I plaster on my fake smile a second before the door is thrown wide open to reveal Nicole beaming back at us. She casts her appreciative gaze over Oliver first, and then me, before ushering us both inside using lots of sweeping hand movements. She's wearing a floor-length cocktail dress of blood-red which wraps up over one shoulder, and an immaculate face of make‑up.

She's always wearing an immaculate face of make-up. She makes me a little uneasy with her grooming abilities. Never a hair or fake eyelash out of place. I'm more of a dab of blush, lick of mascara, smidgen of lip‑gloss sort of gal. Minimal effort. I actually look like a farmer's daughter compared to Nicole.

Well, normally I do.

Not tonight. Tonight I'd almost caused Oliver to have a heart attack. (I'd certainly caused him to have an erection because I'd seen it bulging appreciatively through his Hugo Boss trousers.) The way he'd looked at me as I came out of the dressing room told me I most certainly didn't look like a farmer's daughter tonight. He'd stared at me open-mouthed for almost a minute before telling me that apart from the day I walked down the aisle toward him, he'd never seen me look more beautiful. Even the haircut was growing on him he'd said, without irony. He hadn't been pleased with it at all on Monday. When he got home he'd frowned at me, then looked confused, then asked me if I'd gone nuts — again without irony.

In Oliver's world, women only cut their hair when they went insane.

But tonight, thanks to Oliver's credit card, a trip to Ralph Lauren Couture, and my new hair, I looked every bit as New York pizazz and style as Nicole did. Tonight I actually look like I belong in this alien city. The dress is demure yet revealing, understated yet outrageous — floor-length, metallic grey and tight in all the right places it has a slightly over the top gathered silk mini‑train and sheer chiffon long sleeves. The diamond pearl drop earrings — a wedding gift from Oliver — all added to what I was hoping was a look of old Hollywood glamour.

I'd never wear anything like this in London, and I doubt I'll ever get the chance to wear it again, but I'd fallen in love with it the instant I'd set eyes on it. The colour, weight, and volume of it reminded me of a kind of armour. And sitting through four courses and cocktails with Nicole, Jordan, and the New York elite, something tells me I'll need it.

Oliver moves in towards Nicole for a warm embrace, and she kisses him on both cheeks, before doing the same with me.

"Ellie, darling, dear god you look breath-taking," She fawns. "That dress — stunning — and have you done something with your hair? It's so chic. You look so, um... I don't know, English rose." She waves her hand in front of my face as though it's somehow sign language for 'English rose'.

I guess I don't look old Hollywood glamour to Nicole.

"Thanks, Nicole. You look wonderful — I love this dress on you," I smile as I draw my eye down the length of it. She thanks me profusely telling me it's Chanel of course, before taking the lead and guiding us through to the back of her massive chicly decorated brownstone.

I'd been here only once before. A week or so after we arrived, at another dinner party — they threw monthly black-tie dinner parties because what else was there to do in New York? The following one after that I hadn't made it to because it was the night after Oliver found me on the bathroom floor. He didn't insist we go to that one. He probably didn't think I was in a dinner party sort of mood that night.

I'd spent most of this week in some sort of weird suspended animation. Like I was waiting for something to happen. Except I wasn't — because it had already happened.

My 'sort of adultery' on Monday had kept me warm all week, my days and nights filled with a strange sort of longing and regret. But not the right kinds of either. I longed for another man from the one that was sleeping next to me and I only had one regret — telling that same man I no longer wanted to see him.

In truth, seeing him was all I wanted.

I'd expected that around Tuesday or Wednesday the guilt about what I'd done would start to creep in, but it hadn't. I'd also thought that after giving in to my baser desires and kissing the man I'd finally be able to stop thinking about him. That hadn't happened either.

Aidan. Bloody. Foley.

He'd dominated my thoughts, waking and asleep, for five days straight now. On Thursday, before my appointment with Esther, I'd even gone to his loft, telling myself that it was with the sole intention of demanding an update on the piece of work I was paying him for — which was, of course, a lie. I just wanted to see him. Hear his voice.

At the last minute, I'd lost my nerve and walked straight past his building and gone for a solitary lunch instead. A lunch I'd spent writing a similar scene between my female MC and the object of her affections. It offered little solace being able to exorcise the thoughts careening around my brain onto the page.

As we enter Nicole's massive dining room, I take a deep breath, determined to push Aidan out of my head for at least the next few hours (yeah good luck with that, Ellie). Tonight at least I need to concentrate on Oliver. Be his loving, supporting wife in front of his colleagues and boss.

When I turn to focus on him I hear him apologise to Nicole for us being the last to arrive, which she brushes away with another wave of her hand. The moment Nicole scurries off in her high heels to attend to something I start to feel self‑conscious and looked at. The way I normally feel at these kinds of social gatherings with rooms full of strangers. I feel next to me for Oliver's hand and he takes hold of it and steers me towards a group of people over by the window, one of whom is Jordan.

There are a lot of people here, sixteen, maybe even more. I mean who even has a dining table big enough to seat that many people? Of course, Nicole does.

Then, as I scan the room again, I see him.

The strength in my legs seems to disappear.

Dear God, no. This can't be happening. What the fuck? Have I conjured him? Have I gone insane as Oliver said? He's here? What is he doing here? Of course, he's bloody here.

Well at least I hadn't imagined his existence entirely — that was some comfort, I suppose. Because it had started to occur to me that Aidan, his loft, and what had happened on Monday had all been some product of my over‑active imagination. But there he is. Solid. Real and painfully beautiful. Staring right at me.

As always he's dressed in his own stylishly casual way, completely oblivious to the ridiculous outlandishness of the rest of us. He's wearing stark white linen shirt, charcoal tweed blazer, and dark perfectly fitting dark jeans. He's topped off the look with scuffed suede boots. He somehow manages to be the best-dressed person in the room despite looking like he'd spent the least amount of time thinking about what he was going to wear.

He looks like he always does, like fashion to him is the least of his concerns. Like he has far too many other things to think about. Being intense. Making things with those hands of his. Touching his perfect beard.

As I move my eyes, I see that he doesn't appear to be alone. Seriously? Her? She was his type? What was her name again? His eyes, those eyes, are trained on me as he whispers into Nicole's stunning assistant's ear. That mouth, the one I'd lost hours thinking about, the one that I could still feel and taste on me as I lay in bed awake in the dark, is practically eating the side of her face. Is his beard grazing her neck too? Bitch.

Of their own accord, my hands curl into fists at the sight of her body turned into his and his sexy smile as he whispers into her ear. From nowhere an image of storming over there and grabbing her by the hair and slamming her face into the huge white granite fireplace overtakes me. He straightens up but keeps his eyes on me as he brings his glass of red wine up to his mouth.

Fixing him with a hard stare, I straighten my spine and flick my hair back before turning my back on him entirely. Then I slide my arm around Oliver's waist and press myself into him and rest my head on his shoulder. That's when it hits me. Not guilt. Still not guilt. Anger and rage. Hot and Heavy.

Burning me up from the inside out. But on top of all of that, cooling the rage is the foolishness. I'm an idiot. Him asking me to be his subject was a line. Of course, it was. He must say it to women all the time. And I'd fallen for it. Oh, I'm a bloody idiot all right.

***

Three courses. For the entirety of three vegan courses including surprising taste palate-cleansing shots made from vodka, ginger and cucumber, I'd watched him flirt, chuckle and whisper to Sasha the part‑time model. She'd revealed that around the main course when everyone was talking about how amazing Aidan had looked in some magazine article today, which apparently Oliver and I were the only ones not to see. Sasha, with a sparkling smile, had said she could put him in touch with her old agent if he was ever looking for a second career in modelling. That had caused everyone to laugh loudly, and Aidan to stroke his beard in that ridiculously arousing way he did as he pretended to think about it. It was practically foreplay the way he stroked at it ‑ those hands grazing the recently trimmed chestnut brown hair on his face over the outline of his mouth and lips almost hypnotically. That mouth. Those Lips.

"So Aidan," Nicole says loudly, "pleeeeeeease tell us something about what you're working on right now? We're so excited that you're creating something here in New York, even if we aren't ever going to get to see it," she has the gall to pout at him.

My breath falters a little as I cast my eyes over the table at him. He was on the opposite side of the table from me and down two places so that he was in the centre. Something Nicole had planned to ensure him guest of honour status. It made it even stranger then that I had been completely unaware that he was going to be here tonight. I suppose it's possible that Oliver had mentioned it and that I'd just not been paying attention. Though I'm sure if I'd heard Aidan's name come out of Oliver's mouth this week I'd have noticed. He must not have known either.

Aidan grazes another hand over his mouth and lifts his red wine to take a large gulp. My eyes go to his throat as he swallows before climbing back to his face. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and he's removed his jacket (he did that after the starter) rolling up the sleeves, and loosening the neck on his shirt to expose his strong looking forearms and that slightly hairy patch at the base of his throat. I watch as his tongue slips out and licks his lips before he lowers his glass back down to the table.

"I would tell you something if I knew something," he says, thoughtful, "but it's all a bit of a mystery to me at the moment."

"Ohh... how cryptic," sings Nicole, looking around the table. "And is it a painting? Another award-winning video installation?"

He looks at a point on the table and his mouth lifts into a half-smile, "It's definitely not an installation. I know that much. Rest is a total fucking mystery." He lifts his glass again and I smile down into my own at his use of the curse word at Nicole's dinner table. Only one half of the table is actually involved in this conversation, but I don't think it would matter to him if all thirty-six pairs of eyes and ears were on him. I'm certain he'd still swear. He wasn't the type to put on airs and graces for anyone.

"And the subject? Is that a mystery too?" She presses. My mouth goes dry instantly and so I lift my glass of chilled white wine to my mouth and sip.

Aidan nibbles at the inside of his mouth for a moment, "That's the biggest mystery," he says, lifting his head to look straight at me. "But I think I'm getting to grips with it finally. What it really is."

I narrow my eyes at him. What the hell did that mean? He's getting to grips with it? With me? And why is he staring at me so bloody hard? He can't be looking at me like that here. Not in front of everyone. In front of Oliver. Why can't I look away from him?

"I have a theory about it. Should know if it's right or not by the time I get home tonight."

I shift in my chair as he continues to stare at me. When I finally manage to turn my head away from him, I find Oliver watching him with a narrow gaze of his own. A ripple of anxiety peels across my tummy.

"Well, I for one have always been utterly in awe of creative types,' Nicole says with yet another dramatic wave of her hand. "I always wanted to be able to create something from nothing. To have talent. Any talent. Let alone a remarkable one like yours." I have to prevent myself from rolling my eyes at her sycophancy. Nods of agreement from Oliver's boss Steve, a silver-haired tanned man in his mid-fifties, and his young pretty wife who are seated across from us.

Oliver clears his throat. "Yeah, well, luckily you guys don't form unbreakable attachments to these things, otherwise we'd never get to look at or own art and you lot would be destitute." He gestures his wine glass toward Aidan and chuckles. I almost feel Aidan's rage blow down the table.

"Oh yeah, because that's exactly why we do it,' Aidan says coldly. "To ensure that those with a disposable income have a nice decoration for the fucking study." He's practically glaring at Oliver. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Oliver stares back at him, unfazed as the volume at the other end of the table drops. The air continues to get colder as Aidan and Oliver glare at each other over the empty plates and wine bottles.

When Oliver speaks it's in that calm, measured tone that always irritates me more. "No, of course, it isn't. I was joking, sorry. I'm married to a woman with remarkable talent and the humility to go with it." It comes out like a pointed barb. He turns to me and takes my hand, smiling at me. "I know how much passion goes into creating something from nothing. I'm in awe of it frankly. She astounds me every day."

As the table starts to make 'awww' noises I feel my face start to heat up. But as he continues to gaze at me all I can think about is how I spent the week using my remarkable talent to write Aidan Foley into my life. If I couldn't have him then Eve could. Oliver looks at Aidan again, but keeps a firm hold of my hand and begins stroking my fingers with his own. "But why do you do it?"

Aidan lets out a long breath and drops his eyes to that point on the table again. He runs his hand over his beard, stroking, circling, tracing the outline of his mouth. As I watch him echoes of his mouth, the feel of his tongue, and the soft moan he made in the back of his throat as he kissed me all wash over me. Sasha stares longingly at Aidan's profile, and I wonder how many times she's felt his tongue, or heard that very same moan as he slid his tongue inside her. All of a sudden the anger is back.

"Not much to know really," says Aidan. "Like every artist, I'm a vacuous shell of pretentiousness. Which means that mainly I do it for the women." He twists his head to wink at Sasha which causes her to almost collapse into a puddle on the floor.

Of course, I know he isn't a vacuous shell of pretentiousness — but him doing it for the women seemed plausible now. I wonder if he asked her to take off her dress too? I wonder if she got that it was a joke or if she'd dropped her dress for him in a nanosecond. She didn't look like a prude.

As the tension clears, along with the last of the plates, Nicole tells everyone to take their drinks out onto the patio so the table could be re‑set for bespoke cocktails and coffees.

I take this opportunity to escape from the Aidan/Sasha post-dinner pre‑sex show and excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Nicole tells me there's one on each floor in the same spot, including an en‑suite in their master bedroom.

So this house had five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a dinner table that sat eighteen, and it's own Japanese flower garden. It makes me tired just thinking about the upkeep.

I leave Oliver and Nicole chatting to a group of JP Morgan people whose names I've already forgotten and slip out of the room towards the solace of the first floor. It's decorated much like the lower one; there seems to be three main colours/themes in Nicole and Jordan's home. Black, white and abstract artwork.

Following her instructions, I take a right at the top of the stairs and follow the black and white checkered rug towards the back of the house and take the second door on the right into a spacious but windowless marble bathroom. After peeing, careful to manoeuvre the dress around the seat and not into it, I cross to the sink and run the cold tap and stare at my reflection in the large mirror. The light above it is harsh and unforgiving, making the circles under my eyes look worse than I've seen them look all week.

Christ, I look tired. I also look like an idiot. A stupid ridiculous idiot who'd risked her marriage on some moody Irish artist who'd given me some well-practised lines and a few intense looks. Why wasn't Oliver enough for me? He was smart, loving, handsome and patient, and he worked bloody hard to give me a comfortable life. We'd lost a baby together not so long ago — or I had. I'd done that all by myself. I'd failed him as a wife by not loving his child enough and now I was throwing myself at other men because they looked at me the right way.

Except, Aidan hadn't felt like just any other man.

I could no longer reason that what had happened was because of some unique and inexplicable connection — some deep, primal attraction that neither of us could have resisted even if we wanted to. Because it hadn't been the case. Because he'd just moved onto the next pretty girl who caught his eye and who was capable of sitting in a window ledge.

And even if there had been this connection, it still didn't excuse my behaviour. What I'd done, and still wanted to do, was unforgivable. Oliver deserved better.

The swell of pathetic tears rises behind my eyes and I have to breathe deep and tilt my head back to stop them from rolling out and ruining my makeup. I didn't bring much with me in my small metal clutch so I could be in trouble here. Instead, I grab a tissue from by the sink and dab at the tears gently while resolving to Esther about it all on Thursday. I'd avoided Aidan entirely yesterday. When she'd asked me what had been dominating my thoughts since I saw her last I'd lied and said 'the usual,' and 'missing my family' — neither of which was a lie in essence. My deep purple colour I attributed to all of those things too.

Aidan had been the only lie I told. Or not told as it were.

I touch up my blush and lip-gloss and fluff a hand through my shorter locks. They certainly hold far better than my longer ones used to. And Oliver's feelings about the cut aside, I hadn't regretted having half the length cut off on Monday — I had far more important things to regret about that day.

My watch tells me it's 9:30pm, meaning I probably have another hour or so before we could make our excuses and leave. I'd already planned to whisper in Oliver's ear how desperately I wanted him to bend me over his desk and fuck me in this dress as the excuse for us having to leave so promptly.

Yes, I can bear it for another hour. I hadn't thought that when Nicole had first sat Oliver and me down across from them, but I'd surprised myself. The wine was helping too. I need more wine. With a deep breath and a final look in the mirror, I move to the bathroom door and turn the lock.

As I pull it open I start with shock.

Aidan is leaning casually against the wall across from the bathroom, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at me. He doesn't look surprised to see me emerge.

He stares wordlessly for a few moments, his large grey/blue eyes holding my own and I hate myself for feeling that low familiar warmth invade my body courtesy of that stare. When he doesn't speak I move out of the bathroom doorway and pull the door closed behind me fixing him with what I hope is a colder look than the one he's giving me right now.

"There's a toilet on every floor if you needed to go," I tell him, my voice far steadier than I was expecting. Go me.

His mouth turns up into a lazy half‑smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement and wine.

"I know," he says. "I hear she has bedrooms on each floor too." His smile turns into a smirk as he looks left and then right and then back at me. My body trembles.

I narrow my eyes. "So would you like me to ask Sasha to meet in you one of them? I can pass the message on for you. Which one?" I cast my gaze down the corridor as he did before bringing it back to him.

He lets out a long exaggerated sigh and runs a hand over his mouth. "It's a plus one, Eloise. That's all it is."

I frown. "I really don't require an explanation on your dating life, Aidan. Which women you bring to dinner parties is none of my business."

He nods, amusement still tickling the side of his mouth. "Ok, if you say so," he leans up off the wall, "and what about the women I kiss, or who kiss me? Are they any of your business?" Suddenly he's moving toward me. He stops when he's a foot or so away so that I can just catch the faint smell of his body. Warm, male and intoxicating. The smell that had been ripening in my brain for days. I hadn't imagined its depth or the mouth-watering effect it had.

"What are you doing?" I tense, gazing up at him.

"Just asking a question," his eyes drop to my mouth. God, he's so close. Too close. Inappropriately close. If someone was to see us this close to one another... I glance down the empty corridor and then back up at him. "Are the women who kiss me any of your business, Eloise?" He repeats, his tone low and heavy with intent as he moves a little closer.

"Stop it, Aidan," I warn.

"Why? Scared you might not be able to control yourself again?" He smiles and my face floods with heat. He's right. It is one of the things I am scared of. I can't be trusted when it comes to Aidan's proximity to my body.

"You think quite highly of yourself don't you?" I mutter. I hate that my entire body is trembling with need. Again. All of the anger I'd gathered throughout the night watching him flirt with Sasha the part-time model has evaporated into thin air. Or rather, thick hot, sexually tense air.

He chuckles sexily. "Not in the slightest, actually." As he continues to stare at me and I at him, I let all of the thoughts I've had about him this week flow freely into my head and through my body. That, the wine I'd consumed tonight, this dress, and the absence of him all serve to heighten every nerve ending on my body so that this all feels kind of like an out-of-body experience.

He lets out a deep sigh, which sounds like a groan. "You really shouldn't have worn this fucking dress..." he remarks, flicking his heated gaze down my body. Just as I'm about to ask him why not, he begins to move his head toward mine. His lips part and his tongue slips out to wet his bottom lip but it all happens in slow motion as his face comes toward me. I hold my breath and try to think straight.

This can't happen. Not here. I can't allow it.

Just as his mouth is about to touch mine, the hard solid door at my back disappears and I'm falling through it. Aidan catches me with a strong arm around my waist and moves us both into the bathroom and kicks the door closed behind him. I hear the door lock at the same time as his mouth finds mine.

Oh god the taste of him.

His mouth and tongue are as hot and soft and wet as I remember. No, better than I remember. It's all better than I remember. I can't breathe. I don't need to breathe.

As he moans into my mouth he pushes his hips into me, moving us back until I feel the hard touch of marble hit my behind. Of their own accord, my hands climb up his body and into his hair, pulling on his soft messy locks. Good god, he can kiss. Aidan in charge is a completely different experience from the first time. He's demanding, ferocious and relentless. His facial hair caresses my face as his tongue delves deeper and deeper into my mouth. It's no less thrilling than the first time, no less life-altering, but this time I feel consumed. This time I feel as though he needs to have me, and christ I like how that feels.

As he pulls me tighter into him, his hands massaging my behind as he does, I feel a distinct hardness against my stomach. It works like a siren in my head. Loud and dangerous.

I drop my hands from his hair and push at him, weak useless hands against his warm solid chest. He doesn't budge straight away, continuing to suck and lick and kiss my mouth.

"Aidan, stop," I mumble against his mouth, twisting my head to break the kiss. "Stop!"

With a final push, he staggers back out of my body space, panting hard and looking at me with a wildfire behind his eyes. I feel as though I'm about to burst into flames.

"What the hell are you doing? Are you bloody insane? " I ask, glaring at him. "I need to go, get out of the way." I go to push past him but he moves, blocking me. When I look up at him through narrow eyes he only smiles, wickedly. He licks his lips slowly and deliberately before running his hand across his talented beautiful mouth.

"Move, Aidan," I repeat.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs. "Not until you agree to finish what you started."

"Oh, Jesus Christ! What exactly is it that you think is going to happen here, Aidan? Do you think we're going to have sex? Here?" I look around the bathroom, behind me to the white marble sink. "You seriously think I'm going to let you fuck me here in Nicole Weston's bathroom while my husband is downstairs? You're drunk or you've lost your bloody mind. Now get out of my way." Again I go to move past him and again he blocks my exit. He's smiling deeper now, his eyes crinkling deliciously at the sides.

"I was talking about the commission, Eloise." He looks like he's holding back a chuckle.

Oh. That finish what I started. My face floods with heat. "Oh," I swallow.

His smile fades to be replaced by something more intense as he takes a step toward me, forcing me back against the sink again. When he takes me by the hips and spins me around, I gasp aloud. I can feel his arousal pressed against me as he meets my eyes in the mirror. Without taking his eyes from mine, he brings his hand up and brushes my hair back to expose my neck. Then, gently, he skims the back of his hand from the column of my neck, ear to collarbone.

His touch is hot and my whole body breaks out in goosebumps, my nipples hardening, my legs weakening as his fingers dance across my skin. From my neck he moves to place his hand at the top of my spine and places that same delicate soft touch, sliding the backs of his fingers downwards. All the while he keeps his eyes locked on mine via the large mirror.

"To be honest, I'd much rather fuck you at my place," he says as his eyes drop to my neck "Far less chance of being interrupted by someone needing a piss," he smirks. "Also, there's no chance of anyone hearing you screaming my name."

Something explodes between my legs, something warm and wet, and I have to bite hard on the inside of my cheek hard to stop from moaning out loud. I need the anger back. The embarrassment. The feeling of being an idiot who fell for every line in the artist's playbook. He brought another woman. He told me to close the door on the way out.

I try and move again but he just pushes his hips into my behind, nudging his arousal against the back of my dress. A small gasp escapes my throat.

"I'd really like to hear you scream my name, Eloise," He says, his finger pulling on the hem of my dress, near the base of my spine.

"Then you'll be disappointed on both counts, I'm not a screamer," I manage.

He smirks, his left eye narrowing slightly. "Hmm. Well, maybe Mr Art‑lover just isn't doing it right?"

"My husband does it fine, thanks."

"Does he now?"

"Yes. He does."

His mouth hardens slightly with irritation. "Then explain what happened on Monday, Eloise? Explain what's happening right now? Cause I'm having a hard time getting my head around it since you're so fucking content and your husband is so fucking great."

I whip around to face him as the anger floods back in at last.

"Oh, so you think I'm some bored bloody housewife? Is that it? You think you're a little bit of excitement for me, Aidan? Is that how you see yourself?" I snap. He says nothing. "What happened on Monday has nothing to do with my husband, Aidan. Nothing whatsoever."

It had everything to do with him. I'd never had a single thought about being unfaithful. Not once. Not ever.

Not until Aidan Foley walked into my bloody life.

"Nothing to do with him?" He frowns, nodding. "You don't think so? Well, why don't we go downstairs and have a chat with him? See if he thinks this has anything to do with him?" His heat disappears from me as he moves towards the door. My body goes boneless with fear. He wouldn't.

Oh my god, he is.

"Aidan, don't! Stop!" I move quickly, reaching out to grab the back of his shirt. He stops and turns back to face me, looking pleased with himself, wicked, and unfairly gorgeous. I hate myself for how much I want him. Even now. "You wouldn't dare."

He takes his time before answering before finally letting out a breath. "No. I wouldn't," he says with a shake of his head. "On, one condition."

I narrow my eyes. "You're not serious?"

"Never been more serious."

"This is ridiculous. You're drunk. Of course, you're not going to say anything to Oliver." I shake my head and move for the door.

"Eloise, you'd fucking know it if I was drunk, trust me," he says darkly. Something in the tone stops me moving any further. I turn to him.

"What do you want, Aidan?"

"I told you, I want what you promised me. You'll sit for me until this is finished. We had a deal and I had one fucking condition. And if you're not prepared to stand by your end, why the fuck should I stand by mine?" His voice is passionate, angry too. It seems like hours ago that he kissed me and pressed his erection into my body. The feel of it was still echoing over me.

"Why can't you just use Sasha to finish it?" I ask him. "Isn't one female subject much the same as any other for you?" I've no idea what response I'm hoping to get from that question, or why I asked it. Actually, that's a lie. I do know why I asked it.

He frowns. "What?"

"Well, surely you just need a model? You have enough photographs of me to work with? Can't you just replace me with another woman, any woman?"

He stares at me, incredulous. "Have you any idea of how these things work? How I work?"

"No, I don't," I shrug folding my arms. "I have no clue about art, you know this. I'm just some bored housewife remember?"

"Stop it, Eloise."

"Stop what?" I say.

"You know what."

"How many women have you asked to be 'your subject'? Aidan. I'm curious."

He frowns harder."What?"

"You heard me. How many women have you insisted stand for you as your 'one condition'?"

"None. I told you I'd never done a commission for anyone before you."

"Oh, that's right. Ok, then let me rephrase that: how many women have you asked to take off their dress? Sketched on a window ledge? Photographed in the park? And of those how many of them were bored housewives?"

"I never called you that Eloise," he points out. "Those were your words."

"How many?" I repeat, louder. I have no idea whether I need to know because I want to feel vindicated or comforted.

"One."

"One?"

"Yes, one. There's only one woman I've done this with, ever." His voice is unhindered and completely sincere and I feel the righteous indignation leave my body instantly. "There's only one woman I've ever been even remotely interested in looking at."

My mouth almost falls open but I manage to stop it.

"I find that hard to believe considering you've looked more than interested in looking at Sasha for the last three hours." The words are out before I can stop them. Petty stupid immature words. I'm the only woman he's ever been remotely interested in looking at?

He smiles and shakes his head softly. "No, Eloise. I've spent the last three hours pretending to be interested in looking at her. But I'm delighted you noticed where my eyes were."

"You're seriously going to blackmail me?" I ask, ignoring his comment.

"I never called it that."

I roll my eyes, "Oh please. At least call it what it is, Aidan."

"Okay, fine. Then yes. I am insisting that if you don't fulfil your end of our deal, then I'll consider the thing null and void. Then I may get seriously pished and have a chat with your husband about the entire fucking thing." He explains all of this calmly. He looks confident. He looks irritatingly gorgeous. Why does he always have to look so bloody gorgeous? His hair is dishevelled, his white fitted shirt slightly rumpled and worn, his cheeks and eyes displaying the effects of at least 4 glasses of red wine (I know that because I counted) and his mouth and beard as edible as ever.

Would he tell Oliver? Perhaps. Should I call his bluff and tell Oliver myself? Probably.

"So then you are seriously doing this?" I say finally.

"I'm serious about my work, Eloise," he replies. "I'm serious about finishing something once it's started. Plus I'm also a cunt. And even a cunt has to eat." He smiles a lazy half-smile that makes my insides clench. I stare at him for a long time, and each moment I do my body seems to soften and lighten a little further.

"Fine," I sigh. I must be mad. Maybe Oliver was right — maybe I had indeed gone insane. I'd need to be insane to agree to this.

Aidan nods, satisfied, but I'm certain I see a trace of relief cross his eyes. As I move past him towards the door, I give him a long withering stare, and this time he steps aside and allows me to pass.

"Eloise," he says just as I go to turn the handle. When I turn around his eyes are intense but soft, his mouth soft too.

"I really like your hair like that," he says. "It suits you."

I have to resist the urge to smile at the compliment. Because if he thinks that one compliment on my hair was going to make me ignore the fact that he was a blackmailing master manipulator he was mistaken.

"You're unbelievable." I shake my head.

"Normally women tell me that after, but thanks," he smirks.

"Guess you'll have to adjust your piece after all."

"I'll manage," he calls after me.

Outside, I half expect to see a trail of dinner guests ready to pin me with the scarlet letter, but it's empty. Quiet too aside from the echoes of chattering and laughter floating up from the floor below.

Later as I'm getting ready for bed I try and reason a way out of my predicament. Then it hits me — I don't want a way out. I want to see him, and though every moral part of me knows it's wrong, it doesn't make a blind shred of difference. So he's done me a favour, in fact. Because now I can go over there and be with him all the while telling myself I had no choice in the matter. I wonder if it's why he did it.

After the episode in the bathroom, the rest of the night had been relatively drama-free. Though Aidan and Sasha had continued to act out the roles of some hot new couple making their public debut, his eyes kept finding mine when no one else was looking. They seemed to be telling me things now. I'd held them for as long as possible before dropping my eyes and searching instead for my husband. I couldn't decide if I was angry with Aidan, or disgusted, or grateful - most probably it was all three. Then, overlaid on top of these things was the remembrance of his kiss. How it had scorched the inside of me. If that was what kissing him felt like then what would it feel like to make love to him? Would I scream his name? I'd never felt this confused about anything in my life.

The sound of Oliver sighing behind me quietens my loud thoughts. When I turn he's unbuttoning his shirt hastily, looking irritated. He'd been in his office since we got back home on a work-related call.

"Everything ok?" I ask.

"It would be if people did what I fucking told them to do," he growls as he shrugs it off his shoulders. "Now I need to go over and sort it myself. Fucking idiots."

"Over where?"

"Singapore," he says. "We're probably going to lose a multi-billion dollar account, but if I don't go then it's definitely gone."

"Singapore?" I widen my eyes. "When?"

"I'm flying out tomorrow at 8 am," he gives me an apologetic look and comes toward me. Reaching out, he strokes a hand down my cheek. "You'll be okay here right baby? Or you could come? See the Orient?" He smiles.

"You'll be working. I'd rather be alone here than alone there," I tell him. "How long will you be gone?"

He drops his hand from my face and shrugs. "Few days. Five at most."

"So I'll write. I need to get the next five chapters to Helen by the end of next week anyway." Oliver moves away from me out of the dressing room and takes a seat on the chest by the foot of the bed an begins to unlace his shoes. "Do you need a hand to pack?"

"Just a few shirts and a second suit, babe?" He shouts from the bedroom. "You'll know best. What the hell did I do to deserve you? I adore you, you know that?"

"I know," I say and he does. As I'm packing a five day supply into his flight bag the nerves start. Small kernels of anxiety growing hotter in the pit of my stomach. I don't feel sad at the thought of being alone for five days. Just very very nervous.