Emme was just thinking about the call Cat had taken before hurrying off and wondered what drew her away so compellingly, when her rumination was interrupted by a South African accent. Her eyes darted open and her hackles rose as she tracked him, Tristan Du Kok, the total dog, asking his companion, the blonde from the balcony, which table she wanted to sit at. The woman wore large sunglasses and a prickly smile. As she shrugged her shoulders her lustrous ponytail swung. Tristan took a nearby table, his back to Emme as his girlfriend took off her thick jacket, her cream jumper revealing rosebud nipples. The waiter came out with Emme’s coffee and greeted them as if they were royalty. Tristan rose from the thick wooden bench and pressed the waiter’s palm, his checked trucker jacket rising up his broad back to reveal his Calvin Kleins above his jeans. Emme couldn’t help but look at the sliver of golden skin at the small of Tristan’s back as he ran his fingers through his hair and chatted to the waiter about the quality of the snow the mountains had been gifted this week. The woman was politely aloof, as if she were elegantly grieving, as if sheknewabout the other woman on the balcony. She was clearly desperate to be left alone.
I would like to be left alone with him,Emme thought, surprising herself.
‘I’ll get your coffees,’ the waiter said amiably, as he brought Emme’s over to her. She willed Tristan not to turn around and see her, lest he think she was spying again.
Tristan Du Kok and the blonde talked in hushed tones Emme couldn’t hear as she tried not to watch him stroking her arm as if he were consoling her. They looked like they were making up after an argument. He certainly seemed less jocular than last night. But the way his manly, tanned hand squeezed her arm tenderly filled Emme with a misplaced jealousy, reminiscent of all those feelings of Tom and Chrissy. Only this was more intense, more reckless. Nosier. Emme wanted to knoweverythingabout this couple, who were so beautiful. She pictured them having make-up sex that was both impassioned and languid.
After not being able to focus on her book, nor able to hear the quiet conversation, Emme finished her coffee, left a five-franc coin on the table and stood to leave. She needed to get the roast in the oven before the Harringtons could put up a resistance to her gesture. It would certainly ease her guilt at having a wobble this morning. Of wondering how she might stick it out and not cut and run. Except she realised then that something else could keep her in Kristalldorf.
Emme picked up her groceries bag and walked past the couple, hoping he wouldn’t see her.
‘Hey,’ Tristan said, almost saluting Emme, clearly recognising her from last night. The blonde looked disinterested and sad.
Urgh.
Emme felt equal parts irked and thrilled, but did what everyone else seemed to do in this town.
‘Hey,’ she replied, not quite smiling, before walking away, cringing about her embarrassing coat, fully aware that Tristan’s eyes were on her ass.
Chapter Eighteen
Cat caught her reflection in the door of the opulent La Cornue oven as she wiped it clean. Seeing her face, usually round and optimistic, made her feel deplorable after her midnight tryst. Two midnight trysts in a row. Both so misjudged that Cat was furious with herself for going back for more.
On Friday night, after Anastasia had summonsed Cat to the hotel, she waited for her on the bed in a see-through black negligee. She was an absolute vision. Cat had dropped her bag and crawled straight onto the bed. She couldn’t resist. She parted Anastasia’s legs and dotted her tongue up the inside of her calf, her thigh, teasing and tantalising until she reached her lover’s pussy. She pushed the negligee up over Anastasia’s washboard stomach, still tanned from a summer spent on a Greek island, and darted her tongue over her yearning clitoris. Anastasia groaned.
‘God I missed you,’ Cat almost cried. She hadn’t even taken off her coat before making Anastasia come. Then it was Cat’s turn. Anastasia finally peeled off Cat’s clothes and made her sit on the edge of the bed before wrapping her legs around her and writhing on her until she went crazy. Their hard nipples felt electric against each other, until Anastasia pushed Cat back, lay alongside her, andfinished her off with insatiable strokes. Anastasia and Cat spent two blissful hours, reacquainting, re-exploring, kissing every part of each other’s naked bodies, hardly saying a word, until Anastasia said she needed to go. Wrung out and reset, it was only after Anastasia had left and Cat was dressing, that she realised Anastasia hadn’t even asked her how Argentina was. How the funeral had been.
Of course not.
On Saturday night Anastasia summoned Cat again, bored to tears playing Monopoly with Dimitri and Orfeas in the mansion. And Cat was drunk enough and just the wrong side of reckless enough to dash off– before Tiago could talk her out of it– and hurry over the river to the Silberblick. Its dark decadent décor luring her in with every step. She went up to their usual room. Room 204. Just as she had the night before, yearning for Anastasia Steinherr’s electric orgasms. Only Saturday night had a bite.
Cat couldn’t shake her agitation, lying like a darkness under her desire. She had called it off when she left for Argentina. She knew she could never really have her. Mrs Diamandis. A Steinherr. Lady of the mansion with a husband who could give her the world and three children Cat had no interest in getting to know. Argentina could serve as the circuit breaker she needed. Yet like a fool, she’d fallen straight back into bed with her.
On Saturday night Anastasia awaited her lover again, this time no negligee. Her naked body had a gentle sheen. Cat took off her clothes while Anastasia pleasured herself, then she crumbled onto the bed and kissed her. It felt different only twenty-four hours later. The power play had returned. Cat’s resentment had resurfaced. No matterhow hard she tried, circling Anastasia’s delectable wetness with her fingers, then her tongue, nothing worked. Something was awry for both of them. Anastasia was usually insatiable– she could come three or four times in one of their clandestine meetings. When she couldn’t tonight, when she flinched a couple of times as Cat darted her tongue in and out of her, Cat felt rejected.
What was she playing at? Desperately trying to pleasure a woman who hadn’t even asked her how she was? A woman who did anything to get what she wanted. The most selfish– most beautiful– woman Cat had ever known.
Cat sobered up fast.
‘I’m going to go.’
Anastasia didn’t protest. She didn’t offer to make Cat come– a little courtesy for breaking up her night with her friends. She watched her go, and Cat went back to the Kivvi apartment, cried in the shower, then cried herself to sleep.
Now her head throbbed and she felt the familiar shadow of self-loathing as she wiped the ornate oven door. Lumi Kivvi walked in wearing an elegant dress. She smelled of Dior L’Or and wore delicate Graff diamonds in her ears.
‘We’re taking a chopper to Le Rosey. Stella’s recital.’
Viktor walked in behind her, putting cufflinks on. Viktor rarely came into the kitchen and always looked uncomfortable when he did. ‘Then Viktor’s going on to Tokyo– do you have everything darling?’ she said to her husband, noticing his tie was a little wonky. She straightened it; he looked agitated by the assistance, but still she finished the job.
‘Will you get off me, woman!’ Viktor barked at his wife.
Cat noticed Lumi looking somewhat hurt.
‘Do you not want dinner tonight?’ Cat asked politely, shifting the focus. She almost didn’t want the night off. What if Anastasia called again?
No.
‘We’ll eat in Geneva before Viktor’s flight, I’ll be back late tonight, I won’t need supper but Mika might, he’s staying home.’
