Epilogue
Daisy stood in the semi-darkness of the corner of the room, finishing off her glass of champagne. The wedding was wrapping up, the DJ playing his last few songs, the caterers starting to clear away the wine glasses and beer bottles left on the tables.
It had been a lovely day. Partly marred by the appearance of Dex’s old girlfriend, but that had been expected and as such hadn’t been a huge shock. He’d dealt with it swiftly, to be fair to him, and the rest of the day had passed without a hitch.
He was obviously crazy about Honey, she thought, not without some envy. She’d caught him looking at his new wife several times throughout the evening, longing and desire in his eyes as they followed her around the room, and if she talked to another guy—even if it was just a friend—he would frown with the kind of possessive jealousy that gave a girl goose bumps.
No doubt Honey was getting screwed senseless right now. Again, envy threaded through her. Not because of Dex—she liked him, liked the way he seemed devoted to Honey, but he wasn’t her kind of guy. Dex didn’t give a toss about his appearance, couldn’t care less whether the T-shirt he wore had a designer label in it, had had to be bullied into using product for his hair, and although he wasn’t an idiot, he was interested in rugby, fishing, watching movies and being with his girlfriend, with no desire to better himself, to climb the social or educational ladder.
Reuben, on the other hand, fitted all of those requirements, which was why she’d chosen him, of course. He always dressed as if going to an important business meeting, even at the weekend, more comfortable in shirts and ties than T-shirts, and she didn’t think he’d ever worn a pair of flip-flops in his life. His hair was always impeccable, his face clean-shaven, his nails neatly manicured, and he worked out at the gym so his body was beautifully sculpted. He was an investment banker so he knew a thing or two about figures, and he liked art and classical music. He was filthy rich and happy to share it, and he seemed into her. He was perfect.
So why didn’t she feel the spark whenever he was around?
She sipped her champagne listlessly. He’d come to the wedding because he knew it was important to her, but she knew he hadn’t enjoyed himself. He’d been impressed with the food and the location where Honey and Dex took their vows, but otherwise he’d thought it a small, rustic affair. Only a hundred guests? There’d be a thousand at their wedding, he’d assured Daisy.
Not that he’d asked her to marry him. But she thought he probably would. They’d been dating for a while now, most of that time spent in Auckland. He’d made no effort to get to know her friends and family, nor would he. They held no interest for him, and he thought their conversation dull and parochial, their lives meaningless because they weren’t constantly trying to better themselves.
He hadn’t exactly voiced the opinion, but she thought he might despise her father, who’d spent all the money from the sale of their property in England on an old, rambling house on the outskirts of Kerikeri with no intention of doing it up or making money from it. And the café—although probably the most successful small eating place in Kerikeri and flourishing so much he’d had to hire extra staff—was hardly a top class restaurant. She’d seen the way Reuben turned up his nose when they first walked in, unimpressed by the yellow-and-white-check tablecloths, the wooden furniture, the lack of chrome and mirrors, and the haphazard menu, which basically consisted of whatever the girls and Cam felt like making on the day. He’d acknowledged the coffee was pretty good though.
He’d sat through the wedding meal and the speeches, sighing and occasionally checking his BlackBerry, laughed at the band—who were friends of Koru’s playing well known rock songs rather than an upmarket jazz band—groaned at the DJ’s choice of music, and generally irritated her until she’d snapped and told him if he wasn’t enjoying himself, perhaps he should just go to bed and amuse himself in their room.
So he had. He’d just walked off and left her, choosing cable TV and the mini bar over her company, and she’d sat and fumed for the past hour, unable to believe she had nobody to dance with, envious of Honey’s obvious happiness and near to tears because it felt like everything was going wrong and she didn’t know how to put it right.
She closed her eyes. She should go up to bed and join him, but she didn’t want to. He’d either turn over and give her the cold shoulder, or he’d act like nothing had happened and make love to her, and she’d have to comply or risk upsetting him further. And that was the last thing she wanted, because he had the ability to sulk for weeks like a spoiled four year old if he didn’t get his own way.
A pressure on her arm made her open her eyes and look up. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she saw it was Chase standing next to her. He didn’t look at her, watching instead the couples turning slowly to the music, but every cell in her body reacted to him, the hairs rising on the back of her neck, a shiver running up her spine, her nipples tightening beneath the silky plum-coloured dress.
She’d been conscious of him watching her all evening. Part of her had wondered if he’d come over when Reuben disappeared, but he’d kept his distance, and she’d been annoyed that she’d been annoyed by it. Not that she could blame him. She’d made it perfectly clear—on numerous occasions—that they were over and she’d never go out with him again in a million years. Usually, he ignored that directive and pestered her repeatedly, but for once that evening he’d steered clear, and she had to admit she’d missed the attention. He wasn’t the perfect boyfriend—far from it, and he’d driven her nuts while they were together. But he would never have left her alone at a party.
He looked fantastic that evening. He wore a dark tux and a lavender-coloured waistcoat and tie, and he’d tamed his unruly brown hair into a respectable style. With the ever-present naughty glint in his eye, he looked like a 1920’s gangster, suave and wicked, so much so that she half expected him to start talking about prohibition. And now he’d taken off his jacket, and his shirt sleeves stretched over his impressive biceps, hiding his glorious tattoo, the one she used to lie in bed and trace her fingers over.
He put the drink he was holding on the nearest table and turned and looked at her. His brown eyes looked black in the low lighting, and to her surprise they weren’t filled with his usual good humour but instead surveyed her steadily, dark with an emotion she couldn’t identify.
“Dance with me,” he said, holding out his hand.
It sounded like a statement rather than an invitation. Normally, that would have made her bristle, but she was lonely and cross with Reuben for abandoning her, so she put down her glass meekly and followed Chase onto the dance floor.
He turned her to face him and rested his right hand on her waist, and she placed her left on his shoulder. With three or four inches separating them, they began to move.
It must have looked very respectable, Daisy thought wildly, two old friends having a final dance together, but what nobody else could see was the hot desire in Chase’s eyes, and the invisible, chemical reaction that was occurring between them. The warmth of the room caused the faint smell of his aftershave to rise off his skin, and the muscles in his shoulder and upper arm were firm beneath her fingertips. His hand was warm in hers. Her body responded to him of its own accord, tightening, aching, moistening at the thought of his hands on her.
Without another word, the hand resting on her hip slid to the small of her back and pulled her closer, and she let him, heart pounding at the nearness of him, so familiar and yet so different at the same time. Her cheek rested against his chin, and his faint stubble rasped against her skin. Reuben shaved morning and night, hating bristles, and very rarely had a five o’clock shadow. She’d forgotten how it felt, how utterly masculine it was.
Apart from subtly pulling her closer, Chase did nothing else untoward. He didn’t try to kiss her, his hand stayed politely on her back and neither did he say anything else, for once not trying to persuade her to go out with him. But his unspoken seduction was all the more powerful for that. Never had she felt more wanted, more desired than for the duration of that song. The music thrummed in her blood, echoing her thundering heartbeat. She hungered for him, wanted him inside her more than she’d ever wanted Reuben in the months they’d been together. She missed Chase so much it hurt.
And then the song ended and he pulled back.
She thought he was going to say thanks for the dance, but to her surprise he cupped her face in his hands and stared into her eyes. She stared back, breathless, captivated by his blatant desire, his overwhelming need for her.
“Come back to my room with me,” he said huskily. His lips hovered inches from hers, so near and yet so far, luscious, tempting.
She wavered, so close to giving in. He’d been so good in bed. Reuben made love like preparing a document for distribution, methodical, perfunctory and precise, and although he always made sure she enjoyed it, she half expected him to flick on his BlackBerry and cross “Do Daisy” off his list afterwards.
Chase had been completely the opposite to Reuben—wild, abandoned, uncaring about anything except taking his pleasure from her and returning it tenfold. Reuben disliked having sex outside the bedroom, preferring the luxury and privacy of bed to the fear of being seen outdoors or the lack of comfort involved in trying out other places in the house. But Chase had been insatiable pretty much everywhere, hadn’t given a hoot about carpet burns or grass stains or hard surfaces, had even swept the entire contents of the living room coffee table to the floor once—including a laptop, a plate of biscuits and half a dozen other knickknacks—just so he could have her there, unhindered.
His recklessness had been the thing she’d loved most about him, but equally the thing she’d hated most too. Gradually, the fact that he didn’t care about the things that mattered to her—namely earning and saving money to enable her to have the lifestyle she wanted—came between them, and eventually she’d grown to loathe his carelessness and his apathy, as well as his insane self-belief that someone would somehow recognise his writing ability and turn up on his doorstep offering to publish his book for millions of dollars.
To give in now, with Reuben upstairs in their bed, would be wrong, foolish, immature and even a little pathetic.
Still, she was tempted, just to taste that passion, that wildness, one last time.
But Chase must have seen the hesitation in her eyes. He dropped his hands, picked up his wine glass, finished off his wine. Gave her one last, regretful, hungry look. Placed the empty glass back on the table, and left the room, heading for the elevator.
Tears stung her eyes. It would never have worked, she told herself as she started to collect her wrap and bag, ready to return to Reuben.
You’ve done the right thing.
So why did it feel so wrong?