Marriage and Other Games Read Free Page A

As soon as she saw him, she knew it was going to be an uphill struggle to win him over. In his blue and white striped shirt and gold cufflinks, jumpy with endless cups of Americano, he was offhand and fidgety, his eyes constantly flicking over to his computer. He could not be less interested in what she had to say. He only had eyes for the figures on the screen as he assessed, presumably, his profit and loss. Charlotte didn’t have a clue about spread-betting, but it clearly engrossed Ed.
     
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually, in as firm a voice as she could manage, ‘if I’m wasting your time, perhaps I could leave the designs here for you to look at when you’re under less pressure?’
     
    He looked at her, startled, obviously not realising how rude he had been.
     
    ‘Shit, I’m terribly sorry. This isn’t my field, that’s all. And we’ve got deals going down all over the shop. Please - accept my apologies.’ He put a freckled hand over his silver mouse, clicked, then gave her a disarming smile. ‘The computer’s off. I’m all yours. Really.’
     
    She took a deep breath and started again. This time, he really did seem to be paying attention. Soon, she had scattered his desk with a bewildering array of swatches and paint charts. He listened, fascinated, as she described the thinking behind what she called the storyboard. He scarcely understood a word she said, yet he was completely captivated by her passion as she spoke of fabrics - georgette and moiré and chenille - that he had never encountered, in colours that seemed to come out of a fairy story. All the time her fingers were fluttering over the samples she had brought, stroking the material, urging him to feel them so he could appreciate their softness, their weight, their luxurious finish. He obeyed, just to please her, but he took in none of the detail.
     
    All he knew was that his senses had suddenly been hijacked by this creature in the pea-green corduroy jacket with the diamanté swan brooch on the lapel, and the almost-but-not-quite transparent chiffon skirt, and the lilac suede ballet shoes. It was her he wanted to touch, so he could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, hold her close and breathe in deeply whatever it was she smelled of. Violets, he thought; something sweet and flowery and old-fashioned but unbelievably haunting. He tried to hold the scent in his head, so he could recall it later. Her voice washed over him: slightly breathless and slightly clipped, it was from another age. Jenny Agutter in The Railway Children. No one spoke like that any more, surely?
     
    He was spellbound. He was used to women in immaculately cut suits and sheer tights and court shoes who never showed a chink of femininity, let alone vulnerability - tough ball-breaking risk-takers whom he admittedly admired, but who considered sex a competitive sport and who never showed a softer side. He’d slept with his fair share, but had never taken a relationship to the next level. He couldn’t imagine being married to any of those women. Why would you marry one of them? Not for their home-making skills, or their maternal instincts, certainly. Not that he was sexist, but what would be the point?
     
    This girl was different. He could imagine waking up next to her and wanting to explore everything life had to offer.
     
    She was outlining the designs for the master en-suite when he found he could bear it no longer. She was holding up a glass tile she had described as absinthe, but which he would have called green. Tendrils of blonde hair had escaped from her plait. All he could think about was undoing the whole thing, running his fingers through her hair, pulling that heart-shaped face to him and tasting those lips - he imagined they’d taste like the sugar mouse he’d had in his stocking when he was small . . .
     
    ‘. . . Here, we’ve created a sexy and stimulating environment with dual functions. There are facilities for two people to get ready