The Unbreakable Trilogy. Primula Bond

over my shoulder, and nearly fall off the saddle.

      It’s like a different man has just walked in, even though I can only see his back view. The only familiar item of clothing is the dark red scarf.

      Gustav Levi, the well-built, pale, slightly reclusive businessman in Jermyn Street tailoring has been supplanted by a muscular, swaggering, unshaven horseman in unashamedly tight black jodhpurs, long black boots and a black high-necked Belstaff-style jacket. He looks magnificent. The ensemble makes him look taller, leaner, fitter, and much, much younger.

      It’s easy to imagine his body stripped of the black skin of fabric, his clearly outlined buttocks bare, the muscles tensing under my tentative touch, flexing under the skin, pulling back ready to thrust himself between a pair of willing thighs.

      Wind your tongue in, Polly would say. You’re ogling the guy.

      I shove my finger into my mouth to keep from giggling.

      ‘Loving the Equestrian Ken motif, Gustav. We match, see? I’m your Barbie doll, all in white. Madame Crystal has sent us forth dressed as two sides of a negative.’

      ‘That’s why I hire her, Folkes. She sticks to her brief.’

      I wriggle into the saddle, wishing he’d turn round. If Gustav’s jodhpurs reveal his fit physique, then every dip and curve of my soft, lazy bod will be on display, too. Let’s see if he is similarly inflamed by lust when I present myself for inspection in all my snowy splendour.

      My teeth nip my finger harder than I intended and the tiny jab of pain flares deep down between my legs. It was definitely worth flying over half of mainland Europe to catch an eyeful of Gustav Levi in tight black jodhpurs.

      I can’t take my eyes off him as he runs a cloth over the tack. The black hair falling over his eyes, the sequence of muscles rippling through his body, the inviting curve of his bottom, the fine bulge of muscle in his thighs, the strong jut of his knees as he lifts the saddle off its moorings.

      What did Crystal say about him? Deep, not distant?

      But is he goading me? Is he parading in subtle yet skin-tight clothes to tease me? Crystal would tell me not to be so ridiculous. She’d retort that these are the requisite protective garments for horse riding. Slim-fitting, but supple. And she would be right. Nevertheless I intend to feast my eyes because this is as close as I’m going to get to seeing my lord and master naked.

      He turns to face me, the saddle in his arms, his mouth open as if he’s about to say something. His black hair has caught on his eyelashes. I long to sweep it away so that I can see how bright his eyes are, what’s going on in those black pools, how steadily they are staring at me. His face is pale, but there’s a strong growth of dark stubble chiselling his cheeks and chin and making him look more devilish than debonair.

      My hand feels automatically for my camera. I want to capture Gustav’s new rugged, restless energy. My Alpine Zorro.

      I take a quick shot, because he’s standing so still. I play back the image to make sure it was in focus and there he is, a modern-day musketeer staring at me in the same mesmerised way I’ve been staring at him. I glance at my trapped specimen, and then at the real thing. His black eyes are half closed with what? Attraction? Amazement? His wide lips are half smiling, biting back an exclamation of what, admiration? Or amusement?

      A fine specimen indeed.

      I swing my leg over the saddle rack and jump down.

      ‘I’m not sure my bottom will take a rough ride after last night.’ I smooth my own trousers and tug the puffed jacket down. ‘And I don’t see any steeds.’

      He laughs softly and saunters towards a far door, kicking it open. The air whistling in from the yard behind us is bitterly cold, but when I stump after him I find myself in a bright modern corridor of loose boxes. Brightly lit, centrally heated, and smelling cosily of straw, oats and equine sweat. Grey and chestnut and black noses poke over the doors, waiting for attention. I pat each horse as I pass, but it’s the Arab chestnut mare with the huge Bambi eyes who draws me back.

      ‘This one’s my favourite.’

      ‘Her coat matches your hair,’ Gustav remarks from inside the furthest stable. ‘And she’s pretty jumpy like you, too. But go ahead. Take your pick.’

      I lean on the door to watch him as he saddles up his big black mare. My nostrils prick at the familiar smell of linseed oil freshly brushed onto the horses’ hooves to make them gleam. There must be a groom somewhere. Did he or she see me rubbing myself on the saddle just now?

      Gustav strokes his horse as he buckles up the girth. His hair shines like silk in the dull light pooling in from the high window. I can’t resist peeking at his butt again, craning to look at his crotch in those tight breeches, and there it is, the tantalising bulge pushing against the zip.

      A brief memory hits me. Gustav the other night in his candelit house, lying vanquished and groaning on the sofa as I sucked him.

      And then my horse shakes her head and stamps her hoof, and the memory melts.

      Gustav emerges from the far stable. Pets and their owners. It’s true. The high cheekbones of the highly bred horse, the majestic curve of the nose, even the over-long eyelashes and glossy mane are all an equine version of him.

      Gustav eases a sugar lump into the nibbling lips of his horse.

      ‘You’re sure you know one end from the other?’

      ‘I never had my own mount, but I spent most of my teenage summers around horses. But you know that about me already. I even used to help break one or two young ones. So yes. I know what I’m doing. You just watch me.’

      He hands me an armful of tack and narrows his eyes in challenge. ‘Great. Let’s get going, before it gets dark. It’s going to snow tomorrow, it’ll fall right down here and by the lake, so we won’t be able to take the horses out again.’

      I don’t move for a second. We stare at each other in the warm building buffeted by an increasing wind. Face to face, alone, just as we were in that London square. How far away that seems now in time and space.

      His eyes have a feverish glitter and he’s practically bouncing on his toes with an eager energy. I know I should be infected by it, but I’m disorientated by everything. Part of me is withdrawing, curling up defensively inside me.

      I see to my horse and saddle her up. Typical of Gustav Levi to be relaxed in a place where the rest of us are constantly jumping at our own shadow.

      ‘Put this on. Got to keep you safe.’

      He steps up to me and removes my warm fur hat and gloves and stashes them in a black leather rucksack slung round his shoulders. His dark eyes are alive with fiery light as he plonks a very unglamorous helmet on my head, tugging my hair away from the strap, smoothing it down my back.

      He fastens the chin strap carefully, running his finger underneath it to check the tension, my skin as sensitive there as if it’s been scalded. My mouth parts a little, and so does his. His tongue runs across his lower lip as he traces the swell of mine. Back, forth, his finger moves towards my mouth as if to enter it, pauses. I can feel saliva gathering as I hold my breath. We’re millimetres apart. His white teeth bite down as he nods.

      ‘Perfect fit.’

      Despite everything that has gone on between us, despite the fact that we’ve been alone together several times, done intimate things to each other, talked about intimate things, despite this unaccustomed breezy cheerfulness, I am suddenly rigid with shyness. It’s like a shell forming round that snail’s curl of doubt.

      The stark afternoon is lighting up the whites of his eyes, the sheering bone structure of his face accentuated by the weekend bandit’s beard.

      And the mouth. The usual grim lines are relaxed into a sensual fullness. Oh, he’s still so beautiful. And yet he won’t kiss me. I know that now, and worse than that I know why. He’s brought me to this beautiful setting, for this