His Convenient Mistress (3 page)

Blunt to the point of rude, Sara thought, but rude to the point of getting whatever answers he wanted, because he put her in a position from which to evade his questions would have seemed like unnecessary shiftiness. And if she was to make a go of things here, unlikely though that seemed at this moment in time, then she would probably be meeting him again. To kick off by creating a bad atmosphere was not going to help either her or Simon.

Still, something about the man addled her and made her want to skulk away behind her defences to a position of safety.

‘I…' She raised her green eyes to look steadily at him.
‘Well, I inherited this house. If you
must
know, I never knew Uncle Fred. He and my father had a bit of a falling-out years ago, before I was born, and they never really patched things up. Anyway, moving up here…well, I thought that it…that it would be a good idea,' she finished lamely.

‘A good idea?'

Sara felt her hackles rise. His tone did a good job of implying that any such good idea could loosely be translated as stupidity.

‘And where have you come from?' James asked without giving her time to expand. ‘South somewhere?'

‘Everywhere is south of here,' Sara informed him coldly.

‘
Touché.
I was actually referring to London.'

‘I
was
living in London, yes.'

‘With a child?'

‘People do.'

More puzzling by the minute, James thought, sipping some of the coffee, which had gone lukewarm. He allowed himself to savour the thought of unravelling Sara King, finding the chink that would give him the leverage he wanted that would enable him to persuade her to sell the Rectory to him. He would be fair, more than fair, he decided, but he would get what he wanted in the end. And, looking at her now with her red hair, that pale, flawless skin, those translucent green eyes that were doing their best to be guarded but could not help simmering with fire, he had a sudden, disconcerting feeling that he was going to enjoy his dealings with her.

Physically, she was far removed from the type of women he tended to be attracted to. She was too tall, too slender, too pale. But there was still something about her
that carried the unexpected. Perhaps the hint of a sharp brain that did not conform to what was expected of it.

‘Are you finished with your coffee?' Sara asked, rising to her feet, one hand already outstretched to take his cup. ‘I hate to rush you away, but I really have a million things to do and Simon will start acting up in a minute if I don't go through.'

‘Have you been to the town yet?' Of course she hadn't. She had managed to keep herself to herself. ‘Met any of the locals?'

Sara was grateful to be able to look away from those penetrating eyes as she moved towards the kitchen sink with both their cups in her hands. ‘Not yet, no.'

‘Then I insist you come to a luncheon party my mother is having on Sunday.'

‘I…'

‘You might as well satisfy their curiosity,' he commented drily, ‘or they will simply start fabricating half-truths about you. Why did you choose to live here if you are afraid of facing the people you will find yourself living amongst?'

‘I'm not afraid of any such thing!'

‘Twelve precisely. You can't miss the house. It's the one next to yours. First left.' He stood up and Sara followed him with her eyes as he walked towards the kitchen door, giving her a brief salute before disappearing outside towards his car.

‘S
O WHAT'S
she like?'

‘Red hair. Green eyes. Tall. Has a child, a boy.'

‘No, James, I meant what is she
like
? You know. Chatty, sociable, boring,
what
?'

Good question, James thought. He looked down at Lucy Campbell and then absentmindedly out towards the direction of the Rectory. She hadn't shown up. It was now four in the afternoon, lunch had been served, a splendid buffet of cold meats and salads, which had been eaten on the sprawling back patio with its rich scent of flowers. Croquet had been played amateurishly by a handful of the guests. There had been some talk of lawn tennis, but this had fizzled out to nothing because most of the guests had had too much of the very fine white wine to drink and were disinclined to put themselves through the effort of running around trying to hit a tennis ball over a net.

‘James?'

He focused on the woman in front of him. By any standards, she was a pretty girl. Petite, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, impeccably haute-coutured and with the regulation cut-glass voice. Unfortunately, she irritated the hell out of him, and she was irritating him now, gazing up at him with the expectant expression of someone looking forward to a bit of juicy gossip.

‘She seems pleasant enough,' he expanded with a shrug. He sipped some of his wine and found his gaze straying again in the direction of the Rectory.

‘Pleasant?'

‘No obvious psychological problems that I could spot,' he said edgily. Just damned hostile, he thought to himself. Was that a reaction to
him
in particular, he wondered, or men in general? He had found himself thinking about her more than he had anticipated and the fact that he was thinking about her now annoyed him.

‘Very droll, James.' Lucy smiled a coquettish little smile, a smile she had perfected over the years and one that usually had men melting. It didn't appear to be working now. ‘That's one of the things I absolutely
adore
about you.'

‘Sorry?'

‘You were telling me all about your fascinating new neighbour.' She held on to the smile but with difficulty. ‘So she's tall, has red hair and seems pleasant. Is that all? What about this son of hers? What do you think they're doing here?
Really?
Would you like to know what
we
think?'

James didn't have to ask her who the
we
were. He knew well enough. Her little clique of privileged friends, four of whom had trooped along with their parents to the luncheon.

‘You can tell me if you feel inclined,' he said discouragingly.

‘Well,
we
all think that she's a bit of a nobody who's suddenly found herself the owner of a pretty nice house, you must admit, and has decided to land herself up here on the off-chance of meeting some dashing man to pick up the bill for her and her child.' Lucy drained her glass of wine. Her eyes were sparkling, over-bright. She had had, James thought with distaste, too much to drink.

‘Really.'

‘So you'd better watch out.' The blue eyes hardened
even though the pink, half-opened mouth continued to smile invitingly. ‘She'll be after you before you know it.'

‘Oh, I shouldn't think so,' James drawled, but he had a sudden vision of her stripping off to reveal a slender, pale body. He imagined her high, pert breasts and that long hair hanging around her in a tousled mane. He shoved one hand in his trouser pocket and took another mouthful of wine. His last girlfriend had been small, voluptuous and dark-haired. A sexy little thing with a penchant for expensive presents and designer outfits. Very rewarding for a while until her conversation, or lack of it, had begun to make itself felt over and above her physical assets.

‘Of course she will,' Lucy was saying, half in jest, half serious. ‘She's probably eyed you up as a good catch and is plotting how she can net you. And you men are so gullible, you won't know what's coming until it's hit you like a freight train.'

‘I think,' James lowered his head slightly, ‘you must be talking about the men
you
sleep with, Lucy, because
I
certainly do not fit that particular description.' Just the opposite, he thought drily. He'd already had one collision with that particular type of freight train and he was in no danger of ever having another.

No wonder the woman had not been inclined to discover the charms of the locals. If she knew the rumours circulating about her, she would stay away for the rest of her natural life. Lucy and her friends might not be permanent residents of the place, choosing to work in Edinburgh and travel back home to their parents on the occasional weekend, but if they were discussing Sara King and her motives then he would bet his mansion on the fact that their parents were as well.

And he had to admit that the thought had crossed his own mind. Before he had met her.

If Lucy had been witness to his brief visit the day before then talk about motives and gold-digging and the search for a husband would not be figuring highly in her conversation, because Sara King had shown not the slightest interest in him as anything other than a nosy neighbour she wanted to get rid of as quickly as possible.

He wondered wryly if this wasn't the reason why he had been spending so much time thinking about her. The fact that he had so obviously failed to impress her when in fact wowing women had always been a talent he had taken utterly for granted.

His mother was calling him over, urging him to participate in a new game of croquet, with two teams competing for a bottle of champagne. It was simply too glorious a day for them to go inside, and croquet, she whispered into his ear with a smile, was a sedate enough game to accommodate old age and tipsiness.

‘I'll play on one condition,' James said,
sotto voce
, ‘and that's if I'm spared the company of Lucy Campbell. There's only so much of that girl's wittering a man can take.'

‘I thought you liked her!' Maria said in surprise and her son gave her a look of dry disbelief. ‘Or at least didn't mind her,' she amended.

‘Reminds me too much of certain social climbers I meet in London,' he said dismissively. ‘Young, rich and a little too much in love with themselves.' He placed one foot neatly on a mallet lying on the grass by him and flicked it up, catching it with one hand.

‘In which case, it's a good thing I hadn't lined her up for you as a prospective wife,' Maria smiled.

‘No need for you to line me up with anyone, Mama. According to our dear debutante Lucy,' he flicked his head
in the general direction of the Rectory, ‘someone is already lining herself up to fill the role.'

‘Oh, yes?' Maria cocked her head to one side and looked interestedly at her son. ‘And who might that be?'

‘Don't pretend the innocent with me, Mama,' James said with a slow grin. ‘This is the original nesting bed of the malicious rumour, and Lucy and her clique of friends have already begun circulating one.'

‘Which is…?'

‘That our new neighbour is a money-grabbing gold-digger on the look-out for a prospective husband.'

‘You have met her. You do not agree, then?' Maria asked casually and James gave a snort of laughter. ‘Perhaps they are right.' She stole a curious look at her son, who was staring grimly out towards the Rectory. He had invited the girl over and she had failed to appear. She, Maria, had made no comment on this, but she knew that her son had been unsurprisingly annoyed. It wasn't often that his orders, which they always were, however prettily he tried to package them, were ignored.

‘Perhaps,' Maria mused speculatively, ‘she
is
on the look-out for a nice, eligible, rich man…'

‘In which case she's barking up the wrong tree. Anyway, I can spot an opportunist a mile off and I can't think of anyone less on the look-out,' he said, his head filling with the images of the dismissive look she had thrown at him when he had stepped out of his car and the impatient resignation with which she had greeted his offer to make her a cup of coffee. ‘She struggled to invite me into the Rectory, for God's sake!'

‘What a shame,' Maria murmured teasingly, ‘and how did you cope with the shock of not being fawned upon by a woman?'

‘Women do not fawn over me, Mama,' he denied vig
orously, but he flushed at the accuracy of her dart. He was fully and cynically aware that he possessed just the right combination of attributes to make a woman's head turn. ‘And this one certainly didn't.'

‘So your plans to buy the Rectory have taken a nosedive, am I right?'

‘Oh, I wouldn't rush into assuming any such thing.' But he had no idea how he was going to persuade her to sell. She hadn't struck him as the sort of woman who could be talked into doing anything she didn't want to do.

‘Well, if she does not like you, James, then she is hardly going to agree to selling something she has travelled hundreds of miles to possess.' Maria looked out to where several of the guests were already trying to decide who should be in what team. Constance Campbell, who usually shifted automatically into the role of organising everyone else, was having a hard time with guests who were tipsy enough to get a kick out of thwarting her.

But I could get to know her, couldn't I…?
James reflected. Discover the chink in her armour. The Rectory was beautiful but frankly falling to bits. If he got to know her, well, he could just help her along the way to realising just how much needed doing to the place and how much easier it would be to shift the potential headache to someone else. Namely him. No good barging in when she still had her little head in the clouds, but a few carefully placed remarks might work wonders.

‘Who knows?' he answered in a distracted voice. ‘Anyway, shall we get on with this wretched game of croquet? You know I can't stand the sport.'

‘I know.' She touched his cheek briefly and lovingly. ‘Not vigorous enough for you. It is nice having you home here.'

‘And it'll be even nicer when this lot depart. You know what they say about too much of a good thing.'

As it turned out, it was after six before the last of the guests left and after eight by the time a thoughtful James had eaten dinner, which was served informally in the breakfast room off the kitchen. His mother chatted inconsequentially about the luncheon party, amusing him with barbed remarks about village gossip and what was happening with whom and where. Normally, they would have retired to their favourite sitting area, the one which offered the most tantalising views. It would have provided a soothing and welcome end to a fairly hectic day, but James was in no mood to be soothed. His mother's voice drifted in calm waves over his head but he was thinking. Thinking about what she had said earlier, her throwaway remark that their Rectory neighbour might prove to be as stubborn as the uncle she had clearly never met.

The train of his thoughts made him edgy and he knitted his dark brows together in a frown, only realising his distraction when his mother said something which he was obliged to ask her to repeat.

‘There is no need for the Rectory,' Maria sighed. ‘Have I not told you this over and over? If the manor is converted to a hotel, I can simply live in a suite.'

‘And share your dinner with the hotel guests?' He gave her a brooding frown that arrogantly denied his mother doing any such thing. ‘Walk out into the garden so that you can join clusters of other people admiring the flowers? Have your evening drink brought to you by a waiter on his way to serve other people their evening drinks? I would rather,' he rasped, ‘abort my ideas of converting this place than suffer you going through any of that.'

‘Why do you think Miss King did not come to our little
lunch party?' Maria asked, to change the subject, and he shrugged.

‘Perhaps the thought of socialising with us all filled her little soul with terror. Although,' he couldn't help but add, ‘believe me, it would have been the other way around.
She
would have been the one filling
their
little souls with terror.'

‘She made quite an impact on you, James, did she not?'

‘I'll let you know tomorrow,' he said slowly, standing up and stretching. He raked his fingers through his hair and then turned to look at his mother.

‘Why tomorrow?'

‘Because I think I'll head across to Miss King and find out for myself why she did not appear when I specifically invited her.'

‘You were piqued, weren't you?' Maria asked slyly.

‘Hardly. It's simply that…I intend to buy her house and I won't be able to dangle money at the end of the carrot in an attempt to persuade her. Whatever brought her rushing up here, it wasn't poverty. From what I glimpsed of her possessions, at least the ones in the kitchen, she was not labouring under financial stress. So I shall simply have to dig deep into my reservoirs of persuasiveness to get what I want.'

‘Does that not sound easy?' Maria murmured to herself, her dark eyes speculative.

‘So I shall see you tomorrow, Mama.' He strolled to where she was sitting and kissed her once on each cheek, as he always had done ever since he was a boy, on his way back to boarding-school after the holidays, half longing to stay with his parents and enjoy his life in Scotland with the wide, open spaces around him, half longing to return to his friends with their boisterous camaraderie.

He was under no illusions as he later drove across to
the Rectory. Sara King wasn't going to welcome him in with open arms. She hadn't the first time round, and she was going to be even less enthusiastic this time. Especially as it was after nine and he would probably have to drag her out of bed with his banging on the kitchen door. Neither prospect was sufficient to put him off the matter at hand.

There were lights on, at least, when he pulled up outside and he killed the engine of the car, sitting inside for a few minutes before going out. Then he strode out, peered through one of the kitchen windows at the side just in case she was busying herself in there, and, not seeing her, banged on the knocker.