Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama), Carole Williams [ebook reader 8 inch .TXT] 📗

strewn over the floor.  The air reeked of stale perspiration and cannabis.  It was vile.  She felt vile … but it was nearly over.  Just a few more days and she could get out of here, out of this sprawling country and go back home.  Home to Canleigh.  Home to darling Demon.  How she longed to get on his back and gallop madly over the fields and through the wonderful leafy woods bordering the estate, smelling the freshness of the air … of the earth … of horse … she wondered if he had missed her as much as she missed him.  Philip would have looked after him well, she knew that but … oh, God, Philip.  Her heart still bled for him.  She still wanted him as badly as she always had.  He was the only man for her and always would be.  The sexual encounters she had indulged in since storming out of Canleigh had done nothing to change her mind.  No man compared with him and surely by now, after all this time, he would have tired of that ghastly woman he thought he had fallen in love with and would be over the moon when Delia turned up again.  She had often imagined how their reunion would be.  They would hug tightly, kiss passionately and then end up in Philip’s lovely big bed with their naked bodies entwined.  All that had gone before would be forgotten and their lives together would begin again.  She couldn’t wait to get her life back … return to Philip, Demon … and Canleigh … and make sure this time that it would really be hers.  Nothing and no-one, especially Richard, was going to stand in her way again.  He was going to regret crossing her, pushing her out, reneging on his promise.  Delia clenched and unclenched her fists and thought of her twin with pure, unadulterated hatred.  If he stood in front of her now, she would kill him without hesitation.

“Delia … please.  Get me a drink.”

She moved across the room, sat on the bed and smiled sweetly at the haggard, ill-looking man with the long dark hair, the dark stubble around his chin, the bloodshot eyes and the shaky hands.  Delia didn’t feel a bit sorry for him.  He had brought it all on himself, making bad lifestyle choices with drink, drugs, no decent exercise, irregular food and little sleep.  How different he would be if he just looked after himself as he was a very good-looking young man, more like their mother than any of her siblings or herself and it often amused her to see the similarities in his facial expressions to Margaret.  She wondered what he was going to say when she told him that he was the son of an English Duchess.

“Strewth, I feel rotten … but it was worth it.  I don’t know how you do it,” he grinned weakly, fondling her bare breast where the shirt she was wearing had slipped, his other hand caressing her bare leg.  “Get me a drink and then come back to bed.”

Delia threw him off and stood up abruptly.  “Get up,” she snapped capriciously.  “We’ve things to talk about.”

His grin disappeared.  What the hell was up?  Delia had never refused him before, or any of his mates come to that.  What a woman, keeping them all satisfied with orgasmic ideas and antics … and she was generous with money.  It had been their lucky day when she came into their lives, reassuring them that they would achieve more success in the charts.  They just had to be patient.  It was just unfortunate their fans hadn’t been.  Other bands had come along, pushing them out of the limelight and even though they had released two more singles, they hadn’t been received with any degree of excitement and in the end, they had taken refuge and solace from parties, drink and any drugs they could afford.  He knew the money they had made from their first and only hit had been frittered away and if it wasn’t for Delia their existence would be pretty miserable.

He gingerly made an effort to raise his head.  It hurt terribly.  How much booze had they gone through last night?  Vague and distant memories returned.  He grinned sheepishly.  It was surprising the bed hadn’t collapsed with the weight of eight sprawling bodies writhing together in passionate abandon to the heavy rock music blaring out from massive speakers in every room in the house.  Delia had literally whipped them all up into a frenzy, striding around in a black lace playsuit and high black boots with six-inch stiletto heels and whirling and crashing a whip in time to the music.  It was just as well the nearest neighbours were a good distance away but if he remembered rightly, they had actually been here, indulging in horseplay.

Delia stood by the dressing table, dragging heavily on a cigarette.  She pulled the shirt around her, covering her nakedness.  “Have a shower,” she ordered.  “And hurry up.  I’m going outside for some air … it’s putrid in here … and then I’ll be in the conservatory.  I need to talk to you so get a move on.”

He rolled across the bed slowly, not wanting to stand up just yet.  He didn’t know if his head could take it.  “Bloody hell, Delia.  What’s the rush?  Come in with me … make it more fun.”

“I’ve had one already.  Just get on with it,” she snapped.  With a withering glance at him, she stubbed out her cigarette on the pile of butts in the overflowing ashtray on the dressing table.  She hadn’t smoked much until moving in with him … just the odd one, usually after dinner.  Now she was getting through around thirty a day and it wasn’t good … but as soon as they left America that was going to stop.  As soon as her feet touched good old British soil