His Convenient Mistress (11 page)

‘Feel free.' He lay back with his hands behind his head.

‘What do you mean,
feel free
?'

‘I mean feel free to go and get him. I'll be waiting right here till you get back.'

‘Why is it so hard for you to take no for an answer?' Sara flared in sudden anger. She swept her legs off the bed and stormed towards the bathroom, clutching her bundle of clothes in one hand.

OK, so maybe she shouldn't have slept with him, but she had and she didn't regret one minute of it. She just didn't want it to go any further. Why couldn't he accept that?

She had a very quick shower, changed and half expected that he would have left but when she returned to the bedroom it was to find that he was still there, although thankfully back in his clothes and lounging against the bay window.

‘I'll be waiting right here for you,' he informed her steadily.

‘Why?' The question was torn from her.

‘Because we want one another and it's no good pretending otherwise. You're not some virginal maiden in terror of a rampant male, you're just someone who's ready to close the whole world out as a self-inflicted punishment because you made a mistake a long time ago.'

‘And having hundreds of relationships is as bad as having none! The truth is that you enjoyed a romp in the hay and now you'd quite like to enjoy a couple more, hence your apparent need to climb into my mind and point out all the things you think I'm doing wrong!' She burned at the memory of how good sex with him had been and how
easy it would be to carry on hopping into bed for just as long as he wanted her, just to repeat the glorious feelings he had aroused in her. How easy it would be to let him into her life and into Simon's. ‘You're not exactly trying to understand me from a purely unbiased point of view, are you?'

His eyes narrowed at her. ‘Do you know what you need?' he asked, moving so slowly towards her that she could easily have yanked open the bedroom door and fled down the stairs. However, her legs appeared to have turned to lead and she stood just where she was, only managing to shuffle a few steps backwards until her back was pressed against the door. He stopped inches away from her and then proceeded to place the flat of his palms on either side of her. ‘You need to be shaken into seeing sense.'

The thudding of her heart became a steady, painful drum roll.

‘Why don't you stop hiding away and face facts? We're both adults who happen to be attracted to one another. Overwhelmingly attracted,' he added as an afterthought. He traced her bare arm with his finger and she shivered convulsively. ‘See? Your mouth might be saying one thing but your body is telling a completely different story. Like me to prove it?'

‘No!' Sara squeaked, mesmerised by his eyes.

In some obscure part of his brain, he realised that this was his only trump card. For a while, she had abandoned the hold her past had on her, but all the old defences were back, except one. She couldn't defend herself against his touch. He had never chased a woman in his life before, but, dammit, he was prepared to do anything to chase this one. He didn't know why. He just knew that there was a raw, primitive urge in him that wanted her…badly.

‘You're scared of a relationship and I'm not interested in one, and maybe you're right, maybe we both have our reasons, so you could say that our needs meet neatly in the centre.' He lowered his head and outlined her mouth with his tongue. She didn't respond but neither did she draw back. ‘Let go, Sara. We make good sex—no, we make magnificent sex. Why not?' He pushed himself away and she realised that she had been holding her breath. ‘Think about it. I'll be gone by the time you get back with Simon.' He paused at the door to give her a brief nod. ‘I'll be in touch.'

The barracuda circling its prey. Sara closed her eyes briefly and, once she had heard the slam of the kitchen door, wearily headed down the stairs.

I
T WAS
raining outside. Nothing spectacular, just an incessant fine drizzle that turned the London streets into slippery grey grime. James pushed himself away from his desk and swivelled his chair round so that he was staring out into the darkening skies. An uninspiring view, but even if he went to the massive glass windows and looked down the view would be equally uninspiring. By now, most of the nine-to-fivers would have already left work and the pavements would be relatively deserted. The City, with its monuments to financial success, thronged with people during the day but by night it was comparatively quiet. Only the diehards would be still at work at a little after nine at night.

Diehard workaholics, he thought grimly, and me. Two weeks ago he would have classified himself as one of those workaholics, but in the space of a fortnight his ability to function seemed to have taken a knocking. Several times he had found himself staring at the rows of figures on his computer only to realise after a few minutes that he had actually not been taking anything in at all.

Like tonight. Friday night. He would normally have reviewed all the details of this latest merger by now and would be getting geared up to go out, maybe to a restaurant or one of the more low-key, members-only jazz clubs that he favoured, with something delectable, nubile and willing.

But he was only halfway through his review and had already lost interest. As for the delectable, nubile, willing companion…

He clicked his tongue in irritation and began prowling through his spacious office.

The last woman he had taken out four days ago had been an unmitigated disaster. She had seemed quite sexy and vivacious the last time he had met her three months ago at a stunningly dull cocktail party hosted by one of his friends for a foreign ambassador with extensive, useful connections. She had flirted outrageously with him and had been suitably peeved when he had told her that he would, regrettably, not be around to continue their flirting because he was due to fly to New York the following day, and then on to the Far East. He had taken her number and promptly forgotten all about her. Until four days ago, when taking her out had seemed an inspired idea. Delectable, nubile and willing had been just what he needed to combat the daily intrusive images of a tall, slender red-haired witch who had sent him packing and in the process left him nursing emotions that were driving him crazy.

Unfortunately, Annabel had failed to achieve what he had hoped she would. Her short, tight, sequinned dress had screamed garishness, her all-over tan had added to the impression and her conversation had left him bored out of his skull.

Back to the proverbial drawing board, he thought grimly. But he wasn't going to get in touch with Sara. In the cold light of day, his words, casually spoken before he had headed out of the Rectory, had been exposed for what they were. A pathetic play for a woman who had made it clear in no uncertain terms that she might have slept with him once, but beyond that she was going nowhere. At least she had been honest enough not to fall back on the tired excuse about having had too much to drink, but he couldn't stop the nagging, unpleasant suspicion that sev
eral glasses of wine had played a bigger part than he cared to admit.

He was so absorbed in frowning contemplation that it took a few seconds for the sound of the telephone to connect with his brain, then for his hand to connect with the receiver.

The minute he heard her voice, he froze before slowly turning around so that he could perch on the edge of his desk and look outside at the darkening sky.

‘And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?' His voice was cold, uninviting.

Hundreds of miles away, Sara heard it without the slightest tremor of apprehension.

‘I'm so glad I got through. I thought perhaps you might have gone out as it's Friday night.'

Which only reminded him why precisely he hadn't gone out. His lips thinned with angry self-disgust.

‘Cut the pleasantries, Sara, and get to the point. Why have you called and what do you want?'

Get to the point?
Sara nearly laughed. Oh, yes, she'd get to the point, all right, in her own sweet time.

‘And thank you so much for asking how I am, James. As well as can be expected, now that you don't mention it.'

‘How did you get hold of my mobile number?'

‘Oh, I asked your mother. I told her that Simon wanted something from Harrods and I wanted you to see whether you could bring it up for him the next time you came.'

‘And I am supposed to what…? In response to that? Feel a sudden surge of curiosity? Admire you for your inventiveness? Just say what you have to say and get off this line. I'm on my way out and I don't have time to stand here having a conversation with you.' In which case, he thought cynically, why do I not simply hang up? Rage and
frustration washed over him and he found that he was still gripping the receiver.

‘I don't expect admiration for my inventiveness, but the surge of curiosity might be nice. I phoned because I wanted to hear your voice, because I want to see you, James.'

‘You want to see me. Would that be so that we can have a re-run of our last conversation? You
do
remember our last conversation, don't you? The one when you told me to leave?' He found that he was prowling the office with the phone, like an animal in a cage. He even felt like an animal, awash with primitive feelings that he couldn't seem to decipher.

‘I remember it. I've thought about it. I've done nothing
but
think about it…' Not quite true. She had had one or two other things on her mind very well. Just as well he couldn't see into her mind, just as well he couldn't see what was really going on inside her, underneath the controlled, smoky voice with just the right mixture of apology, seriousness and invitation.

But God, it hurt to hear him. Hurt in every pore of her body, in places she never even knew existed. And to think she had once considered Phillip the only man capable of delivering pain! What he had delivered had been a bouquet of flowers in comparison.

‘I've spent hours just remembering, James. The way we laughed together, the way you made me feel…' The way you used me.

The bitter memory of her conversation with Lucy Campbell rose up inside her mind like a monster.

‘So,' the small blonde had drawled with a malicious little smile playing on her lovely mouth, ‘I hear you and James Dalgleish can't keep your hands off one another…'

Sara had bumped into her purely by accident the day
before and, from the position of not knowing her from Adam, was rapidly made aware of precisely who she was, how long she had known the Dalgleish family, and where her ambitions lay. Very definitely in the direction of sex, marriage and babies.

‘Then your source of information needs to brush up on her spying skills.' But Sara flushed guiltily at the memory of them in bed together, making love with fierce, explosive urgency. She had done what she had needed to do, but all she could do was remember. He was still with her.

‘Really?' Lucy's mouth curved into a well-bred smile of amusement. ‘I shouldn't bother getting my hopes up if I were you,' she mused thoughtfully. ‘James is not open to being caught, especially by
you
.'

‘I'm not trying to catch anyone…'

‘I don't suppose he told you…' One fine eyebrow was arched speculatively. ‘No…of course he wouldn't have. No one can say that he isn't clever…'

‘Told me what?'

‘Why he's taking such an interest in you. Good heavens, James could have his pick of any woman, anywhere. So…why you?'

‘I don't have to listen to this.'

‘No, you don't, but…' Lucy shrugged with just the right amount of insolent indifference to forestall Sara's decision to walk away. ‘I would if I were you. In fact, you'll probably thank me afterwards…'

‘I doubt that.' But still she wavered.

‘Oh, I wouldn't bank on it. For someone who's supposed to be smart, and believe me I've already heard all about your big, powerful job in London, you're incredibly trusting. I mean, do you really imagine that James Dalgleish, a man who could have literally
anyone
, would be interested in
you
if there wasn't a motive?'

‘Motive? What are you talking about?'

‘The Rectory, of course. Hasn't he mentioned it to you? That he wants to get his hands on your house? Has wanted that place for years? I must say, darling, that I have to take my hat off to him. What better way to get what he wants than to sleep with the woman who owns it? So much easier to persuade someone to do what you want them to do when you're lovers, wouldn't you say?' She looked at Sara with a smirk. ‘See? Now, haven't I done you a favour?'

Sara dragged herself back to the present and the task that lay before her.

Revenge.

And why not? Why the hell not? She had been used and she wasn't going to slink away and lick her wounds in private. Phillip had been a disaster, but James…

Her stomach clenched at the devastation he had managed to wreak. And he had managed it because she had been a fool, simple as that. She had allowed herself to trust, to feel, to open up to him and he had played on her trust to get a little closer to what he had wanted. And it had not been her.

She found that her fingers were white, clenched around the telephone cord, her nails biting into the soft flesh of her palm. She forced herself to relax. But it was so hard, because even now, knowing it all, knowing him for the kind of man he was, that deep, sexy voice was still managing to pierce through her like a knife.

‘Haven't
you
thought about us at all?'

‘A trip down memory lane, Sara?' But dammit, yes, he remembered. All too clearly.

‘I haven't slept since you left, James…' And she hadn't. She hadn't slept, functioned, barely eaten. She had been in pain. And then when she had met Lucy, had realised what was going on, she still hadn't slept, and the pain was
still there, the pain of knowing that she had been manipulated by a man she had finally seen as a far cry from Phillip.

‘This is a pointless conversation.' But still he couldn't replace the receiver and he could hear a husky shakiness in his voice that made him want to hurl something very heavy straight through the window.

‘Remember how good we were in bed? You said so yourself and you were right. We made love and it was never like that for me. Never.' The truth of that acknowledgment made her eyes hurt with unshed tears. She drew in her breath and continued speaking but her voice was wobbly. ‘The way you touched me…the places that you touched…I felt alive. When you kissed me, I felt as though I was on fire…and then when you kissed other parts of me, James…my breasts, my nipples, my stomach…'

‘Just good sex. I believe that was the conclusion you arrived at.' He was having difficulty thinking clearly. Her words were evocative and her voice filled his head like incense.

‘And I thought that good sex was not a reason for carrying on with a relationship…' Images of him assaulted every corner of her mind.

Good sex. A meeting of two bodies, but lord, so much more than that. For her.

She had sent him on his way, yes, and he had supposedly walked out of her life two weeks ago, but she could see now, through her anguish and disillusionment, that he would have re-entered it soon enough. He was a clever and experienced man and one with a mission. He would simply have banked on her attraction to him to railroad through her defences. And then when the time was right, he would have begun talking to her about the Rectory,
allowing his ability to make love to overcome her questions.

Just you remember that,
Sara told herself bitterly.

‘I'm here in London for a couple of days,' she said, scenting her words with promise. ‘I have to sort out arrangements with my flat. Routine stuff. I really would love to meet up with you. I'm staying in a hotel in Kensington, actually, so I'm quite central…and we could talk…'

‘And you think I should make time for you?'

‘Yes, yes, I do. I dented your ego the last time we met and I would like to make up for that…' She very nearly said that she had hurt him, but of course he wouldn't have been hurt by her rejection. Just temporarily frustrated until he felt the time was right to pounce again.

‘Oh, really? And how do you intend to
make up for that
?' A dented ego was something he could deal with. He mentally began a process of damage limitation by telling himself that that was really all there was to it. That the hurt and anger he had felt was just a reflection of a man accustomed to having everything being denied something.

‘I would very much like to buy you dinner. You name the restaurant. I'm here on my own, so there'll be no need for me to rush back to my room…' She purposefully dropped her voice a couple of notches lower. ‘Not that it's that much of a room, to be honest. Just a dressing table and a chest of drawers and a bathroom and, of course, a bed…'

Was she doing this on purpose? James thought, stifling his sudden urge to groan. He had not seen her as an out-and-out flirt before but either she was genuinely naïve in not knowing that a few choice words could send a man's pulses rocketing, or else she was blatantly offering him…herself…and the thought of that turned him on as nothing on this green planet ever had in his life before.

‘I was going to bring Simon with me,' she was saying, although he was only dimly aware of her voice because his mind had taken off on a tangent and he seemed incapable of reining it back in, ‘but your mum said that she would love nothing better than to have him stay with her. I don't know if she told you, but he's been over there a couple of times…to play with the train set. He's never had a train set of his own; it just wasn't possible in the flat in London. Anyway, I would like to see you, James. Of course, if you don't have time…'