Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

EPILOGUE

Naysmith propped himself up on one elbow and watched Kim as she slept. The first night in a new bed always made him eager and he’d taken her twice since they’d arrived that afternoon. Now sated, he gazed down at her slender form, his mind clear, able to think without distraction.

The cottage was ideal – and the perfect place for a romantic getaway. Perched in a remote location on a windswept stretch of coastal cliffs, with no neighbours for miles, and nothing to do except go for long walks or fool around in bed. But he must have known when he booked it. At least on some subconscious level, he must have.

Kim had been so pleased when he’d mentioned it. A whole week without work, or email, or mobile phones. Perhaps even a whole week without clothes, she’d suggested naughtily. And of course, that was what he wanted. A whole week with her, just the two of them together, enjoying each other, growing closer as the waves crashed on the rocks far below.

But they had been growing closer. Somehow, her life and his had become more entwined than he’d ever anticipated. Or allowed for.

Yes, she was very attractive, but there were plenty of other women out there for him . . . at least there had been until he’d found himself comparing them to her.

He pulled the duvet aside to reveal her naked back, smooth skin lit by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. She was just a person, fragile and beautiful and interesting, but still just a person. Why then did his thoughts return to dwell on her so much? He bit his lip. He’d never intended for things to go this far.

For so long, the game had sustained him, driven him forward. In many ways it had defined him, given him both purpose and pleasure. He couldn’t ignore it, or pretend it hadn’t happened. But he also knew the gnawing pain of hiding it, the hollowness that grew inside until it consumed everything else. He remembered how bitterly he’d wanted to tell his mother, and how much it had cost him not to.

And he knew that stifling his desires just made them hungrier.

He looked down at Kim, listening to the gentle sigh of her breathing as she dozed peacefully beside him.

What if it was all just too much for her to take? He dreaded the thought of what he would have to do if she couldn’t accept it. But the time might come when he had no choice – when he could no longer risk telling her because he could no longer bring himself to deal with her if she ran.

He shut his eyes.

Of course he’d known when he booked the cottage. He’d known for some time that this was coming, however much he’d wished otherwise.

He opened his eyes again, studying Kim, fixing the image of her in his mind. So very beautiful, so utterly submissive to his will. She had accepted everything he’d done to her, even seeming to gain pleasure from her surrender. But some things were more difficult to accept than others . . .

And that’s why he’d booked this place. A remote cottage, with lonely clifftop walks, where lovers might stand on the edge of the precipice, gazing down at the breakers below.

Lovers.

He sighed, forcing the hope from his mind. Hope would only cloud his judgement and he couldn’t allow that. Not just now.

Sliding quietly out of bed, he padded through to the living room and found Kim’s bag. Her mobile phone was switched off as he’d requested, but he took it along with the car keys and hid them in the bottom of his case, where she wouldn’t be able to find them in a hurry, though he prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

She stirred slightly as he got back into bed, and he kissed the top of her head, inhaling the soothing smell of her hair. Then, turning off the lamp, he lay back and closed his eyes.

He would tell her in the morning.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’m deeply grateful to the following people:

Brendan McCusker, whose creative writing class started it all, and Chris Wild for the conversation that ignited the idea; Andrew Oates for his valuable procedural insight, and Sarah Prince for introducing me to him; Sally Spedding, Linda Regan and Lesley Horton for their guidance and encouragement, and Barbara Large for the excellent Winchester Writers’ Conference where I met them all; Julia Painter, Kate Ranger, Martyn Heasman, Helen Lynch, Angie Moysak, and Eveart Boniface for their feedback on early drafts; Nick Day, my literary wingman, for reading and commenting every step of the way; Caroline Johnson, my copy editor, who hid a multitude of my literary sins;

Eve White, my agent, for finding me a wonderful home at Hodder & Stoughton; and my editor Francesca Best, who’s more observant than the finest TV detective, and who helped make the story so much better.