Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense Read Online Free PDF Page A

any other human being. With him, I felt warm, relaxed, and loved. He knew about my late father, about my eldest brother, Luke, who lived in the States. About Guy, my other brother killed in a freak motorbike accident years before. Chris understood that the job in Cheltenham was my way of escaping beaches enshrined in too much history, that my new life upcountry was an escape from my past and my ghosts. In essence, he got me.
    And I got him.
    I laughed silently inside. Intending to rent my family cottage to Chris and relocate to Cheltenham, to break with Devon and move on, I’d wound up with a foot in two camps. That was almost four years ago.
    Traffic clogged the narrow lanes. The sun lay low in a blood-shot sky. I was on the home stretch, intimately familiar territory and, more than ever, I felt relief that I still had a hideaway. The person dogging my footsteps might be able to exert influence in Cheltenham, but not here.

    Cormorants Reach overlooked the creek at Goodshelter. My father’s last home, it was where we Slades gathered for family get-togethers and, more recently, for funerals. I knew every stone, lintel, cob wall, exposed beam, and dark recess. I knew its secrets. Without warning, the fabric of the building rattled with ancient arguments, slamming doors, bunched fists, and my tears. Startled by the memories, I banished them to the outer reaches of my consciousness.
    At the sound of my arrival, the front door was already open, Chris’s tall frame captured in a swathe of golden evening sun. Displaying a deep umber tan, he was wearing a brilliant white open-necked shirt tucked into faded denims. His feet were bare. The sight of him made my stomach jitter. I felt hopelessly happy, and the anger and fear that had assailed me disappeared. Seconds later I was enveloped, his lips on mine, his arms holding me with what felt like relief and the thought that he couldn’t believe his good fortune in finding me.
    â€œBetter unpack the car,” I said, drawing away a little.
    â€œLeave it.” He hooked me with his eyes and instantly I understood what he wanted, what he needed, what we both craved.
    He took my hand and led me up the narrow flight of stairs to the main bedroom. There, he slowly undid the buttons of my shirt, taking his time as though he’d meticulously planned the moment in detail, slipping it off and throwing it across the end of the bed. I hauled his T-shirt up, pulling it off over his shoulders and outstretched arms. Chris’s body was sleek and toned, a thin scar on his side the only flaw. Deep in my groin, I flickered with wanton desire, as though we were about to make love for the first time. He kissed the top of my high breasts, my mouth, the base of my throat, tracing the ragged line of scarred skin from the outer edge of my left cheekbone to the hollow of my collarbone.
    â€œYou’re beautiful,” he whispered, releasing the clasp on my bra. And I knew that he meant it, that in his eyes I really was.
    I undid the buckle on his belt. He eased out of his jeans and kicked them off along with his boxers while I hastily undressed. Then he scooped me off my feet and carried me to our bed.
    He kept his eyes open. He always did. I’d once wondered if it displayed a lack of trust, something with which I was familiar, or was connected to men’s endless visual capacity for sexual pleasure. His warm hands slid slowly over me, reacquainting with my body, as if he wanted to explore every inch. I felt dizzy and shameless. We tasted and touched each other, and I told him explicitly what I wanted and what I wanted to do to him. At some stage he let out a low dry laugh, and pulled me on top of him.
    Soon I was burning with heat. His hands were on my breasts, his eyes locked onto mine, the expression indecipherable. In that fleeting moment of time, I realised that however long we stayed together I would never truly know him. I sensed that his feeling for me was based more