CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It was close to midnight by the time she turned out the bathroom light in Meier’s suite and went to open the curtains to check on the weather. Snow continued to fall, although it wasn’t such a white-out now, and the violent gusts that had whistled around the house and whipped the trees for most of the evening didn’t seem quite as fierce.
Leaving the curtains open, she turned and looked around the warmly lit room. There was nothing to suggest it was shared by a woman. In the bathroom, she’d found only a single toothbrush in the cabinet, some nail scissors, a roll-on male deodorant and the usual shaving-gear – she’d wondered if the two-day stubble look was achieved by design, but the absence of a special razor suggested not.
Going to open the armoire, she found only men’s clothes inside, and the strong scent of him: leathery, musky and whatever it was that made it uniquely his. She inhaled deeply and felt an unexpected rush of adrenaline.
There was nothing on the dressing table that couldn’t conceivably belong to him, and the several dozen books on the shelves to one side of the bed were either in French or German. From what she could tell, they were mostly academic anthologies or chronicles, although there were a few English language volumes such as the 5M farming series and some well-thumbed paperbacks specifically about lambing and calving.
No light reading for Jean-Claude before lights out, she remarked to herself as she flipped back the duvet and climbed into bed. The linen smelled of fresh laundry and faintly of him.
After turning off the lamps, she lay quietly gazing out at the stars. They seemed so bright in the night-black sky and so close that it was tempting to make a wish. She listened to the humming might of the wind, the occasional creak of the house, the gentle sound of her own breath as she wondered where Jean-Claude was spending the night. With Maggi? In another smaller room in the house? Was he already sleeping or lying awake reading, maybe going over the interview earlier and thinking about Nicole. The relationship between them, as described by both, was as intriguing to her as it was baffling. That they could still be so much in love after all this time and all that had happened … She might have found it unbelievable if she hadn’t listened to them herself, and if its power weren’t seeming to spread an ache, a sense of longing into her own heart.
She closed her eyes and tried not to think of David as she willed sleep to come. The wind continued to whoosh. A tree branch tapped against the house. Something blew over and rattled down the lane. A floorboard creaked … The door opened quietly, and her heart seemed to stop beating. He was here; she could sense it, as if he was already beside her. She didn’t hear his footsteps or the sound of his breath, only knew he’d reached her when she felt his weight on the bed, and then on her. She wanted him with a desire that was burning out of control. His hands slipped beneath her, her legs wrapped around him and as he pressed his mouth to hers, he entered her hard …
She sat up with a gasp, her heart thudding wildly, her mind reeling. It was a dream; she knew that. Even so, it took her a while to turn and check that Jean-Claude really wasn’t there.
He wasn’t, and she sank back against the pillows in dizzying relief. The fantasy of him remained strong; the desire pulsed and ebbed. She was fiery hot all over; sweat poured from her skin until finally she flipped back the duvet and went to cool off in the shower.
By the time she’d towelled herself dry, the night sweat had passed, but her sleepover pyjamas were drenched. She rolled them into a ball and went to pull on her jeans and jumper. She was so thirsty that she could drink an ocean, and knowing she stood next to no chance of getting back to sleep anytime soon, she reached for her phone. Noticing a message from Paul Kinsley, she quickly read it.
Let me know what you think.
He’d attached two links, but seeing what they led to, she decided they could wait. She needed to quench her terrible thirst.
Using her phone torch to light the way, Cristy descended the stairs quietly and crossed the hall into the kitchen. It was still warm and was lit by a single lamp next to the hearth, where the dying embers of the fire glowed red in the darkness.
Her heart contracted when she saw Meier seated at one end of the sofa, his bare feet propped on the fender, his eyes open and regarding her curiously.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, putting aside the book he was holding and lowering his feet. He was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and navy joggers.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she said. ‘I needed a drink …’
‘Let me,’ he insisted. ‘I know where things are.’
As he went to the sink, she stepped back, thankful he had no way of knowing about the dream that had woken her. He didn’t, did he? She wished she could shake it, but being this close to him was bringing it back …
‘The storm seems to have died down a little,’ he said, filling a large glass from the tap.
Realizing that was true, she took the glass from him and drank deeply. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and feeling the need to apologize again for turning him out of his own bed, she was about to suggest they swap places when she remembered how damp the sheets were.
‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’ he suggested, going back to the sofa.
Deciding she would, but in the chair rather than next to him, she refilled the glass and went to curl up in the down-filled cushions. ‘You’re having trouble sleeping too?’ she asked.
‘It happens from time to time,’ he replied, picking up a tumbler from the floor in front of him. Scotch or brandy – hard to tell.
Suspecting their interview earlier was to blame in his case, she said, ‘Insomnia’s a new thing for me. I have something for it, but it’s going to take a while to kick in.’
He sipped his nightcap, sat back and returned his feet to the fender. ‘Lack of sleep can do strange things to the psyche,’ he cautioned, ‘and one of the worst is how often it makes stressful or upsetting situations seem even worse than they are.’
As his words reached her, she wondered if he could actually read her mind and wasn’t at all sure how she’d feel about it if he could.
‘Something is bothering you,’ he told her, as if it were a normal part of an everyday conversation. Maybe for him it was. ‘I have sensed it since you arrived. Don’t worry; you keep it well hidden, and you were very professional when doing your job, but you’re upset about something, and I’m going to guess that what you perceive as your failure to resolve the problem, whatever it may be, is causing your difficulties with sleep.’
Her eyes widened slightly. So hecouldread minds?
He smiled. ‘Helplessness, frustration, indecision, confusion are almost always the drivers of stress, whether the issue is professional or emotional.’ He took another sip of his drink. ‘Sometimes, giving voice to the problem and listening to yourself can show you whether it’s your own resistance to a situation that’s blocking the answers. Often that’s it, but not always.’
