“I think you know what I want.” She reaches up to run her fingers through my hair and pull me back to her warm and willing mouth. She tastes of brandy with a faint hint of cigarettes. The taste is distracting. I don’t remember seeing her smoke at the club. I pull her hard against me, one hand at her waist while the other travels down over her lush curves. She has a small waist and large, firm breasts, which she presses enticingly against me. I wonder if they’ll taste as good as they feel. My hand skims down to her backside as I deepen the kiss, exploring her eager mouth.

“What do you want?” I whisper against her lips.

“You.” Her voice is breathy and urgent. She’s turned on. Big time. She begins to unbutton my shirt. I hold still as she eases it off my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

Do I take her here or in my bed? Comfort wins and I grab her hand. “Come with me.” I tug her gently, and she follows me out of the drawing room and down the hall, into the bedroom.

The room is tidy, as I knew it would be.

God bless Krystyna.

I switch the bedside lights on from the wall and walk her to the bed. “Turn around.”

Heather does as she’s told but sways a little in her high heels. “Steady.” I clasp her shoulders and pull her tight against me, then turn her head toward me so I can see her eyes. They’re intent on my lips, but she looks up at me. Eyes bright. Clear. Focused. Sober enough. I nuzzle her neck, tasting her soft, fragrant skin with my tongue. “I think it’s time to lie down.” I unzip her short red dress and peel it over her shoulders, pausing as I expose the tops of her breasts concealed by a red bra. I skim my thumbs across the surface of the lacy fabric. She groans and arches her back, pushing her breasts into my hands.

Oh, yes.

My thumbs dip beneath the delicate material and circle her hardening nipples as she gropes behind her for the button on my jeans. “We have all night,” I murmur, and release her before stepping back so that her dress slides down her body and pools at her feet.

A red thong reveals her shapely behind.

“Turn around. I want to see you.”

Heather tosses her hair over her shoulder as she turns and gives me a searing look from beneath her lashes. She has the most magnificent breasts.

I smile. She smiles.

This is going to be fun.

Reaching forward, she grabs the waistband of my jeans and tugs sharply so her glorious tits are once more pressed against my chest. “Kiss me,” she growls, her voice low and demanding. She runs her tongue over her top teeth, and my body responds, my groin tightening.

“Only too happy to oblige, madam.”

I clasp her head, my fingers in her silky hair, and kiss her more roughly this time. She responds, her hands grabbing fistfuls of my hair as our tongues lock. She stops and looks up at me with a salacious glint in her eyes, as if finally seeing me and liking what she sees. Then her lips are once more feverish against mine.

Man, she really wants this.

Nimble fingers find the top button of my jeans, and she pulls. Laughing, I grab her hands and push her gently so we both fall onto the bed.

* * *

Heather. Her name is Heather, and she’s fast asleep beside me. I glance at my bedside clock; it’s 5:15 A.M. She’s a good fuck, no doubt about it. But now I want her gone. How long will I have to lie here listening to the soft sound of her breathing? Perhaps I should have gone to her flat instead, so then I could leave. But my place was nearer—and we were both impatient. As I stare at the ceiling, I mentally run through our evening, trying to remember what, if any, details I’ve learned about her. She works in television—or “telly,” as she calls it—and she has to be at work in the morning, which means she has to leave soon, surely? She lives in Putney. She’s hot. And willing. Yes, very willing. She likes to be on her front during intercourse, she’s quiet when she comes, and she has a talented mouth that knows exactly how to revive a spent man. My cock stirs at the memory, and I contemplate waking her up for more. Her dark hair is fanned out on the pillow, and her expression is serene in sleep. I ignore the pang of envy that her serenity inspires and wonder if I got to know her better, would I find the same peace?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I want her gone.

You have intimacy issues. Caroline’s nagging voice reverberates through my mind.

Caroline. Shit.

Three whining texts and several missed calls from Caroline have pissed me off. My jeans lie on the floor in a crumpled heap. From the back pocket, I retrieve my phone. Checking on the sleeping form beside me—no, she hasn’t stirred—I read my messages from Caroline.

WHERE RU?

CALL ME!

POUTING

What is her problem?

She knows the deal; she’s known me long enough. A quick tumble between the sheets isn’t going to change how I feel about her. I love her…in my own way, but as a friend, a good friend.

I scowl. I haven’t called her. I don’t want to. I don’t know what to say.

Coward. The voice of my conscience whispers. I need to put this right. Above me the shimmers from the Thames bob and weave, free and easy. Taunting me. Reminding me of what I’ve lost.

Freedom.

And what I have now.

Responsibility.

Shit.

Guilt overwhelms me. It’s an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling—Kit has bequeathed everything to me. Everything. And Caroline has nothing from his estate. She’s my brother’s wife. And we fucked. No wonder I feel guilty. And deep down I know she feels it, too. That’s why she left in the middle of the night without waking me, without saying good-bye. If only the girl beside me would do the same.

I quickly type out a text to Caro.

Busy today. You OK?

It’s five in the morning. Caroline will be asleep. I’m safe. I’ll deal with her later today…or tomorrow.

Heather stirs, and her eyelids flitter open.

“Hi.” She gives me a tentative smile. I reciprocate, but her smile fades. “I should go,” she says.

“Go?” Hope swells in my chest. “You don’t have to go.” I manage not to sound disingenuous.

“I do. I have to work, and I don’t think my red dress will cut it in the office.” She sits up, clutching the silk quilt to conceal her curves. “That was…good, Maxim. If I leave my number, will you call me? I’d rather speak on the phone than message on Tinder.”

“Of course,” I lie smoothly. I pull her face to mine and kiss her tenderly. Her smile is bashful. Rising, she wraps the quilt securely around her body and starts to gather her clothes from the floor.

“Shall I call you a cab?” I ask.

“I can Uber.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Okay, thank you. I’m going to Putney.”

She tells me her address, I get up, slip on my discarded jeans, and taking my phone, leave the bedroom to give her some privacy. It’s strange how some women behave the morning after: shy and quiet. She’s no longer the lascivious, demanding siren of the night before.

Once I’ve ordered a car I wait, staring out across the dark Thames. When she finally appears, she hands me a scrap of paper. “My number.”

“Thanks.” I slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. “Your car will be here in five minutes.”

She stands awkwardly, her postcoital shyness taking hold. As the silence stretches between us, she surveys the room, looking anywhere but at me.

“This is a lovely flat. Airy,” she says, and I know that we’ve resorted to chitchat to fill the awkwardness. She spots my guitar and the piano. “You play?” She walks over to the baby grand.

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re so good with your hands,” she says. Then frowns as if she’s realized that she’s spoken aloud, and her cheeks flush a fetching pink.

“Do you play?” I ask, ignoring her comment.

“No—I never made it further than recorder group in year two.” Relief softens her features, probably because I ignored her comment about my hands. “And all that?” She points to my decks and the iMac on a desk in the corner of the room.

“I DJ.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Couple of times a month at a club in Hoxton.”

“Hence all the vinyl.” She glances at the shelved wall housing my record collection.

I nod.

“And the photography?” She waves a hand at the black-and-white landscapes that hang on large canvases in the drawing room.

“Yes. And occasionally on the other side of the camera.”

She looks confused.

“Modeling. Editorial, mainly.”

“Oh, that makes sense. You really are a man of many parts.” She grins, feeling a little more confident. She should. She’s a goddess.

“Jack of all trades,” I reply with a self-deprecating smile, and her grin vanishes, replaced by a puzzled frown.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

Wrong? What the hell is she talking about? “No. Nothing.” My phone buzzes, and it’s a text to let me know her car has arrived. “I’ll call you,” I say as I pick up her jacket and hold it open for her to shrug on.

“No you won’t. But don’t worry. That’s Tinder for you. I had fun.”

“Me, too.” I’m not about to contradict her.

I follow her to the front door. “Do you want me to walk you down?”

“No thanks. I’m a big girl. Good-bye, Maxim. It was nice knowing you.”

“Same here…Heather.”