Chapter 23

“Life got in the way, that’s all.”

“Oh, Yes!” Amy put her hands on his chest, pushed herself upright and ground her pelvis against his.

“Yes! Damn, that’s fucking good.”

You’ll get no arguments from me, Will thought. He would have told her, but wasn’t sure he had complete control of his vocal cords. Amy certainly had learned how to make a man feel good in the twenty years they’d been apart. He brought his hands up to cup her breasts and teased her nipples with the tips of his fingers.

“Ohmyfuckinggod! Oh, William!” She was much more vocal than Will remembered too. “Damn, John’s never fucked me this good. I’m going to fucking come, William. You’re going to fucking make me come!”

Me? You’re the one doing all the work.

The bedroom door flew open and Amy’s husband burst through. She screamed and jumped up. Will’s cock plopped out of her and slapped against his belly. He sat bolt upright and felt John’s fist hit his face before he saw it.

Then the room was dark and Will was alone in his bed. He’d kicked the covers off in his sleep and his body glistened with sweat. He lay and stared at the ceiling, breathing heavily. His pyjama shorts were sticky.

At thirty-eight, he thought he was too old for wet dreams. But apparently not. Although the wet dreams of his youth also featured Amy, none of them ended the way the past few had. All week he’d dreamt of Amy. All week he’d fucked her to the point of orgasm. And all week he’d woken at an ungodly hour when John Nugent had interrupted their coupling.

It had to stop.

He got out of bed, stood by his window and looked out at the night. Beyond the meadow, in the distance, the sea looked black and calm. He found looking at it soothing. There was movement closer to the house. For just a second, a pair of bright, yellow eyes looked up at him from the front garden before scampering away. A cat? He didn’t think the neighbours had one. And even if they did, his nearest neighbours were half a mile away. A fox? Most likely. There were more foxes about now that the Westmouth Hunt wasn’t allowed to kill them.

Will shook his head and padded downstairs for a glass of cold water before heading back to bed and trying to sleep again. Hopefully, this time, he wouldn’t dream.

The next morning at coffee break, Will walked into Jeremy’s office and sat in one of the chairs on the client’s side of the desk. Jeremy was on the phone. When he’d finished he asked what Will wanted.

“Have you got any meetings this afternoon?”

Jeremy looked at the calendar on his computer. “I thought I was seeing Maurice about that Fletcher thing, but it looks like it’s been cancelled.”

“It has.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been invited to play golf.”

“Who with?”

“David Jenkins is down from head office. He wants to play eighteen holes with you, me and Maurice.”

“This is a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Depends on if you let him win or not. You know how competitive he is.”

“You haven’t let him win the Partner’s Trophy for the past three years.”

“Yes, true. But I’m already a partner.”

“Ah. I see.”

“I’m sure you do. Two-thirty. Westmouth Hills. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

“Now, I’m having lunch with my friend Lizzie later.”

“The one from the reunion that I saw you with on Sunday?”

“That’s the one. She thinks you’re cute, but I can’t see it. Should I give her your number or not?”

The Union Jack was the pub that Will and his friends had frequented in their youth. It was grotty, smelled bad and sold watered-down beer. In the intervening years, it had been purchased by a national chain and converted into a soulless ‘family restaurant’—a carbon copy of hundreds of others throughout Britain. Lizzie was waiting for him at a table for four when he arrived. She’d already bought him a drink.

“You’re late.”

“Don’t start,” he said. “I’ve had a tough morning.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Not really. It’ll only make me feel worse to relive it. I tell you, some of my clients...” He mimed strangulation and Lizzie laughed.

“That bad?”

“It’s the children of an old woman who passed away some months ago. Her eldest son, actually. The other three are fine. We found what appears to be a rare painting in her loft and he’s hassling me to get it sold so he can get his sticky fingers on some cash.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“We sent it to a guy in Paris to confirm its authenticity and he took a long time to get back to us. I finally spoke with him this morning and he said it was genuine. Obviously, I had to pass on the good news to the family and he wants to sell it tomorrow. He doesn’t seem to understand that by delaying the auction a couple of weeks we’ll generate even more interest, which will drive up the price. And there’s already a buzz about it in the art world. Apparently, the Parisian expert has trouble keeping his mouth shut. I’ve arranged the auction for two weeks time, in London.”