Party Games by Jo Carnegie Read Free Book Online Page A

to in your spare time,’ Beau continued, that maddening grin still stuck on his face. ‘Valentina here is very open-minded. Aren’t you, darling? Although until about half an hour ago, I didn’t realize how open-minded.’
    The two smirked at each other. ‘If you don’t mind,’ Fleur said scathingly, ‘some of us have better things to do.’
    ‘Really? This must be more fun than it looks.’ Beau draped his arm round Valentina’s shoulders, his hand resting deliberately over one perky breast.
    ‘Piss off, or I’ll set the dogs on you.’
    Beau yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. ‘You could do with chilling out a bit, darling.’
    ‘And a good shower,’ sniped Valentina.
    There was the sudden growl of an engine and a black convertible Porsche came up the road and rounded thecorner, spraying a trail of dust over Fleur’s quad bike.
    ‘Taxi’s here,’ Beau announced. The über-tanned man behind the steering wheel took his sunglasses off.
    ‘What are you doing out here?’ he said to Beau. ‘Everyone’s back at the house.’
    ‘V and I went for a ramble. I had no idea she was such a keen naturist.’
    ‘I think you mean naturalist, mate.’
    ‘No.’ Beau smirked. ‘I definitely mean naturist.’
    Valentina shook her black mane out. ‘Baby, let’s get out of here.’
    ‘Too right. Bye, Flora.’
    ‘My name is Fleur ,’ she yelled. ‘And get off my bloody land!’

Chapter 9
    Catherine leant forward in the bedroom mirror. The crease she’d always had between her eyebrows had nearly disappeared. As someone who’d thrived off adrenalin for the last twenty years, she was still rather unsettled by the serene, beatific image now looking back at her.
    She went over to the chest of drawers to pull on a pair of socks. Her side of the bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off, clothes everywhere, empty coffee cups, magazines from Vogue to the New Statesman stacked up by the bed. Vowing again to be a better homemaker, she did a hasty sweep and picked up the dirty cups to take downstairs. As she went past John’s study, the door was ajar. He was deep in concentration behind the MacBook Pro.
    Catherine leant against the door frame, enjoying the chance to watch him unobserved for a moment. He was wearing what she called his ‘Indiana Jones’ glasses, big hand resting delicately on the computer mouse. She could smell the familiar tang of Dunhill,the aftershave John had worn for years.
    It was so strange how their lives had come full circle. They’d been childhood sweethearts in Newcastle and had met at secondary school when they were eleven. The hunky, popular rugby captain and the skinny girl teased for wearing charity-shop clothes had been an unlikely pair, but the chemistry had been there from the start. When her mother had been sent to prison, John had been the only one to stick up for Catherine. On her seventeenth birthday, a year after her mum had died, Catherine had fled the North for London. She’d honestly thought she’d never see John again.
    She could still recall their chance meeting as if it had happened yesterday. It had been Soirée’s annual cocktail party at the Natural History Museum. Catherine had been wearing the latest Chanel and uncharacteristic bright red lipstick. The place had been heaving with London’s brightest and most beautiful, but the moment she’d clapped eyes on John, dusty-haired and paint-splattered from the job he’d been working on there, everyone else had melted away.
    By her own admission, she’d been a bitch at first. Terrified John would reveal her real identity, Catherine had done everything she could to get rid of him. But he’d been a persistent bugger, gently chipping away until he’d regained her trust. When her worst nightmare had come true he had been there, by her side. The day they’d married in a quiet ceremony at Chelsea Registry Office had been the happiest of her life.
    ‘Are you going to stand there or come in?’ he said, his eyes still