The Man She Married: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-pounding twist(7)

‘Wow,’ he says, when I stop at the front gate. ‘Is this you?’

‘This is me.’

He takes in the handsome Edwardian terrace with its ornate gable end and carved wooden porch, the ornamental cherry trees in the front garden.

‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t ask you in. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

‘Of course not.’ He adjusts his position so that the unsettling eyes are looking right at me, pale in the street light. With my heels on, we’re more or less the same height. ‘But is it okay if I kiss you?’

I don’t answer, but he runs his thumb over my lips anyway before pressing his own mouth against them, not too softly, not too hard. It’s not a sloppy kiss, nor a dry one. His lips are warm and pliable, and they taste of the sweet dessert wine. Just as I’m starting to respond, he pulls back fractionally, teasing me before going in again with his lips slightly parted. His hand is just above the waistband of my jeans, and his fingers move gently across a patch of bare skin as he kisses me once more, making me shiver with pleasure. I return the kiss with more fervour now, and once again he backs off imperceptibly before reapplying pressure, sending a little coil of desire through my insides.

Did you snog?





JoJo texts later, when Dominic has left and I’m upstairs kicking off the heels and wriggling out of my jeans. I grin happily at my phone screen as I type a reply.

Only the most amazing kiss I’ve ever had.





Perhaps I should have told JoJo the kiss was life-changing. Because my life was about to change, and in ways I could never have imagined.





Four





Alice





Then





I don’t see it coming.

Even though all the telltale clichés are there – New Year’s Eve, a rooftop cocktail bar, a waiter bringing a ‘special’ dessert over, just for me – I fail to twig.

It’s only when the waiter has lifted off the silver cloche and I’ve dutifully hammered on the chocolate dome beneath it with the back of a spoon, urged on by Dominic, that I realise what’s going on. The chocolate splinters fall away to reveal not ice cream or meringue, but a small red velvet-covered box.

‘It isn’t…?’ I’m genuinely shocked. ‘It can’t be!’

Dominic is grinning. ‘You won’t know what it is or isn’t until you open it, you silly coot!’

I prise open the lid to reveal a sparkling object against a bed of white satin. Carefully, I lift out the ring and hold it up. The fairy lights and candles refract the shimmering diamond into a thousand dancing points of light.

‘Wow!’ I breathe. ‘Dom!’

‘You’re supposed to try it on.’ He leans over and slides the platinum band onto the third finger of my left hand.

‘It’s an engagement ring?’ I ask stupidly.

‘Of course it is. What else would it be?’

‘Only, I don’t remember you asking me,’ I say, with mock coyness. ‘Technically, a lady can’t say yes unless she’s been asked the question.’

I’m relieved that he doesn’t drop to one knee in the midst of the tipsy New Year revellers. Instead, he leans forward and takes hold of my fingertips with his. ‘Alice Palmer – will you marry me?’

I hesitate a few seconds, still reeling from the shock of it all. We’ve only been together a few months, after all. ‘Yes,’ I say, still a little uncertain, because that feels like the only possible answer, here on this roof terrace, on our first ever New Year’s Eve.

Then he leans in and kisses me, and I surrender to it, to the whole thing. Because no one can kiss like Dominic Gill.

Even now, that particular skill of his can take my breath away.



After that first, spectacular kiss, Dominic left it thirty-six hours before contacting me again. Rationally, I knew that this was a completely acceptable interval, but to my slight surprise I spent every minute of it with a constant gnawing in my stomach, feeling my heart start to pound each time I heard my phone buzz. This was the first time since Alex that I’d actually felt something – anything – and I really, really wanted to see him again.

So when Dominic did eventually text to ask if I have plans for the following weekend, my first reaction was relief. There had been a spark between us; I wasn’t just some desperate, needy singleton imagining things.

On our second date, we went for a walk on Primrose Hill, then cocktails and bowling in the evening, followed by more of the spectacular kissing. The third time we met, it was for a cinema trip, and this time I asked Dom back to the house. He stayed the night and, to my delight, the sex was as spectacular as the kissing.

Over the next few weeks we saw more and more of each other until we were spending nearly every night together. Always at my house in Waverley Gardens; Dominic’s flatmate was a slob, he explained, and the place was constantly in a mess. His plans to move elsewhere were rarely mentioned, other than with a vague, ‘I guess I should start looking’. When I pressed him about it, he claimed that his hours at Ellwood Archer made viewings impossible.

‘We could look together, at weekends,’ I offered. ‘I’m happy to help you.’