Page 73 of Coronation
“It’s good to see you, Julia.” I lean down to bump my cheek against hers in the briefest, most perfunctory of greetings, aware of flashes going off beyond the large front windows as I retreat, resting my hand on the small of Zelda’s back. “Allow me to introduce Miss Zelda Flowers.”
Julia clutches her chest, gazing adoringly at Zelda.Fake. Very, very fake.“Oh, my, Zelda. You are every bit as lovely as everyone says.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Lady Fletcher. This space is absolutely stunning,” Zelda replies smoothly, her smile much more muted than usual and rather lacking its typical confidence.
“Oh, call me Julia, please. Isn’t it just perfect?” she agrees happily, looking over at the nearest sculpture, which appears to be composed entirely of rotted apples cast in resin. “I worked with the architect, Sir Francis Goudier, to bring it to life. Are you familiar with his work?”
“I’m not, no.” Zelda draws closer to me as she leans to follow Julia’s line of sight, and my hand winds more securely around her waist.
My ex-wife’s answering smile is patronizing. “Of course you wouldn’t be. Americans hardly ever appreciate these things. I’ll send you a book on his work first thing tomorrow, I promise you’ll absolutely adore him and learn so much!”
By now, I know Zelda well enough to be certain she hasn’t missed the condescension in the comment. It’s a mark on how patient she is that the words don’t evoke so much as a grimace. As Julia continues, however, I, on the other hand, feel my ire rising with each word.
“I was just thrilled when Benedict accepted my invitation. It’s a rare thing indeed to get him out of the house without brute force.” Her smile is innocent, but I know exactly what she’s doing. No one on Earth is better at pointing out my shortcomings than my former wife, and she has a special knack for doing so in public, when there isn’t a thing I can do about it.
It seems prudent to get out of her immediate vicinity before I say something I regret, but before I can so much as think how to extricate us from this situation, Zelda takes over.
Her head quirks to the side, a politely puzzled expression on her beautiful face. “Really? Ben?” She laughs. “Oh, you had me going there for a moment. I really should have known better; he’s always surprising me with outings. We went to see such a beautiful Shakespeare production in Brackenwood Park a few weeks ago. Have you ever been?”
A nerve in Julia’s eyelid twitches. “A park! Goodness, how quaint. I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, no.”
Unfazed, Zelda nods cheerfully. “It really was. I think making the arts accessible to more of our population is so important, don’t you? Not everyone can afford to attend a Broadway production or come to your beautiful galleryto purchase a painting, but everyone deserves those kinds of experiences.”
No one who overheard this exchange—which could be any of the number who have drifted over on the pretense of examining the forty-thousand-euro rotting apple sculpture—could accuse either of these women of being impolite.
I am the only one who knows both of them well enough to be certain shots were most definitely fired.
Julia’s gaze flicks to me, as though searching for signs I disagree with this sentiment. As she does, however, her eyes seem to catch on a point below my left ear.Zelda’s lipstick.
Her smile is wooden when she finally looks back to my date. “I agree wholeheartedly. Very well put, dear. Well, I’ll let you two make the rounds. Thank you so very much for your show of support.” She leans in, bumping her bony cheek against Zelda’s before rounding on me for one, too. I hold my breath to avoid the cloud of perfume, and exhale heavily once she’s drifted away.
“Why did you get divorced again?” Zelda asks conspiratorially, looking up at me with a meaningful glint in her eye, and totally unable and unwilling to help myself, I laugh.
Thirty-Two
Zelda
I’d known it was coming.
Try as I might to deny it, this has been building for weeks, the undercurrent of desire changing the flow of every moment we’ve had together. Whether we were fighting it, or ignoring it, or allowing ourselves to get swept away, just for a moment, this was always coming; it was just a question of when.
Every time he touched me tonight, or leaned in to speak quietly in my ear, or looked at me,I knew.
By the time we leave the gallery, I can barely breathe. Ben keeps me close, sweeping us both past the storm of reporters and into the waiting car, a tension in his body that seems to be carrying into my own.
The driver has only just closed the door behind us, the darkened window showered by the flashes of dozens of cameras, and their muffled voices are still audible through the thick glass. Ben doesn’t seem to give a damn.
He turns in his seat, his hungry features only half visible inthe darkened space as he wraps his hand around the back of my neck, dragging my lips to meet his with such urgency it steals the air from my lungs.
I respond instantly, my hands flying to his shoulders as my cry of surprise is muffled by our kiss. Any reservations I had, any reasons I had for keeping him at arm’s length, and any pretense that we could ever be anything less thanthis… they’re gone.
The console between our seats is in the way, though, and Ben groans his approval as I push him back, swinging a leg over his lap just like I did earlier. We dive for each other, making out frantically as I grind myself down on the stiff bulge that’s straining against Ben’s trousers.
It’s only been a few seconds. The car hasn’t even pulled away from the curb yet, and we can still hear the voice of reporters and photographers beyond the tinted window. Insulated in the dark back seat, though, I’m already aching for him.
Ben’s hands find my ass, digging into the flesh without apology, and I’m so, so wet.
I hadn’t wanted to think about this, went out of my way to avoid reliving moments like this one, and now I don’t know how I ever could again. No one but the man between my thighs has ever set me on fire just by touching me or made me feel more wanted. Just the feeling of his hardness pressing insistently against my soaked sex through several layers of material is enough to strip away the spiraling cloud of worries that seems to follow me everywhere I go.
