaw had the beginnings of a dark shadow. Thick, dark lashes framed eyes that were indecently sexy—the only thing that spoiled it was the dangerous glint of anger.

He dragged his fingers through hair that was usually smooth and sleek, exploded into Italian, and then switched language in midsentence as if realizing that if he wanted to insult me he’d better do it in a language I understood. ‘Cristo, what were you thinking choosing a dress that revealing?’

‘I didn’t choose it.’

‘Then you should have refused to wear it.’ His gaze was fixed on mine and didn’t waver.

Clearly he’d had no desire to ogle my bare breasts. I told myself that didn’t bother me.

What did bother me was the unconcealed look of disapproval on his handsome face.

I was sure he was a very successful lawyer. I didn’t even know which bit of the law he dealt with, but whatever he did I was sure he was the best of the best. I knew that if I were on the witness stand and he fixed me with that penetrating gaze I would have confessed to pretty much anything.

Yes, Your Honour, it’s true that on the twenty-second day of December I wore a giant condom to a wedding…. No, I had no idea I would be arrested for antisocial behavior—condoms are supposed to only have a 2 percent failure rate, but in my case it was 150 percent. Yes, I understand there were serious consequences. Wedding interruptus.

I wondered why he was so angry.

It wasn’t as if the groom had ended up with me. This episode could have just been labeled ‘narrow escape’.

Outrage started to simmer inside me. I was the victim of a cruel fashion crime, blameless in everything except my proportions and I wasn’t about to apologize for my breasts.

And anyway, I felt a bit funny inside. Not queasy exactly, but a bit dizzy and swimmy-headed. I thought it was probably hearing him speaking Italian. The only Italian I knew I learned from a menu and there was nothing sexy about Pizza Margherita even if you tried saying it in a sultry voice.

This man, however, was spectacularly sexy and everything that came out of his mouth made me want to grab him and do very, very bad things which was definitely off limits because Nico was the sort who was always ruthlessly in control of himself and behaved impeccably in public. I assumed lawyers weren’t allowed to misbehave.

‘Why the fuck are you here, Hayley? You are the master of bad decisions.’ He spoke through his teeth as if he were afraid that if he opened his mouth a tirade of insults would escape.

Frankly I was surprised to hear him say ‘fuck’.

But now he’d said it, I started thinking about it. Not the word, but the act. I couldn’t help it. Truthfully I’d been thinking about it long before he’d said that word. I doubted any woman could look at Nico and not think of it. Not love or romance, you understand. He wasn’t the hearts and roses sort of man. I couldn’t imagine him risking his suit by changing a nappy or rolling up his perfectly ironed sleeves to wash a greasy saucepan, but sex? God, yes. All it took was one look to know this man would know everything there was to know about hard, hot, sweaty sex.

For a wild moment I wanted to ask if he’d impart some of his knowledge, but then I remembered he’d just told me I made bad decisions. There was only so much abuse a girl could take in one day and I was right up to my limit. When you work in a male dominated profession as I do, you’re used to being judged. Most of the time I let it wash over me. If I threatened their masculinity that was their problem, not mine. Occasionally I fought back. Sometimes I took sadistic pleasure in surprising people, but I was damned if I’d allow myself to be told I made bad decisions by a man who never let himself go.

I stood up straighter and pushed my chest out (good job I was wearing his jacket). ‘Excuse me, but what gives you the right to judge my decisions?’

‘We could start with the fact you’re currently naked from the waist up under my jacket. Fix the dress. I’m the best man. I have duties to perform.’

And I was willing to bet he’d perform them well.

Oh, God, I had to stop thinking like that.

‘The dress is unfixable. And I couldn’t refuse to wear it. This was what Cressida wanted.’

‘Your half-naked body on display? I don’t think so.’ He threw me a look that would have terrified an entire army into immediate surrender. ‘But you’re just a girl who can’t say no.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I exploded, which considering I was half-naked wasn’t a good idea. Because I was quite physical I tended to add emphasis to what I was saying by using my hands. Up until a moment ago my hands had been holding the front of his jacket together. Now they were waving around wildly, preparing to act in my defense. Unfortunately they were not the only part of me to be waving around wildly.

His eyes darkened and I realized that he had stopped looking at my face.

Suddenly there were four of us in the room.

Me, him and my breasts.

I saw a tiny muscle move in his jaw and then his gaze lifted to mine and that was the moment I discovered that looking at someone could make you burn inside.

‘I can say no.’ My voice came out croaky and I realized the timing of that sentence wasn’t great because I knew, I just knew, that both of us were thinking about sex.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Hayley? At this wedding? Have you no pride?’

‘Pride is the reason I’m here. If I’d stayed away everyone would have thought I was broken-hearted.’

‘And are you?’ His question surprised me as much as the roughness of his voice.

We didn’t exactly have the sort of relationship that included an exchange of confidences and that was a deeply personal question. I had no intention of answering it.

I hadn’t even told Rosie how bad I felt, although she knew of course. That was why she was here. Solidarity even in the absence of confession. That was one of the unspoken rules of true sisterhood.

The second was that we were going to leave at the first possible moment, scoot back to our apartment in London and drown the memories of today in a large bottle of wine while we wrapped presents and finished decorating our apartment for Christmas.

Not that I was broken-hearted about Charlie—I wasn’t. It was more the misery of being forced to confront yet more evidence of how utterly impossible relationships were.

I was mourning the fairy tale, which was ridiculous when I thought about it because I’d never believed in the fairy tale.

‘Hayley? Cristo, answer the question.’ His voice was raw and thickened by an emotion I didn’t recognize. I assumed it was anger, since that was the only emotion he ever seemed to feel around me. ‘Are you broken-hearted?’

The question hung between us in an atmosphere that was heavy and sweaty. A moment ago I’d been freezing. Someone needed to open a window. It was stifling in here.

‘Unless you’re a cardiologist, the condition of my heart is none of your business.’ I might have been hiding my feelings but I wasn’t hiding anything else. I lifted my hands to close my jacket but he was there before me. Strong male fingers tangled with mine and the backs of his fingers brushed against my breasts. His hands were warm and chemistry shot through me. It was like falling on an electric fence.

Both of us froze.

The only sound in the room was his breathing. Or maybe it was my breathing.

He was standing really close to me, so close I had a magnified view of hot masculinity. My eyes were level with that darkened jaw, that unsmiling mouth and those incredible bed me if you’re lucky eyes.

Right at the moment I so, so wanted to get that lucky.

I knew he wouldn’t be good for me. He’d probably be a bit like junk food—something you could crave even while knowing it had no nutritional value and might make you feel sick later.

I didn’t care about the wedding. I didn’t care that I’d be gossiped about for the next two decades. All I wanted was to feel that mouth on mine and find out whether kissing him would be as good as I thought it would.

Oh, God, why not?

Today had been such a total disaster I might as well try and extract one decent memory to comfort me in the hours of cringing flashbacks that were bound to follow.

Telling myself I was doing us both a favor, I grabbed the front of his shirt and was about to pull him towards me when he muttered something in Italian and dragged me towards him by the lapels of his jacket.

We collided, locked together like wild animals in the mating season.

Chapter Three

Bodies, mouths, every part of us that could touch were touching, and although I had no idea who made the first move I didn’t care any more because his mouth was warm and skilled and his kiss confirmed what I’d already suspected—

That he was the hottest man on the face of the earth.

Whatever else it was, this wasn’t a scripted kiss.

I doubted either of us would have known or cared if anyone else was watching. We were so wrapped up in each other, so absorbed in the moment, we wouldn’t have noticed if a horse had leapt from one of the paintings and started galloping around the room.

I felt the erotic slide of his tongue in my mouth and moaned aloud because what he was doing connected a million tiny circuits inside me and set off a chain reaction until I was fairly sure my body was close to meltdown. I didn’t care that he never smiled because I knew now his mouth was made for kissing and he proved it with every delicious, skilled stroke of his tongue. My arms were round his neck, my body pressed against his—and his was hard, muscular and just about perfect. Under that shockingly expensive suit, the man was ripped. Everything was ripped. My dress, his body and my reputation.

I couldn’t help myself. I covered the front of his trousers with the flat of my hand and felt him, hard and thick against my palm.

‘Cristo—’ he muttered against my lips and slammed me back against the wall, his mouth hot and demanding on mine. His hands had moved from the jacket to my breasts and I felt a thrill of delicious excitement as his thumbs grazed my nipples.

Usually I closed my eyes when I kissed, but not this time.

His eyes were fixed on mine, dark with heat and raw desire. It was the sexiest experience of my life and I didn’t want to miss a single moment of it.

My mind wasn’t capable of much coherent thought, but I knew I’d been wrong about one thing—

Nico Rossi wasn’t a good boy. He was a bad boy dressed in a good suit.

Heat pulsed between us, the chemistry screaming, scorching and intense. His fingers drove into my hair, which tumbled out of its clip and slid over his hand. His mouth was pressing hot, sensual kisses against my neck and lower.

He murmured something in Italian and I was about to ask him to translate when I realized I didn’t want him to. Knowing what he was saying might spoil everything. There was no way I was ever going to understand what was going on here anyway, so what was the point in trying?

I felt the thrust of his hard thigh between mine and there was another ripping sound as the seams tore a bit further. If the bridesmaid dress hadn’t already been ruined it would have been now. I didn’t think he even noticed. His mouth devoured mine and he yanked what was left of the stupid dress up and locked his hands on my shifting hips.

I strained against him, feeling the hard thrust of him against me and then I felt his hand move to my inner thigh. The anticipation almost killed me, and then he was stroking me with those long, knowing fingers, somehow programmed to touch me in exactly the right place even though I hadn’t said a word or made a sound. My mouth was on his, we were breathing the same air, biting, licking and it was the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. I wasn’t thinking about anything except how good it felt and then he slid his fingers inside me and good became incredible and I could feel myself pulse around him. I was gripping his shoulder because my knees were so weak I thought I might slide to the floor if I wasn’t holding on, but that left me with one hand free and I wasn’t going to waste it.

I wrapped my hand around him and felt him thicken in my grasp. As I stroked him I heard him growl deep in his throat and it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard, even sexier because I knew I was the one who had done that to him. This man who was so big on control was losing control, and he was losing it because of me.

His fingers were skilled, finding that exact spot with unerring accuracy and I felt the first flutters of orgasm.

We’d barely exchanged a word before today, this man and I, and yet here we were locked in this unimaginable intimacy. His knee nudged my thighs further apart, giving him full access and he kept using his fingers, kept kissing me until I felt everything inside me tighten and pulse. I was close, so close, and he knew because he was right there with me, his fingers controlling everything I was feeling, his mouth breathing in my gasps.

‘Come,’ he ordered softly, and normally I was very bad at doing what I was told but this time our objectives were clearly aligned and I tightened my hand around the glorious thickness of him and then heard someone calling my name.

‘Hayley?’ It was my sister, using one of her frantic stage whispers, knocking on doors as she searched for me. Presumably she’d finally stopped laughing for long enough to work out I might be in trouble.

Shit.

Nico and I stared at each other, eyes and mouths still locked together. My body was suspended in a state of intense excitement.

For once in my life I wished Rosie had just carried on laughing and not tried to help me out.

Here I was, hovering on the edge of what I knew was going to be the best orgasm of my life with the hottest man I was ever going to meet and my sister was banging on the door.

I was going to kill her. Slowly. If I was going to die in agony then I was going to make sure she did, too.

‘Hayley? Are you OK?’

It was a measure of how turned on I was that having my sister banging on the door hadn’t made any difference to the way I felt.

Nico swore against my mouth (in both Italian and English, in case you were wondering), and I was just about to ask whether he’d locked the door when it burst open.

Fortunately Nico had his back to our audience, shielding me. I had yet another reason to be thankful for those broad, muscular shoulders.

With admirable calm, he removed his fingers and his mouth from my body and somehow managed to pull my dress down and draw the lapels of his jacket together at the same time. He was impressive in a crisis—smooth and composed. Rosie had seen most of it before, of course. We’d lived together since we left home to go to college and we didn’t lock doors very often, so at this point I was more exasperated than embarrassed.

But then I looked past his shoulders (and that took some willpower, I can tell you, because it was the best view I’d seen in a long time) and saw a shocked face that didn’t belong to my sister.

Nico’s sister was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.

Oh crappity, crap, crap.

Her eyes were wide and shocked, her mouth slightly agape.

She obviously thought I’d corrupted her usually controlled brother. And maybe I had. I was certainly well on my way. From the moment he’d touched me, I’d thought about nothing but him. And before you judge me I can tell you without a flicker of doubt that if this man had kissed you, you wouldn’t have been thinking of anything but him either.

He swore under his breath. ‘Go back to the church, Kiara.’ It was a command, and she colored and stepped back without question.

If he’d spoken to me like that I would have posted his Tom Ford suit to a worthy charity, but she didn’t say a word. Just obeyed him like a puppy in an obedience class.

I decided it must be the shock that had stopped her from standing up for herself. And I was responsible for that shock.

So much for having a sexual relationship without emotional involvement. It seemed that no matter what rules you played by, someone always got hurt.

I wanted to tell her not to worry, that we hated each other really, but she’d already gone and I was left with more than a split dress to worry about.

I’d thought my embarrassment couldn’t get any deeper.

Turned out I’d been wrong about that, too.

Chapter Four

‘Best wedding ever.’ It was Christmas Eve and Rosie was stretching on the living room floor, surrounded by half-wrapped Christmas presents. She spent a lot of time stretching. I’d learned to give her a wide berth because there had been more than one occasion when I’d moved too close and ended up with her foot in my face. She’d started karate at the age of six, then she’d added in Muay Thai when she was eighteen and met— But I wasn’t allowed to mention him. Let’s just say we call him He Who Shall Not Be Named (and he’s not that Voldemort guy from Harry Potter, although from the smile on my sister’s face at the time I think he might have had a magic wand hidden somewhere).

‘Glad you were entertained.’

Snow drifted lazily past the windows. The streets of London were white and everyone was wrapped up against the cold in bright scarves and outrageous hats. That was one of the many things I loved about living in London. People weren’t afraid to dress creatively, especially where we lived. In Notting Hill we were surrounded by artists, musicians and writers. And my angel-faced, karate-loving, kick-boxing sister.

I snuggled deeper into the sofa, my laptop balanced on my thighs because I couldn’t be bothered to walk to the table and anyway, it saved on heating bills. ‘Can we stop talking about the wedding?’

She’d been laughing non-stop for the past three days.

Sisterly love was wearing thin.

I pretended to be absorbed by my laptop, but if I was honest I’d barely done any work since we’d arrived home from the wedding. I couldn’t concentrate. My brain was jammed up with the hottest memory of my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. Mostly about the way Mr Super Cool had gone from ignoring me to virtually having sex with me. The change in him had been shocking and, well, exciting. What wasn’t so exciting was the fact it had been interrupted and there was no chance of a repeat performance, which basically meant I was doomed to die of sexual frustration. Not that I hadn’t tried to do something about that, but no vibrator was ever going to come close to the unique bedroom talents of Nico Rossi. It was like watching a boxed set, ending an episode on a cliffhanger and then realizing you’d lost the final DVD. I desperately wanted to know what happened next.

But I was never going to because Nico hadn’t liked me before the wedding, so he was going to like me even less since I ruined the day and walked off with his Tom Ford.

For a couple of days I’d nurtured a fantasy he might contact me, but of course he hadn’t. Real life is a split dress and embarrassment, not a hot guy ringing you.

I answered another email, trying to block out the memory of the wedding. I’d scoured YouTube for days, checking that no one had uploaded a video of my dizzying descent into ignominy. So far all seemed well, but if I could have dug a hole and lived underground for a while, I would have done. ‘Why the hell did you have to walk in when you did?’

‘Why the hell didn’t you lock the door if you were planning to have sex? I’ve wrapped a load of “spare” presents by the way. They’re the ones without labels.’ She spun and kicked, almost removing a lamp from the table. If the lamp had been a person, it would have been unconscious. And she wondered why men were intimidated by her. Sex with my sister could probably have been classified as a lethal sport.

And talking of sex…

‘We weren’t having sex!’ I watched as Rosie paused to arrange the presents in a pile under the perfectly shaped fir tree we’d picked up from the garden centre. I would have had a fake one, but she said we had so much fake in our life growing up, we deserved the real thing. Personally I didn’t see anything romantic about picking dried green needles out of the bottom of your feet in March, but that was just me. ‘Haven’t you overdone the “spare” presents this year?’

My sister always bought extra Christmas presents. She said it was because it made the tree look festive, but I knew her idea of a terrible Christmas would be for someone to turn up and her not have a gift for them. She was very generous—it was all linked with her fairy-tale view of the world. Not that she was idealistic, but she believed you could make your own fairy tale if you worked hard enough at it. Who needed a prince when you had a credit card and online shopping? When we were little she was the one who danced around the room in pink tights with a tiara on her head, pretending to be a princess. Then our parents split up and she decided she’d rather be the Karate Kid.

My sister’s most important self-created fairy tale was Christmas. Because we’d never had a proper family Christmas, she overcompensated madly. Hence the tree, the stockings and her determination that no one we knew would spend the day alone.

‘I’m going to pick up the turkey.’ She spun and executed another kick and her blonde hair flew around her face. There were times when I thought she should have auditioned to play Bond (and I do mean Bond, not the dopey girl planted in the film so he can have sex). She trained for hours every day, but it had paid off and she’d landed a great job coaching martial arts at Fit and Physical in the City. She was also building a list of clients for personal training. Her results were startling, but I guessed that was because they were all terrified of my sweet-faced sister. If you didn’t put in effort she kicked your butt. Literally.