The Other Half by Sarah Rayner Page B

company do, in Paris.”
    This didn’t sound so bad. “It was a one-night stand?”
    “Barely that. We didn’t even spend the night together. We were drunk. She dragged me back to her room—she was a Spanish ad exec, very attractive, from what I recall. Must be a couple of years ago. We had sex once, then I left. It was no big romance.”
    Chloë was thankful. It was one thing having an affair with someone she was beginning to like a lot and who seemed to think she was special, quite another to be one of a series of lovers.
    By now they were back at her apartment. Thank goodness she’d spent fifteen minutes tidying up before work. It was far from pristine, but at least the washing-up was done and her dirty clothes were in the laundry bin. They went into the kitchen.
    “Hey, this is nice,” said James.
    “You think so?” Chloë was amazed—its haphazard style was hardly in keeping with his designer suits.
    “Yeah.” He sauntered around, casually taking stock, peering at the fridge smothered in photos of Chloë with her friends, examining the quirky knickknacks on the windowsill, chortling at Rob’s camp fifties B-movie posters.
    He wandered through the double doors into the living room.
    It’s less tidy in there, Chloë worried. There were magazines everywhere and stacks of CDs that had been separated from their covers from last Sunday’s gathering with her girlfriends.
    “Ah!” James kicked off his shoes. “Sorry, old fella, my turn.” He shoved the cat off the settee so he could stretch out on it lengthways. “This is just my kind of place, you know,” he called through to Chloë. “Reminds me of where I lived when I first got to London.” She came to the door. With his feet propped up on one of the sofa arms, he looked as if there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
    “Do you want some more wine?” she asked. Living hand to mouth as she and Rob tended to, they had far from a cellarful, but they always had a couple of cheapish bottles in stock for emergencies. “I’m afraid it’s nothing spectacular.”
    “Please.”
    Chloë grabbed the red, two glasses, and the corkscrew and followed him into the sitting room. “Budge up.”
    He lifted his legs so she could join him, then promptly put them on her lap. And yes, there it was again—that whoosh of sheer, unstoppable desire. Chloë found it hard to concentrate on the corkscrew.
    “Let me.” James reached for it. He opened the wine easily, poured them each a glass, and placed the bottle on the coffee table. “Come here.” He reached for her.
    Chloë shifted so she was half lying on him, their faces level. With some men she worried at moments like this that she was ungraceful in the way she moved and too heavy, but not here, with James.
    “What time’s your roommate back?”
    “Not till eleven.” Chloë could feel his breath.
    He stroked her cheek. “You’re lovely,” he said, and kissed her. Ooh—it was even better than before! Maybe it was because she was sober, or more relaxed. Maybe it was because she was now pretty sure he liked her—a lot. Maybe … Chloë’s energies shifted out of her head, her brain went mushy, and … mmm … she could sense the bristles from his five o’clock shadow … She was being taken over by a divine sensation lower down. He undid the buttons of her blouse without a hitch—she’d known it was a good choice for that reason—and slid his hands into her bra. Yes, please … She was feeling very horny; certainly not like plump, clumsy Chloë now. With her satin shirt slipping off her shoulders, his own half undone—she’d forgotten how sexy his chest was—she felt wonderfully wanton.
    She knelt up and looked at him.
    “Take off your skirt,” he directed.
    There was no way to achieve this and remain close to him other than for Chloë to stand on the sofa astride him, balanced on wobbly cushions. Nevertheless she managed to accomplish the task by standing momentarily on one leg. More incredibly,