“If I’m found out, my name will be mud,” I murmur.
“In Bulgaria,” points out Lorcan. “Population 7.5 million. That’s like your name being mud in Bogotá.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want my name to be mud in Bogotá either.”
“Why not? Maybe it is already. Have you been to Bogotá?”
“Yes, as it happens,” I inform him. “And I can tell you, my name is not mud there.”
“Maybe they were being polite.”
This conversation is so ridiculous, I can’t help smiling.
“Come on, then. Let’s escape before we get attacked by angry key holders.”
As we walk out of the bar, Lorcan holds out his arms.
“I’ll carry Noah if you like. He looks heavy.”
“Don’t worry.” I smile automatically. “I’m used to it.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not heavy.”
“Well … OK.”
It feels odd, handing over Noah to Lorcan. But the truth is, I do have a dodgy shoulder and it is a bit of a relief. We reach our suite and Lorcan carries Noah straight to his bed. He’s so sound asleep, he doesn’t stir. I remove his shoes but nothing else. He can clean his teeth and put his pajamas on tomorrow night, if he wants to.
I turn off Noah’s light and head to the door, and for a moment Lorcan and I stand there together, for all the world like two parents.
“So,” says Lorcan at last, and a luscious anticipation starts to grow within me again. I can feel an internal limbering-up, that little dance of muscles yearning to be used. I’m doing better than Lottie on the shag front flashes through my mind, giving me a pinch of guilt—but only a small one. It’s all for the best. She can have another honeymoon, another time.
“Drink?” I say, not because I really want one but to prolong the moment. This suite is the perfect setting for a shag-fest, what with all the smoky, sexy mirrors and soft, sensual rugs and the (fake) open fire flickering in the grate. There are also several conveniently placed pieces of furniture, which I’ve already eyed up.
When I’ve poured Lorcan a whiskey, I sit down with my own glass of wine on an amazing creation of a chair. It’s made of deep-purple velvet, with wide rolltop arms and a deep seat and an erotic swoop to its back. I’m hoping that I strike quite a figure as I lean provocatively on one of the arms and allow my dress to ruck up. There’s a delectable, urgent pulsing deep inside me. But, still, I’m not going to hurry anything. We can talk first. (Or just stare at each other with desperate want. Also good.)
“I wonder what Ben and Lottie are up to.” Lorcan breaks the silence. “Presumably not …” He shrugs significantly.
“No.”
“Poor guys. Whatever you think, it’s the worst luck for them.”
“I guess,” I say noncommittally, and sip my wine.
“I mean, no sex on your honeymoon.”
“Terrible.” I nod. “Poor them.”
“And they’d waited, hadn’t they?” His face crinkles in remembrance. “Jesus. You’d think they’d shag in the loos and just have done with it.”
“They tried, but they got caught.”
“No way.” He looks at me, startled. “You serious?”
“At Heathrow. In the business-class lounge.”
Lorcan throws back his head and roars with laughter. “I’m going to rib Ben about that. So your sister fills you in on everything, does she? Even her sex life?”
“We’re pretty close.”
“Poor girl. Foiled even in the Heathrow loos. It’s the worst luck.”
I don’t answer at once. The wine I’m drinking is stronger than the stuff I drank downstairs and it’s going to my head. It’s tipping me over the edge. My head is a bit of a maelstrom. Lorcan keeps talking about “bad luck,” but he’s wrong. Luck has nothing to do with it. Ben and Lottie have not consummated their marriage because of me. Because of my power. And suddenly I feel the urge to share this with him.
“Not so much luck …” I let the word trail in the air and, sure enough, Lorcan picks up on it at once.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not chance that Ben and Lottie haven’t done it yet. It’s design. My design. I’ve been in charge of the whole thing.” I lean back proudly, feeling like the queen of remote-control honeymoon-fixing, all-powerful in my empress’s chair.
“What?” Lorcan looks so taken aback, I feel another twinge of pride.
“I have an agent helping me on the ground,” I clarify. “I issue commands, he carries them out.”
