Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry

to peel her clothes off, take her up to the emperor-sized bed and make love to her all afternoon. But, glancing over to the big antique clock on the fireplace, he realized there was not even time for a quickie on the Perspex coffee table.

      ‘Put your shoes and coat back on,’ he smirked mysteriously. ‘We’re off out.’

      Camilla looked puzzled. There was a very cautious part of her that really didn’t like surprises. ‘But Cate is coming round at three …’

      ‘I’ve cancelled her,’ said Nat with a smug look.

      Camilla glanced at her desk, piled high with case files and yellow legal notepads and felt a rush of panic. ‘And I’ve got to do some work …’

      She looked at the irritation on Nat’s face and gave a weak, worried smile. ‘OK, OK, let’s go.’

      It was only when Nat’s grey Aston Martin turned up the Heathrow Airport approach ramp that Camilla realized they probably weren’t going out for dinner for her birthday. At least, not to any restaurant in England.

      ‘Now can you tell me where we’re going?’ whined Camilla, pulling at the sleeve of Nat’s jacket as they hurried to the Swiss Air check-in desk. Nat stopped at the counter, pulling out two airline tickets. ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Megève for dinner.’

      Camilla’s mind momentarily ran over all the work she had to get done for a case that began on Tuesday, but she quickly shook it off. She was going to Megève! She loved the French ski resort more than anywhere else on earth, and Camilla loved skiing almost as much as work. The Balcon girls had all been forced onto the slopes from toddling age. They used to go to Gstaad then, when Oswald would abandon them on the slopes while he disappeared into the exclusive Eagle Club. So now she had found a different winter resort to frequent. Megève was like Paris on the slopes: all chic Europeans, delicious food and laid-back rustic charm, without the St Moritz glitz she hated.

      And of course it was just like Nat to whisk her off there for her birthday. He was prone to flamboyant gestures, and as a rich banker with family money he could afford them – especially when it was in the pursuit of pleasure. In the two years they had been courting, he and Camilla had exhausted not only the British social calendar but the international one as well. Countless weekends had been spent at the polo in Argentina, at the racing in Dubai or sailing in the Grenadines. On top of that, Nat had spent many more weekends with his friends partying around the jet-set circuit while Camilla was preparing for an important case on the Monday morning.

      She watched him as he checked them in at the airport desk. She had to admit she’d had some fabulous times with him, but lately the hedonistic streak had been troubling her. She certainly hadn’t liked the profile of him in last month’s Tatler, which had labelled him as the English arm of the Eurotrash. But as he led her towards the executive lounge, she reminded herself that this was his birthday surprise and she tried to push any uncharitable thoughts to the back of her mind.

      They arrived in Geneva at six p.m. A black four-by-four was waiting to drive them the seventy kilometres to the village. As they wound higher and higher into the mountains, they watched the architecture change from charmless concrete blocks to wooden chalets, with long icicles dripping from their eaves. As they turned into Megève, its quaint streets smudged with snow, Camilla pressed her nose against the window to watch the skiers in their bulky padded suits head to cafés for vin chaud and fondue after a hard day on the slopes.

      Their driver turned off the main route, just before the village centre became pedestrianized, and drove up a small road that took them sharply up the mountain, stopping a few hundred metres above the village at a beautiful chalet. Its front was guarded by a thick row of hedges where clumps of snow hung in the branches like giant frozen magnolia buds, while a thousand fairy lights dripped off its carved balcony.

      ‘We’ve arrived,’ said Nat happily, while he waited for the driver to open the car door.

      ‘This is so lovely,’ said Camilla. An old, flustered-looking woman in a grey apron came out of the chalet, a glow of golden light escaping behind her.

      ‘Bonsoir, bonsoir!’ she called, removing her apron to greet them. Nat ignored her welcome, instead motioning towards the car boot, watching impatiently as the woman struggled in with their three large cases and Nat’s set of skis.

      ‘Merci,’ smiled Camilla awkwardly, flashing an embarrassed look at Nat as he pulled her inside the chalet.

      ‘Wow, Nat,’ sighed Camilla, pulling off her parka and taking in the chalet’s interior. It really was exquisite. Like a Hollywood fantasy of a ski-lodge, it was filled with wide brown sofas and fur rugs, leather cushions and cashmere throws. Chocolate-brown velvet drapes hung at the windows, scented candles lined the windowsills, a stag’s head hung above a stone fireplace complete with crackling fire. There was a sauna, a heated boot-rack, and a games room with a gigantic plasma screen. Even Camilla was impressed.

      ‘Come and see this,’ said Nat, leading her to the back of the chalet where doors opened out onto a patio, a black mosaic Jacuzzi already steaming and bubbling.

      ‘What’s that?’ laughed Camilla, feeling chilly at the thought of it.

      ‘For later,’ said Nat with a lazy smile.

      All thoughts of work and the case files sitting on her desk at home had dissolved.

      ‘Want to get ready for dinner?’ asked Nat, pointing in the direction of the staircase. ‘I’ll join you in a sec.’

      She nodded and went upstairs into the bedroom. It had an incredible view of the whole of Megève village, which twinkled in front of her in the blue-grey light, while the mountain made shadowy, ominous shapes behind it. It was all so wonderful, yet still Camilla felt unaccountably on edge.

      Relax, woman. Enjoy yourself, she scolded herself. This is wonderful. Can’t you let yourself be happy?

      She sat down on the edge of the bed and went over it in her mind once again. At least once a week for the past few months, Camilla had been asking herself what she was really doing with Nat. Conscientious, cautious Camilla Balcon and rakish, man-about-town Nat Montague. It just didn’t add up. Being far too busy working through her twenties, she had only had two real boyfriends before Nat: Jeremy Davies and Crispin Hamilton. Both Jeremy and Crispin had been barristers – dry, hard-working, more interested in their caseloads than in Camilla. So when she had met Nat at the Serpentine summer party, he’d been like a firework going off in her hand. The sex was incredible. Lovemaking with Jeremy and Crispin had been like watching paint dry compared to the passion that Nat had unleashed in her. She had never had a single orgasm before she’d met him – now she knew precisely what all the fuss was about. Then there were the exotic holidays, the mad parties and the extravagant gestures that made her feel wanted and loved. But somehow, Nat just didn’t make her feel … oh! She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

      Swearing to herself, she unzipped her leather holdall, wondering what on earth Nat had packed for her. She pulled the clothes out quickly, holding each item aloft like a child rummaging through a goody bag. Two sets of her most sexy sheer underwear: you could tell a man had packed this, she smiled. Her ski suit, some socks, a couple of thick cashmere jumpers, her favourite black backless Dior cocktail dress, some five-inch satin heels and – what was this? she wondered, pulling out a tiny pair of black mesh crotchless panties. She didn’t recognize those.

      After she had taken a quick shower, she pulled on her cocktail dress and blow-dried her hair until it fell in a golden sheath onto her shoulders. Not usually one to wear much make-up, she rubbed some rouge tint onto her cheeks and dabbed some peach gloss onto her full lips. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she worried that she looked too formal for just a dinner in a chalet, even if it was her birthday. Her concern was interrupted by the sound of the housekeeper’s old Peugeot 205 gunning to life and then fading away into the distance.

      ‘All alone at last,’ called Nat from the bottom of the stairs. She came down to meet him; he handed her a glass of Chateau Margaux and led her to the