His Convenient Mistress (7 page)

Fiona, at least, would be there, she consoled herself. She would have an ally should she need one. And James Dalgleish was safely tucked hundreds of miles away.

On her last trip to the town he had been nowhere in sight, and his absence made sense. Powerful businessmen like him were incapable of staying away from their offices for too long. It would almost be easier for their bodies to defy gravity than it would for their minds to defy the pull of the top-level business meeting.

She got dressed, and by seven she was ready.

Lord, but it felt alien to be in proper clothes, after her daily uniform of jeans and T-shirts. She looked at the reflection staring back at her and remembered that this was the image that had been
her
only a matter of a few short weeks ago.

In fact, this was one of her favourite dresses. One she had worn on a number of occasions to see her friends or go to the cinema. Casual but not too casual, revealing, but not alarmingly so, just sufficient to show off the length and shapeliness of her legs. The dark green hues complemented her colouring and the fairly prim style was compensated for by the way the fabric clung to her curves. If she was going to go to this damned local dance, then she certainly wasn't going to hide behind something unshapely and dull.

She had already bathed and dressed Simon. She had spoken to Maria on the phone two days previously, had immediately felt comfortable, and the day before Maria had popped over to the Rectory on her way to town so that she could meet the little boy who would be her charge for two hours at the most.

Sara had almost asked her whether she could confirm that her son had gone but the question would have sounded odd and she had cravenly shied away from mentioning his name just in case
that kiss
had been reported back to his mother.

But she had liked what she had seen and so had Simon.
Maria Dalgleish was very much like James to look at, apart from the eyes, and she looked feisty enough, but there was none of the arrogance or the casually assumed self-assurance that sat on her son's shoulders like a cloak.

She had arranged to drive over and was curious to see what this manor looked like and exactly how extensive those gardens were, when the doorbell went.

She pulled open the door, a ready smile on her face, her mouth half-open to tell Maria that she shouldn't have come for Simon, that she was going to drop him off herself as arranged.

Her smile froze as did her thought processes as she took in the man standing in front of her.

James Dalgleish, the man who should safely be miles away in London, the man who had managed to do what no other man had since Simon had been born, namely destabilise her, reach behind the fortress she had erected around herself and touch a part of her that did not want to be touched.

Tall, so beautiful that it brought a gasp to her throat and every inch a man she did not need in her life, not in any way, shape or form.

‘Y
OU
! What are
you
doing here! You should be in London!'

‘Oh, should I?' Dark, winged eyebrows shot up in apparent surprise at this statement, but surprised he most certainly was not. She would have thought he was in London, at least if she had wandered into the town again, and she undoubtedly would have had to, just as she would undoubtedly have had to have seen someone who would have started chatting to her, trying to find out what was going on between him and her. And it wouldn't have taken her long to discover that, as far as everyone was concerned, he had done his usual vanishing trick, because that was what his mother had told her friends, who would have told everyone else.

He had only found out by accident, having volunteered to drive his mother into town to meet her cronies for their weekly game of bridge.

‘Oh, no need,' his mother had responded with uncustomary vagueness. ‘I may have mentioned that you were heading back to the City, and why see them again just yet if you do not have to? Hm? You know the questions you will be asked! They can be so forthright sometimes.'

‘You
may
have mentioned it,
cara Mama
?'

‘It is possible,
sì
. I do not know. I cannot quite remember. Such a small detail!'

But actually having her believe that he was not around, that he wouldn't threaten her by being at the dance, suited him perfectly. James Dalgleish was not a man who hid
behind neatly contrived preconceptions. She challenged him and he wanted her. Before he had laid eyes on her, his one thought had been the swift acquisition of the Rectory, to which end he had been prepared to do anything. Pay over the odds, find the woman somewhere else to live even if it meant building a house for her. He had enough money to compensate her in any way she chose, financially. Then he met her and for a while he saw himself as simply a shrewd businessman who was prepared to get to know his quarry, find out exactly whether her plans to live at the Rectory were long-term, discover the weakness that would provide him with what he wanted.

But he hadn't kicked off with his plan to denigrate the house, had he? And now he acknowledged that he just wanted her. Wanted to take her to his bed and make love to her, watch her closed, defensive face open up before his eyes like a flower blooming under the rays of the sun. He wanted to hear her moan aloud with desire, desire for
him
, he wanted to watch her writhe on his bed and lose all her inhibitions. All thoughts of buying the Rectory had temporarily taken a back seat to urges that were stronger and far, far more irresistible.

So the accusation burning in her eyes now was hardly a shock to his system.

‘I was under the impression that you had urgent work to attend to in London!'

James shrugged and gave her a helplessly apologetic grimace that did nothing to erase the dismay she felt at seeing him again. And every pulse in her body was racing. She looked around a little desperately for Simon and called him, turning away so that she didn't have to look at the man lounging in front of her.

He was dressed in pale cream chinos that accentuated the lithe narrowness of his hips and the length of his legs,
and a dark grey short-sleeved shirt. Both reeked of immaculate and very pricey tailoring and neither did much to lessen the predatorial impact of his darkly handsome face and whipcord-lean body.

Now she felt hugely self-conscious in her get-up. She had dressed to make a positive statement when she confronted the people who were her neighbours, at least for the moment. If you're whispering about me behind my back, she wanted to imply, then you don't frighten me.

Instead, with those riveting dark blue eyes broodingly looking at her, all she could feel was the straining of the fine material of her dress against her breasts and the over-exposure of her legs, which weren't even protected with tights because the night was so balmy and she had predicted that it would be positively hot in the village hall.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard Simon's little feet pattering towards the kitchen.

‘Did your mother send you to fetch me?' Sara asked in a stilted voice, clutching at the last straw that he might not actually be going to the wretched dance. She bent down to adjust her son's pyjama top and then ran her fingers through his fine hair. ‘Because there was no need. I'm pretty sure I could find your house if it's next door to mine. In fact,' she continued, standing up and clutching Simon's hand in hers, ‘it might be a good idea for me to follow you in my car. I want to have my own transport.' In the face of his silence, which was accompanied by a patient tilt of his head, as if he was listening carefully to what she was saying but not really paying a great deal of notice, Sara felt herself chattering on witlessly. She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I wouldn't want to find that I had to walk home if I was having a rotten time! All this isolation stretching into infinity! I would get hopelessly lost!' Her
voice faltered into silence and the silence continued for a few awkward seconds longer.

‘I wouldn't dream of allowing you to go on your own,' James drawled, turning towards his car and expecting her to follow him.

‘Don't be ridiculous!' She hesitated in front of the door, which he was holding open for her. ‘I'm perfectly capable of getting myself to the town and finding where I should be going!'

‘Nonsense.' He smiled implacably and, while she felt inclined to stand her ground and argue the matter till the cows came home, Simon removed the decision from her hands by opening the back car door and clambering into the seat.

The smile James gave her made her scowl.

‘Do you
always
get your own way?' she snapped, sliding past him into the passenger seat and pressing her legs together.

‘Always,' he assured her, half turning to look at her. ‘You look stunning, by the way.' His mouth curved into a smile that sent a little thrill racing down her spine. ‘But don't feel obliged to thank me for the compliment.'

‘I won't,' Sara returned, instantly regretting her reply because it was unnecessary. ‘But thank you anyway,' she added, turning to stare straight ahead.

‘I brought my teddy,' Simon piped up from behind. ‘Will Mrs…Mrs Babysitter mind?'

‘I think she would love to see your teddy.' James started the engine and allowed Sara to stare frozenly ahead at the scenery while he chatted with her son. All that ice, but he had tasted those lips, had felt a surge of heat come from her straight into him and he knew that under the ice lay a hot pool of fire just waiting for him to ignite.

As they turned left and began the drive up to the manor,
Sara couldn't hold on to her pointed silence any longer. Her mouth dropped open as she took in the length, breadth and width of the rolling estate.

‘This isn't all
yours
, is it?' she gasped, turning to stare at his averted profile.

‘All of it,' he confirmed, a little nettled by the fact that his property impressed her, even if he didn't. ‘Over there, to the right, there's a rose garden and even a miniature maze.'

Sara stared at the gracious manor rising up with effortless grace, dominating the courtyard which sprawled around a magnificent circular flower bed that was bursting with colour. A silver Rolls-Royce was parked neatly in front of the house.

‘Is it a castle?' Simon breathed, awestruck, standing up so that he was peering between them with his teddy clutched in his arms.

‘Not quite,' James said, laughing. ‘Not uncomfortable enough.'

‘And your mother lives here
on her own
?' Sara asked. The pale gold frontage seemed to stretch on forever, rising in places to turrets that belonged to something from a fairy tale.

‘She has staff, naturally.'

‘Oh, naturally,' Sara said, missing the amused look he threw at her. ‘It must be awfully lonely for her.' They got out of the car and Sara stared upwards at the imposing façade. ‘Rattling around here on her own, even if there
are
staff.'

‘I come up and see her at least once a month,' James grated, not caring for the description of his mother
rattling around
in the house and caring even less for the assumption that she must be lonely.

‘And then there are two of you rattling around.' Simon
tugged at her hand and she let herself be pulled towards the heavy oak door. ‘Didn't you ever think of selling? Maybe buying something smaller for your mother? I would, if it were me.'

In that split instant he knew how she would react if he admitted that he had indeed thought of buying somewhere smaller and that the place he had in mind was only a stone's throw away, was in fact the Rectory which she had only just occupied.

She was wary enough of him already. In fact, she positively bristled with uneasy suspicion whenever he was within striking distance of her. Hearing that he wanted her house was not exactly going to fill her with trusting warmth, was it? Lust or cold-headed practicality? he wondered.

His eyes slid across to the long column of her neck as she gazed upwards, pale and beckoning in the mellow light of the evening sun.

Cold-headed practicality, he thought, would be dealt with later. It wouldn't be a problem. But it was not in his nature to issue an outright lie and so he cleverly evaded the question.

‘This is our heritage,' he told her truthfully enough. ‘And I would never sell it. It belongs to the Dalgleish family as it always will.' No lie there. His intentions weren't to sell the family home, merely convert it into something else, something that would do justice to its grandeur. ‘Now, let's go inside.' He lightly placed his hand on her elbow and so engrossed was she in her surroundings that she barely noticed.

‘Can I see the trains as soon as we get inside?' Simon asked hopefully.

‘I hope he'll be OK—he's pretty much better now—but
he has been so ill with that chest infection—' Sara looked worriedly at James.

‘I have my mobile phone. You can be contacted and be back here within half an hour. Surely this is what happened when you went out in London?'

‘It was different there,' Sara said quickly. ‘Lizzie knew him from birth, knew what to do if he got sick.' She had had to, Sara thought regretfully. Working long hours had necessitated that and long hours were what she had had to do to pay for the mortgage because Phillip's idea of maintenance had only ever been the very occasional flamboyant present for his son. And in the past two years, not even that.

As far as Phillip had been concerned, she had chosen to have the baby and so she could damn well take care of him financially herself. He was over-committed as it was with his apartment in London and a house in Portugal. When he had had the nerve to imply that she might have got herself pregnant as a passport to a wedding ring, Sara had ceased to talk about maintenance and done everything within her power to make sure that she took care of herself and her son to the best of her ability.

‘Lizzie?'

‘His nanny.'

‘You had a nanny?'

‘I had to work. There are such things as a mortgage, bills, food, clothes. Little things that usually have price tags attached to them.' She knew that she was being ridiculously defensive as all her old guilt rose to the surface and not for the first time. Guilt at having got pregnant in the first place, guilt at having to work, guilt at the hours she worked because being a top commodities trader had never been a nine-to-five job. So much guilt that she could drown under it if she let herself.

She was relieved when they were inside the house and Maria was with them, clucking over Simon, warmly asking Sara questions about what she thought of their town and tartly telling her son that his choice of colours did nothing for him, that he should have worn something a little less severe, considering they would be going to a casual little barbecue, some nice little checked shirt that didn't make him look as if he was taking a few hours' break from work.

‘I don't
have
any checked shirts.'

Sara slid a sidelong glance at him and her mouth twitched at the cornered expression on his face.

‘I look fine,' he muttered, looking pointedly at his watch.

‘And do
you
agree?'

Sara found two pairs of eyes focused on her, one dark, the other navy blue and a lot more disconcerting. She chose to meet the dark pair.

‘He looks all right,' she conceded.

‘All right?'
He couldn't help it. He did not consider himself by any means vain, but he was used to being seen as somewhat more than
all right. All right
was a pedestrian description to be applied to a pedestrian man and he struggled to contain a ludicrous feeling of pique in the face of those green eyes which were now doing a more detailed inventory of him.

‘The shirt
is
a little on the sombre side, colour-wise,' Sara elaborated, unable to resist having a go, even if it was a very small one. It was just so satisfying to dent that massive ego of his. ‘Not very summery, if you know what I mean, but I guess not bad.'

‘Well,' he smiled slumberously, his blue eyes roving over her in a mimicry of her own physical appraisal of him except taking far, far longer, lingering over the pert swell of her breasts, the slenderness of her waist and the length
of her naked legs, ‘then I should be thankful that you will relieve the dullness of my clothing, shouldn't I?' He did another leisurely appraisal of her, this time starting with her feet and working upwards until he was looking at her flushed face with lazy amusement.

‘Now off you go, children.' Maria positively hustled them to the front door. ‘Simon and I want to play with a certain set of trains before he gets too sleepy!'

‘I won't be long and I'll take him home as soon as we get back.'