The Mistress Contract

What had he said? Oh, yes—Caroline de Menthe was not the sort of woman you took to a hospital to visit your secretary. She—clearly—was. Which said it all, really.

The soft liquid eyes narrowed and hardened and her mouth became tight. Okay, so she wasn’t an oil painting and she never would be, and she could do with losing a few pounds too, but no one had ever suggested she walk round with a paper bag over her head! And Jerry fancied her.

The last thought brought her back to earth with a bump. What was she doing feeling sorry for herself? she asked the dark-haired girl in the mirror with something akin to amazement in her face now. This wasn’t like her. But then she hadn’t felt like herself all afternoon if it came to it. It was him, Conrad Quentin. He was…disturbing. And he was also waiting outside, she reminded herself sharply, diving through to the bedroom in the same instant.

She threw off her crumpled work clothes and grabbed a pretty knee-length flowered skirt she had bought the week before, teaming it with a little white top and matching waist-length cardigan. She didn’t have time to shower, she decided feverishly, but she quickly bundled her hair in a high knot on top of her head, teasing her fringe and several tendrils loose, and then applied a touch of eyeshadow and a layer of mascara to widen her eyes.

The whole procedure had taken no more than five minutes and she was out in the street again in six, to find him lying back indolently in the seat with his eyes shut and his hands behind his head as he listened to Frank Sinatra singing about doing it his way.

Very appropriate, she thought a trifle caustically. If only half the stories about Conrad Quentin were true he certainly lived his life by that principle.

His eyes opened as she reached the car and he straightened, glancing at his watch as he murmured, ‘When you say five minutes you really mean five minutes, don’t you?’ before leaning across and opening the passenger door for her to slide in.

‘You find that surprising?’ she asked unevenly as the closeness of him registered and all her senses went into hyperdrive.

‘For a woman to say what she means?’ He half turned in his seat, the brilliant blue gaze raking her hot face. ‘More of a minor miracle,’ he drawled cynically, one black eyebrow quirking mockingly as he started the engine.

Sephy would have liked to come back with a sharp, clever retort, but the truth of the matter was that she was floundering. She’d never ridden in a Mercedes before for a start, and the big beautiful car was truly gorgeous, but it was the man at the wheel who was really taking her breath away.

The office—with plenty of air space, not to mention desks, chairs and all the other paraphernalia—was one thing; the close confines of the car were quite another. They emphasised his dominating masculinity a hundredfold, and underlined the dark, dangerous quality of his attractiveness enough to have her sitting as rigid as a piece of wood.

She tried telling herself she was stupid and pathetic and ridiculous, but with the faint smell of his aftershave teasing her senses and his body warmth all about her it didn’t do any good. This was Conrad Quentin—Conrad Quentin—and she still couldn’t quite believe the whole afternoon had happened, or that she was actually sitting here with him like this.

She felt a momentary thrill that she didn’t understand and that was entirely inappropriate in the circumstances, and reminded herself—sharply now—that she had to keep her wits about her after the episode of the keys if he wasn’t going to think she was utterly dense. She was a useful office item as far as he was concerned—like the fax or the computer—and he expected cool, efficient service.

He was a very exacting employer, and it was well known that he suffered fools badly—in fact he didn’t suffer them at all! And that was fair enough, she told herself silently, when you considered he paid top salaries with manifold perks like private health insurance and so on.

He was the original work hard and play hard business tycoon, and until today she had never so much as exchanged more than half a dozen words with him, so it wasn’t surprising she was feeling a bit…tense. Well, more than a bit, she admitted ruefully.

And then, as though he had read her mind, she was conscious of the hard profile turning her way for an instant before he said softly, ‘Relax, Seraphina. I’m not going to eat you.’

Her head shot round, but he was looking straight ahead at the road again and the imperturbable face was expressionless.

It took her a second or two, but then she was able to say, her voice verging on the icy, ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Quentin,’ even as she knew her face was burning with hot colour.

‘The suggestion that you accompany me to the hospital was purely spontaneous,’ he said mildly, without looking at her again. ‘I’m not about to leap on you and have my wicked way, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘Nothing is worrying me,’ she bit back immediately, horrified beyond measure, ‘and I wouldn’t dream of thinking you intended…that you would even think of—’ She stopped abruptly, aware that she was about to burst into flames, and took a deep breath before she said, ‘I’m quite sure you are not that sort of man, Mr Quentin.’

There was a moment of blank silence, when Sephy felt the temperature drop about thirty degrees, and then he said, his dark voice silky-soft, ‘I do like women, Miss Vincent.’

This was getting worse! ‘I know you do,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course I know that; everyone does. I just meant—’ She wasn’t improving matters, she realised suddenly, as she risked a sidelong glance at the cold rugged face.

‘Please, do continue.’ It was curt and clipped. “‘Everyone” takes an interest in my love life, do they?’

Oh, blow it! He was the one prancing about with a different woman each week! What did he expect for goodness’ sake? ‘I was just trying to say I know you like women, that’s all,’ Sephy said primly, her face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and disquiet.

‘Right. So my sexual persuasion is not in question.’ There was liquid ice in his deep voice. ‘That taken as read, why would it be so unlikely that I might have ulterior motives in asking you to spend the evening with me?’

The evening? They were going to visit poor Madge Watkins, that was all! Afterwards she would realise she could have answered in a host of ways to defuse what had become an electric moment: he was not the sort of man to mix business and pleasure would have been a good one; she was aware he was dating someone at the moment could have been another. What she did say, the words tumbling out of her mouth, was, ‘There has to be some sort of a spark between a man and a woman, doesn’t there? And I’m not your type.’

‘My type?’ If she had accused him of a gross obscenity he couldn’t have sounded more offended. There was another chilling pause, and then he said, ‘What, exactly, do you consider my “type”, Miss Vincent?’ as he viciously cut up a harmless, peaceable family saloon that had been sailing along minding its own business.

She couldn’t make it any worse. She might as well be honest, Sephy told herself silently as the two ‘Miss Vincents’ after all the ‘Seraphinas’ of the day registered like the kiss of death on her career. ‘Women like Miss de Menthe, I suppose,’ she said shakily.

‘Meaning?’ he queried testily.

He didn’t intend to make this easy. ‘Beautiful, successful, rich…’ Spoilt, selfish, bitchy…

The grooves that splayed out from either side of his nose to his mouth deepened, as though she had actually voiced the last three words, but he remained silent, although it was a silence that vibrated with painful tension. Finally, he said coldly, ‘So, we’ve ascertained my type. What is your type, Seraphina?’

At least the Seraphina was back, although she didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, Sephy thought feverishly as she clasped her hands together so tightly the knuckles showed white. And her type? That was funny if he did but know it. In the age of the Pill and condoms being bought as casually as bunches of flowers, she must be the only girl in the whole of London whose sexual experience was minimal to say the least. But that was the last thing she could say to a man of the world like Conrad Quentin. He’d laugh his head off.

The thought brought the door in her mind behind which she kept the caustic memories of the past slightly ajar, and as the image of David intruded for a second her stomach turned over. And then she had slammed it shut again, her mouth tightening as she willed the humiliation and pain to die.

She forced herself to shrug easily and kept her voice light as she said, ‘I guess I’m not fussy on looks; dark or fair, tall or short, it doesn’t matter as long as the guy is a nice person.’

‘A nice person?’ he returned mockingly, with a lift of one dark eyebrow, his large capable hands firmly on the wheel as he executed a manoeuvre that Sephy knew wasn’t exactly legal, and which caused a medley of car horns to blare behind them as the Mercedes dived off into a side-street to avoid the traffic jam which had been ahead. ‘And how would you define a nice person?’

A man who could accept that one-night stands and casual sex weren’t obligatory on the first date? Someone who could understand that some women—or certainly this one at least—needed to be in love before they would allow full intimacy, and who was prepared to think with his head and hopefully his heart rather than that other vital organ some inches lower. Someone who cared about her just a little more than their own ego, who didn’t mind that she hadn’t got a perfect thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six figure, with fluffy blonde hair and big blue eyes, someone…someone from her dreams.

Sephy twisted in the seat, knowing she had to say something, and then managed, ‘A man who is kind and funny and gentle, I suppose,’ and then cringed inside as he snorted mockingly.

‘And that’s it?’ he asked scathingly. ‘You don’t want a man, Seraphina. Your average cocker spaniel would do just as well. And the lovelorn guy back at your flat, does he fit all the criteria?’ he added before she could react to the acidic sarcasm.

‘Jerry?’ she asked with a stiffness that should have warned him.

‘Is that his name?’ He couldn’t have sounded more derisory if she’d said Donald Duck. ‘Well, it’s clear Jerry’s got it bad, and he looked a fine, upstanding pillar of the establishment and impossibly kind and gentle, or am I wrong?’

She didn’t often get angry, but around this man she seemed to be little else, and now the words were on her tongue without her even having to think about them. ‘I wasn’t aware that my job description necessitated talking about my friends,’ she said with savage coldness, ‘but if it does you had better accept my resignation here and now, Mr Quentin.’

There was absolute silence for a screaming moment, but as Sephy glared at him the cool profile was magnificently indifferent. He’d make a fantastic poker player, she thought irrelevantly. No wonder he was so formidable in business.

‘The name’s Conrad.’

‘What?’ If he had taken all his clothes off and danced stark naked on the Mercedes’ beautiful leather seats she couldn’t have been more taken aback.

‘I said, the name is Conrad,’ he said evenly, without taking his eyes from the view beyond the car’s bonnet. ‘If we are going to be working together for some weeks I can’t be doing with Mr Quentin this and Mr Quentin that; it’s irritating in the extreme.’

She wanted—she did so want—to be able to match him for cool aplomb and control, but it was a lost cause, she acknowledged weakly as she sank back in her seat without saying another word. Game, set and match to him, the insensitive, cold-blooded, arrogant so-and-so.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY stopped on the way to buy flowers and chocolates for Madge—the flowers taking up the whole of the back seat of the car and the box of chocolates large enough to feed a hundred little old ladies for a week—and it was just after half past seven when the Mercedes nosed its way into the immaculate car park of the small, select private hospital on the outskirts of Harlow.

The dusky shadowed twilight carried the scent of the crisply cut lawns which surrounded the gracious building, and as Sephy nervously accompanied Conrad up the wide, horseshoe-shaped stone steps to the front door, her arms laden with flowers, the surrealness of it all was making her light-headed.

If anyone had told her that morning she would be spending part of the evening in the company of the exalted head of Quentin Dynamics she would have laughed in their face, but here she was. And here he was. All six foot plus of him.

She darted a glance from under her eyelashes at the tall, dark figure next to her and her heart gave a little jump. He exuded maleness. It was there in every line of the lean powerful body and hard chiselled face, and as her female hormones seemed horribly determined to react—with a life all of their own—to his own particular brand of virile masculinity it didn’t make for easy companionship.

Once they were inside the building the attractive, red-haired receptionist nearly fell over herself to escort them to Madge’s room, which—as Conrad had decreed—was the best in the place.

But Sephy didn’t notice the ankle-deep carpeting, exclusive and beautifully co-ordinated furnishings or the magnificent view from the large bay window over the lawns and trees surrounding the hospital. All her attention was taken up with the fragile, pathetic little figure huddled in the bed.

At a little over four foot ten Madge Watkins had always been tiny, but she seemed to have shrunk down to nothing since the day before and the effect was shocking.

Her grey hair looked limp and scanty, her skin was a pasty white colour, and the expression in her faded blue eyes stated quite clearly she was terrified. Sephy’s heart went out to her.

So, apparently, did Conrad’s.

The aggressive and ruthless tycoon of working hours and the mocking, contemptuous escort of the last forty-five minutes or so metamorphosed into someone Sephy didn’t recognise. He was quiet and tender with his elderly secretary, dumping the chocolates and the rest of the flowers he was carrying on a chair, before taking the shrivelled thin figure in his arms and holding her close for long moments without speaking.

Madge’s face was wet by the time he settled her back against her pillows, but then he sat by her side, talking soothingly and positively after he had drawn Sephy forward to make her greetings. After a while it dawned on Sephy that Conrad and his secretary had a very special relationship—more like mother and son than boss and employee. And it stunned her. Totally.

The receptionist brought them all tea and cakes at just after eight o’clock, and by the time they left, at ten to nine, Madge was smiling and conversing quite naturally, the look of stark dread gone from her eyes and her face animated.

‘You needn’t come again, lad.’

Once Madge had relaxed and understood Conrad had no intention of standing on ceremony in front of Sephy, she had referred to her brilliant boss as ‘lad’ a few times, and Sephy had realised that the special circumstances were allowing her to see the way they were normally when they were alone. Before this night she had never heard Madge give him anything but his full title, and even at the Christmas dances and such the elderly woman had always been extremely stiff and proper.

‘Of course I’m coming again, woman!’ His voice was rough but his face was something else as he glanced at the small figure in the bed, and Sephy was surprised at the jolt her heart gave.

‘No, really, lad. I know how you hate these places,’ Madge said earnestly.

And then she stopped speaking as Conrad laid his hand over her scrawny ones and said very softly, ‘I said I’ll be back, Madge. Now, then, no more of that. And you’re not rushing home to that empty house before you’re able to look after yourself either. You’re going to get better, the doctor’s assured me about that, but it’ll take time and you’ll have to be patient for once in your life.’

‘There’s the pot calling the kettle,’ Madge said weakly, her eyes swimming with tears again as his concern and love touched her.

It touched Sephy too, but in her case the overwhelming feeling was one of confusion and agitation and the knowledge that it had been a mistake—a big, big mistake—to come here with him like this. As the cold, ruthless, cynical potentate Conrad Quentin was someone she disliked, as the ladykiller and rake he was someone she despised, and as her temporary boss he was someone she respected, for his incredibly intelligent mind and the rapier-sharp acumen that was mind-blowing, at the same time as feeling an aversion for such cold, obsessional single-mindedness.

But tonight… How did she think about him tonight? she asked herself nervously as she watched him make his goodbyes to Madge. But, no, he was her boss—just her boss—and come tomorrow morning things would be back on a more formal footing and she would forget how she was feeling right now—she would; of course she would! She, of all people, knew that men like him—wildly attractive, charismatic brutes of men—were shallow and egocentric and could charm the birds out of the trees when they liked.

They had just reached the door when Madge’s voice, urgent and high, brought them turning to face her again. ‘Angus! I forgot about Angus. I can’t believe I could forget him. He’s had no dinner, Conrad.’

‘He could live on his fat for years, Madge, so don’t put on sackcloth and ashes,’ Conrad said drily, and in answer to Sephy’s enquiring face he added, ‘Madge’s cat,’ by way of explanation.

‘He’ll be wondering where I am—’

‘Don’t worry.’ Conrad cut short Madge’s tremulous voice, his own resigned. ‘I’ll pick him up on the way home and he can board with me for a while until you’re home again. Daniella loves cats, as you know—even Angus. She’ll look after him.’

Daniella? Who was Daniella? And then a prim voice in her head admonished, It’s nothing to do with you who Daniella is.

It was dark outside, the air a wonderful scented mixture of grass and woodsmoke and hot summer days after the sterile warmth of the hospital, and Sephy raised her head as she took several deep gulps of the intoxicating mixture.

‘Thanks, Sephy.’ His voice was unusually soft.

Surprised into looking at him, she became aware he was watching her closely from narrowed blue eyes, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and the brooding quality she had noticed about him more than once very evident.

‘Sephy?’ She stared at him, suddenly acutely shy without knowing why. ‘You said you didn’t intend to call me that.’

‘It seems the least I can do after you’ve helped me out so ungrudgingly this evening,’ he said with quiet sincerity.

It made her previous thoughts about him uncharitable, to say the least, and she could feel herself blushing as she said, ‘That’s all right; it killed two birds with one stone, actually.’

‘Yes?’ He glanced down enquiringly as they began to walk.

‘I’d been invited to a party that I didn’t want to go to but it would have been difficult to get out of it without a valid excuse,’ she explained quietly.

‘And there was me thinking you had succumbed to my irresistible charm.’

It was cool and light, but somehow she got the impression he wasn’t as amused as his smile would have liked her to believe, and something he had said earlier in the day—‘many a true word is spoken in jest’—came back to her. The male ego again. She mentally nodded at the thought. The male sex in general really did seem to believe they had been put on the earth to receive due homage.

‘Anyway, party or no, the least I can do is to feed you before I take you back,’ he said smoothly, for all the world as though she was a little lost orphan he had found wandering about the streets of London. ‘Come on, we’ll stop off for a bite to eat on the way home. I know I’m starving.’

She stared at him uncertainly, searching for the right words to refuse his invitation without appearing rude. Dinner with Conrad Quentin? She wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, she told herself feverishly as she stopped dead in her tracks. ‘But…’

‘Yes?’ He glanced down at her again and his eyes were cool.

‘What about Miss de Menthe?’ she said quickly. ‘I thought you were seeing her tonight?’

‘Cancelled,’ he said cryptically.

‘And there’s Madge’s cat.’ Thank goodness for Madge’s cat.

‘So there is.’ His gaze was distinctly cold now, and when she still didn’t move he made a quiet sound of annoyance and took her arm in one firm hand, guiding her along the winding path between bowling-green-smooth stretches of grass and into the car park.

His flesh was warm through the thin cotton of her cardigan, and it wasn’t the swiftness with which he was urging her along that made her suddenly short of breath. He was so big, so male, so much of everything if the truth be known. And knowing what he was like, all the women he had had, made her feel gauche and inadequate and totally out of her depth. He smelt absolutely wonderful. The unwelcome intrusion of the thought did nothing to calm the wild flutters of panic that were turning her stomach upside down.

He opened the car door for her when they reached the Mercedes, and as he leant over her slightly it took every ounce of her will-power to slide into the confines of the car with a small polite nod of her head, as though she was totally oblivious to his male warmth.

And then, as he walked lazily round the bonnet of the car, she took herself severely in hand. Conrad Quentin was one of those men who had everything—wealth, success and an alarming amount of sex appeal—and she’d better get it clear in her head now that she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, consciously or unconsciously. If she was going to continue standing in for Madge, that was. Which she rather thought she was, crazy though that made her. Anyway, she had given him her word at the office earlier, so that was that. She couldn’t back out now.

‘You’re frowning.’

She glanced up to see a pair of very piercing blue eyes surveying her through the open driver’s door, and then, as she flushed hotly, he slid into the seat and started the engine with a flick of his hand.

Sephy waited for him to follow up on his terse statement, but when they had gone a mile or two and he still hadn’t spoken she swallowed drily, and then said quietly, ‘Mr Quentin—’

‘Conrad,’ he interrupted pleasantly.

She tried to ignore the long lean legs stretched out under the steering wheel and the delicious faint odour of what must be wildly expensive aftershave, and took another surreptitious swallow before she managed, ‘Conrad, there really is no need to buy me dinner. I’m sure you must be terribly busy, and I’ve masses of things to do when I get home—’

‘Don’t you want to have dinner with me, Sephy?’ he interrupted again, the even tone fooling her not at all.

She hesitated just a second too long before she said, ‘It’s not that. Of course it’s not that I don’t want to.’

‘No?’ It was very dry. ‘Well, we won’t labour the point. I take it you have no objection in calling in Madge’s place on the way back and picking up the terrible Angus? It is en route, so it makes sense.’

She wanted to ask, Why the terrible Angus? but said instead, ‘Yes, of course. That’s fine,’ her voice tight and stiff.

‘And it might be easier to drop him off at my house before I take you home; he doesn’t like travelling and it’ll be less stressful,’ he continued smoothly. ‘We don’t want to distress him.’

Put like that, she could hardly do anything else but agree. She had no idea where he lived, but somehow she didn’t feel she could ask him either. She just hoped it wasn’t too far from Madge’s.

Madge’s house turned out to be a small and awe-inspiringly neat semi in Epping, with a paved front garden methodically interspersed with miniature shrubs. The interior of the building smelt of mothballs and furniture polish and was as spick and span as the front garden. It was exactly Madge—which made Angus all the more of a shock.