Somehow he couldn’t face the idea of returning to Don Trenchard’s flat and being quizzed on how the day with Casey had gone. If he left it until later, his friend would be asleep. ‘I’d like that. But I’m not sure you can have a party with coffee and biscuits. Sort of contradiction in terms.’
‘Not even if I wear my feather boa?’
In the event Casey found a bottle of cooking sherry to follow the coffee and biscuits. There was no music because all the cassettes and CDs were in Candy’s bedroom and Candy was asleep. So they sat talking on the sofa, surrounded by tea chests and suitcases spilling open with Casey’s clothes after her hunt for something suitable to wear that morning.
Two hours slipped by before either of them noticed as they exchanged life histories and light-hearted banter. There was something about her that lifted his spirits, just as it had at their first meeting and on the drive back from the funeral. Something that drew out his own dry and sometimes black military humour. When had he last laughed like that with Pippa? Perhaps he never had.
No further mention of the bombing campaign was made, he noticed, and he wondered if she was deliberately keeping off the subject. Perhaps she recognised his need to unwind and forget the tensions of the job.
He found himself watching her closely, transfixed by the expressive blue-green eyes as she delivered her quick oneline jokes that tripped off her tongue without a moment’s thought. She had a wide, happy mouth with cute rabbity teeth, as she herself described them, a slightly turned-up nose and elfin chin. He liked her freckles and the wavy pale copper hair which she brushed absently with her hands or twirled between her fingers as she talked. Apart from mascara, she didn’t wear make-up. Her clothes were smart and looked good, but they were unfussy and she wore no jewellery.
Unlike Pippa, Casey Mullins appeared to have little obvious vanity. And he knew for certain his wife would never have risked her life helping the police just a few yards from an unexploded bomb. But then why was he comparing her with Pippa? What was the point? His marriage was over in all but name. But then, he wondered as they talked, perhaps that was the point. It was time to look to the future.
‘Oh, my God, is that the time?’ Casey stared at her watch in disbelief. ‘Gone two o’clock and I’m on the early shift.’
Harrison stood up. ‘I am sorry, it was thoughtless of me, I didn’t realise it was that late. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in ages.’
She looked up at him curiously, an uncertain smile on her lips. ‘Hell, you know, like they say, time flies when you’re having fun.’
He picked up his jacket from the sofa. ‘Thanks for the party.’
‘You’re very English, Tom.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Very polite, very English.’ She unfolded her long legs from underneath her and climbed to her feet. ‘I mean it’s not every man who takes a girl out for a romantic candlelit supper and ends up dismantling a bomb in the middle of the West End. That’s some special kind of man. A quiet hero. I feel safe with you. There’s no way you’re going to jump on a girl and ravish her.’
His laugh was slightly uneasy, wondering if he detected a note of disappointment in her voice. ‘We bomb men like to play a waiting game,’ he joked, adding mischievously. ‘As you know, we call it soak time.’
Her eyes were twinkling. ‘Very appropriate.’
He indicated the phone. ‘May I call a taxi? I can wait for it outside.’
‘Sure.’ She was very close now, watching as he punched in the numbers. ‘You don’t have to go.’
His eyes met hers, wide and misty with expectancy, and he felt her hand on his wrist. Slowly he lowered the receiver, aware of the discordant female voice on the other end, and dropped it onto the cradle.
The smell of her filled his head and her face filled his vision until he could see every pore in her skin, every freckle, and the whiteness of her teeth as he lowered his mouth onto hers. Her tongue was still sweet from the sherry, her breathing warm against his cheek as her nostrils flared and her arms went round his neck.
The kiss was long, hard and passionate. So long that he began to think he was drowning, aware only that he didn’t want the moment to end, never wanted to come back to the surface.
When at last she pulled away, gasping for air and laughing as they found themselves back together on the sofa, she said: ‘I think perhaps I got you wrong, Tom Harrison.’ The smile faded on her lips and she looked closely into his eyes as though trying to fathom something she didn’t quite understand. ‘I mean it, I’d like you to stay. And I don’t mean on the sofa.’
Yet it was to begin on the sofa, because the flame was lit and was burning fiercely. He could not remember ever wanting a woman the way he wanted Casey now. A woman who could combine intelligence, wit and desire in such a heady cocktail. Who now closed her eyes, trembling slightly, absorbing every minute sensation as he undid each button down the front of her summer dress.
A small gasp escaped her lips as she became aware of the cooling air on her skin and then the warmth of his mouth as it trailed across her right breast into the scented valley. Her lips parted, her eyes still tight shut, imagining the deft strong hands as they found the front fastener of her brassiere. Those hands that, just hours before, had dismantled a bomb on a London street. Now those hands were slowly, surely dismantling her. She wondered if she would explode and the very thought sent a warm, moist sensation fizzling and bubbling between her legs.
They made love on the floor with just a dustsheet and a cushion on the bare boards. Their intimacy came with unexpected ease, the very spontaneity of their actions intoxicating as they urged each other on in hoarse whispers between snatched gasps of breath. He was stirred by her candour, her determination to satisfy both their needs with inventive and lustful lovemaking that had her acting out the whore with unabashed relish, moaning with pleasure as he invaded her. She arched her back against the floor, the skin of her belly drum-tight and her ribs high as her arms reached above her head in abandon. Her hair splashed onto the cushion as her head twisted from side to side, her breasts trembled under the unrelenting rhythm. Then she was gasping, begging for release from the exquisite torture as she hovered on the brink.
Her mouth opened in a silent cry, her lips forming around the unspoken words. Fuck me, fuck me. Yes, yes.
Never had he found such a hushed plea so erotic, an aphrodisiac that so spurred him on. Plunging deeper and without let-up, on and on until he saw the perspiration start to glisten between her breasts, gathering droplets forming like a tiny dew pond, the dampness trickling down across her abdomen to where their bodies touched. ‘The wet slap of flesh against flesh, animal and exciting. Then the small fist tightening in his groin, the involuntary contraction of his balls and the sudden blessed relief. His own gut-wrenching cry mingling with hers, Casey’s knees coming up high around his sides, squeezing into his flanks as she was carried on the wave.
Her knees dropped, her legs open and languid, his head against her breasts, the tension ebbing away like a turning tide, her hand running gently over his hair.
She said softly, slowly: ‘Thank you for dialling my number, Tom. I must go to sleep now because I think it’s just possible I’m in love. And being in love makes me very tired.’
He moved to one side, feeling himself slide gently, reluctantly from her body. Her face immobile, tranquil as though already asleep except for the gentle smile of satisfaction on her lips. Looking down at her, he couldn’t find the words he wanted. It was like no time he had ever had with Pippa, but it sounded like a betrayal to say so. And he was afraid that it would have sounded crass to mention it. Instead he said, quietly: ‘Sweet dreams.’