Mistresses: Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds

Mistresses Bound with Gold

Susan Napier

Kathryn Ross

Kelly Hunter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Revenge Affair

Susan Napier is a former journalist and scriptwriter who turned to writing romantic fiction after her two sons were born. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her journalist husband, who generously provides the on-going inspiration for her fictional heroes, and two temperamental cats whose curious paws contribute the occasional typographical error when they join her at the keyboard. Born on St Valentine’s Day, Susan feels that it was her destiny to write romances and, having written over thirty books for Mills & Boon, still loves the challenges of working within the genre. She likes writing traditional tales with a twist and believes that to keep romance alive you have to keep the faith – to believe in love. Not just in the romantic kind of love that pervades her books, but in the everyday, caring-and-sharing kind of love that builds enduring relationships. Susan’s extended family is scattered over the globe, which is fortunate as she enjoys travelling and seeking out new experiences to fuel her flights of imagination.

Susan loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at PO Box 18-240, Glen Innes, Auckland 1130, New Zealand.

Chapter One

AS THE lift doors opened Regan smoothed her sweaty palms down the side-seams of her classic black sheath and took a deep breath, beating back the niggle of doubt which had invaded her rebellious confidence during the swooping upward journey.

She had come this far—she couldn’t chicken out now!

She stepped jerkily out of the padded lift into the stark luxury of a marble foyer, her slim body taut with tension. The rarefied air was unnaturally still and quiet, as if the ragged end of the evening rush-hour funnelling through Auckland’s inner-city streets far below didn’t exist.

Regan looked around, her straight black brows arching in faint disapproval. There was nothing warm or welcoming about the formal entranceway to the three apartments sharing the fourteenth floor. The lush tropical foliage growing out of huge glazed pots only partially offset the chilly atmosphere of intimidating elegance. The glossy, impervious surfaces and pale biscuit-coloured matt paint on the upper walls created a neutral environment which bordered on the boring. The only jarring note was the glaring red eye of a state-of-the-art security camera placed high up against the ceiling.

The lift doors hissed shut behind Regan’s back with unexpected swiftness, the discreet thunk and faint whine of the descending mechanism making her nerves jump as she realised that she was temporarily cut off from her quickest avenue of escape.

It seemed somehow symbolic, as if Fate was making the choice for her—urging her to proceed with her audacious plans for the evening, chiding her for her cowardly hesitation.

Regan’s fingers bunched into unconscious fists, her plum-dark nails digging into her clammy palms as she studied the gold numbering etched into the marble wall opposite the lift.

A discreet arrow directed her to the left, where a short corridor framed a dark wooden door recessed deep into the pale wall.

As she moved towards her destination she was uncomfortably aware of the video camera on the wall behind her. The notion that some faceless security man might be watching her even now, and speculating on the reasons for her visit, made her want to break into a guilty dash, but she forced herself to maintain a graceful stroll as she moved out of sight around the corner.

It had never occurred to her that her presence might be recorded on video. She had naively imagined that, for the protection of both sides in this arrangement, everything would remain conveniently off the record.

In the unnatural hush the delicate, gold-chased heels of her black evening sandals sounded out tiny exclamation marks against the veined marble floor, punctuating her nervous progress.

Just think of it as a date, Regan repeated to herself, trying to emulate the brash attitude displayed by her nineteen-year-old flatmate and her trendy clique of friends. Unfortunately the thought wasn’t very liberating for a woman who hadn’t had a casual date in over five years!

Oh, it was all very well for Lisa and her cynical cousin Cleo, whose modelling careers had taught them to regard males as interchangeable accessories, but such casual insouciance was alien to Regan’s experience of men. In the five months since she had answered the ad to share a flat with the scatterbrained Lisa and cheerfully laid-back Saleena she had come to realise how sheltered she had been in her previous existence. She had always naively believed that mutual respect and shared interests were the essence of any relationship between a man and a woman. Her strict upbringing had precluded the startling idea that one might choose a man purely according to one’s mood, rather than because he appeared to be a sound, long-term emotional investment.

Tonight promised to be a revelation in more ways than one!

Regan moistened her dry lips. Oh, she had plenty of confidence in her social skills when it came to playing hostess, or circulating amongst groups of friends or business acquaintances, but she knew little of the modern protocols governing the intimate entertaining of a man one-on-one, so to speak.

One-on-one…

A shiver of delicious apprehension sizzled down her spine at the wanton image that sprang immediately to mind. Her pale skin warmed to a delicate blush as she pictured the searingly intimate circumstances in which this evening would probably end.

Of course, that was only if she wanted the evening to end that way, she reassured herself. It was purely ladies’ choice—or so she had been told—but she wasn’t so naive as to believe that the man she had come here to meet wouldn’t have intimate expectations of his own.

Erotic expectations that she was supposed to fulfil to the max…

Regan’s courage hit another serious speed wobble. Oh, God, she must have been mad to think that she could carry this off! She was an utter fraud. How did a woman who couldn’t even inspire passion in the man she loved expect to be believable in the role of sexy, sultry playmate to a total stranger?

The moral teachings of a lifetime rose up to haunt her. This was the first step down the slippery slope to complete depravity. To what depths had she sunk to even consider such wickedness? Wasn’t she disgusted with herself for betraying her cherished ideals?

No! A hot thrust of bitter remembrance stiffened her wavering resolve. She tossed her midnight-dark head in a gesture of angry defiance, fanning the blunt ends of her silkystraight bob across creamy shoulders laid bare by her sleeveless dress. Below the scooped neckline the snug black fabric tightened across her small breasts as she sucked in another steadying breath, struggling to control the acid rage which had been brewing and bubbling inside her for weeks, blistering her with shame, and self-contempt for her own weakness.

No! Regan’s violet eyes glittered with repressed pain and fury. She had nothing to be ashamed of…she was betraying nothing that hadn’t already been proved utterly unworthy of her faith.

She was no longer a pathetic, self-deluded, gullible fool, hiding her head in the sand to avoid having to confront the crude realities of life.

And the reality was that up until now it had been Regan who was morally out of step with the modern world.

Plenty of women her age—ordinary, normal, welladjusted twenty-five-year-old women—wouldn’t see anything wrong with what she was going to do. Regan was unattached, independent and answerable only to herself. No one was going to be hurt by her actions tonight. It was about time she adopted an outlook more in tune with the rest of her generation—more open-minded and willing to experiment with what life had to offer.

To catch up with the sexual revolution!

Tonight she was going to prove that Regan Frances was a sophisticated, passionate, desirable woman—a sexual being who could treat the giving and taking of pleasure with the same casualness that men seemed to enjoy. Then, and only then, would she feel truly liberated from the travesty of her marriage, and the crushing humiliations of the past few weeks.

She came to a halt before the deep-set door, breathlessly aware that the definitive moment had arrived.

Just treat it as a date.

Reaching out to press the doorbell, Regan was dismayed to see the fine tremor in her hand that twice made her finger miss its target. In the shiny brass surround she saw a distorted view of her own face, all mouth and eyes. She licked her dry lips, adding extra gloss to the dark plum colour which Lisa proclaimed was the ultimate in sultry glamour, and steeled herself to take another stab at the button.

As she did so the thin white strip on the ring-finger of her left hand mocked her timidity, and another hot jolt of temper kicked the normally tender bow of her mouth into a vengeful curve.

Wouldn’t Michael be astonished to see his boring little sexless doormat of a wife now! she thought viciously, giving the silent bell a second defiant jab.

Except, of course, he couldn’t—because to her certain knowledge Michael Frances wasn’t gazing benevolently down from a blissful heaven of the soul; he was too busy burning in fiery hell!

On that deeply gratifying thought the door opened…and Regan’s heart dropped like a stone into her sexy shoes.

Chapter Two

INSTEAD of the virile, attractive, sexy sophisticate Regan had been praying for, a skinny, swarthy, wrinkled old man as bald as a billiard ball stood in the doorway.

Even though she was only five-foot-three, Regan towered over him in her slender heels, and not even his faultlessly cut black suit could disguise a shrunken frame and unmistakably bandy legs. As if to compensate for his shiny pate his salt-and-pepper eyebrows were luxuriantly bushy, springing upwards in fanning tufts which give him a permanently surprised expression.

He had to be sixty if he was a day!

Thunderstruck, Regan’s first impulse was to bolt, but she mastered the knee-jerk impulse and swallowed hard as the wizened gnome dipped his head to one side.

‘Bonsoir, mam’selle.’

A horrified giggle swelled in her throat. Was he really French, or did he think a suave foreign accent would make him more attractive to women?

Oh, God, it had never occurred to her that she might have to vamp a rich old fogey! On the contrary, Cleo had boasted that all the ‘social liaisons’ arranged by her ambitious ex-boyfriend were with perfectly agreeable single men who were simply too busy making gobs of money to sustain ongoing relationships with women. They preferred the nomaintenance alternative provided by Derek’s informal network of ‘friends’—attractive, sophisticated, obliging women, who could be relied upon to accept an invitation to a good night out without pouting about short notice and who cheerfully vanished when their attentions were no longer required to boost the male ego—or libido…

Knowing Cleo’s elastic standards, Regan should have realised that her idea of ‘perfectly agreeable’ covered an awful lot of ground. ‘Seriously rich’ was probably her main criteria of judgement.

The old man was still patiently awaiting a response to his greeting, and the puzzled enquiry in the shrewd blue eyes caused a faint flicker of hope in her breast. But a quick sideways glance at the number by the bell told Regan that she hadn’t made a mistake.

‘Uh—good evening,’ she ventured, pinning on a smile that quivered with effort around the edges as she realised that she didn’t even know his name!

To give herself time to think she ducked her head to fumble in her beaded evening bag for the card which had been thrust into her hand a scant hour earlier.

‘I know I’m a little late, but—uh—Derek sent me,’ she blurted, holding out the business card with the apartment’s address scribbled on the back.

A gnarled hand accepted the card, the startling eyebrows rumpling like woolly caterpillars as he frowningly studied it, then her.

‘But you are not who is expected,’ he said suspiciously, still standing squarely in the doorway, barring her entrance. His gaze roamed down over the shimmery black stockings encasing her slender calves, and back up to the hemline modestly skimming her knees and the regrettably slight cleavage exposed by the low-cut bodice. He shook his head, his thin lips pursed in what she instantly interpreted as disappointment. ‘You are not Mam’selle Cleo…’

Perversely, Regan was outraged by his rejection. Instead of gratefully seizing on the excuse to withdraw with her dignity still intact, she lifted her chin, her small, triangular face paling with anger, her wide-set violet eyes darkening to the colour of fresh bruises as she prepared to do battle for her wounded pride.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins, fresh fuel to the smouldering anger inside her. How dared he dismiss her with such effortless ease?

This time she was not going to meekly bow to male judgement of her feminine worth. Since Michael had died she had learned that he had cheated her out of a lot more than just money. No man was going to get away with making her feel like a failure—not ever again!

It suddenly became vital that she wrap this contemptible little weasel around her little finger.

So she wasn’t what he had expected—she wasn’t a tall, willowy, full-breasted redhead, with emerald eyes and legs that went on for ever. That didn’t mean she was any less of a woman!

‘Cleo couldn’t make it,’ she told him coolly. ‘She’s indisposed.’

That was putting it delicately! Not half an hour ago Lisa’s beauteous cousin had been sprawled on her hands and knees on a cold bathroom floor, her flawless complexion a putrid shade of green, her glamorous red hair dangling over the white china toilet bowl as she alternately retched and moaned, vile curses spewing from her pale lips as she vowed never to mix curry and cocktails again.

‘And so…this means Monsieur Derek asks for you to come in her place?’

Regan sucked in her cheeks, trying for that haughty, bored model look that she had seen Lisa practising endlessly in the mirror.

‘It was very much a last-minute kind of a thing—Cleo got sick and I was available,’ she said, adroitly avoiding an outright lie.

She hoped that he wasn’t going to suggest checking her story with Derek. But why should he bother? As Cleo had pointed out, there was nothing illegal involved, no need for fear on either side. Derek Clarke’s discreet little sideline, designed to ingratiate himself with potentially useful colleagues and clients, was successful precisely because it was so casual.

‘I see,’ he said slowly, relaxing his stance. ‘And you are…?’

‘Ev—’ She bit her lip. She had already decided that Regan was too distinctive a name, too easy to trace. She had intended to shelter behind her middle name, but now it occurred to her that Evangeline was just as singular as Regan. ‘I—It’s Eve,’ she corrected hurriedly. ‘My name is Eve.’

‘Mam’selle…Eve.’ His deliberate hesitation and wry intonation suggested he knew she was lying, and she flushed with guilt.

‘I am Pierre.’ He smiled suddenly—a splitting grin which rendered him uglier than ever. He turned sideways, inviting her inside with a broad, sweeping gesture of his arm.

‘Unfortunately, Monsieur is running rather late this evening,’ he said, his accent rolling off his tongue in an unmistakably genuine purr. ‘He has rung to say that he is held up in a business meeting and asked me to deliver his apologies. He says that he will be home as soon as possible. Fortunately, he informs me, the dinner you are to attend does not begin until a fashionably late hour. In the meantime he suggests that you relax and enjoy a drink, and make free of the apartment while you are waiting. Monsieur has an excellent home entertainment centre…’

‘Monsieur?’ Regan repeated faintly, the blood pounding in her ears as she realised how close she had come to making a fresh idiot of herself.

The blind date that she had hijacked from Cleo wasn’t with a wizened old gnome old enough to be her grandfather!

Pierre wasn’t the man she was supposed to flirt with, flatter and seduce.

Regan’s hopes soared as the evening ahead regained its tantalising promise…the wicked allure of pleasures previously denied her by her husband’s secret indifference—the perfect revenge for years of his perfunctory lovemaking! Her smile of euphoric relief was so dazzlingly different from the strained rictus that Regan had worn since the door opened that Pierre blinked.

‘You’re the butler,’ she guessed happily as she floated past his bandy figure into the apartment, mentally scolding herself for jumping to hasty conclusions. If he couldn’t even spare the time to pick up his own women, a wealthy workaholic businessman would scarcely be likely to be answering doors!

‘I don’t believe I have a title, as such,’ said Pierre. ‘I merely assist Monsieur with his domestic arrangements.’ The self-effacing comment was belied by the ring of pride in his voice as he preceded her down a short flight of stairs which wrapped around the curving wall of glass bricks screening the entranceway from the main body of the apartment.

‘I bet you do the lion’s share,’ Regan murmured drily, her heels sinking into thick white carpet that she imagined would require meticulous care.

‘Mais, non. Monsieur does not own such a pet,’ Pierre said blandly. ‘Except when the survival of the species is at stake, he does not approve of wild beasts being held in captivity…’

Regan swallowed a grin. ‘Is that why he’s not married?’ she shot back, her flippancy cloaking her urgent need to assure herself that the little information she did have was at least correct on that one, all-important point.

Pierre’s eyebrows twitched in acknowledgment of her riposte. ‘Monsieur is the most intelligent and civilised of men,’ he observed primly as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to watch her join him, ‘although a certain degree of wildness is only to be expected of healthy males in their prime.’ The fugitive gleam of mischief in the old eyes glowed even brighter. ‘He certainly does not yet regard himself as being on the endangered species list…’

So…Unmarried. Healthy. Intelligent. Prime…with a dash of wildness thrown in for good measure. Regan lowered her lashes to hide her surge of terrified elation.

No wonder Cleo had been so furious about having to cry off!

She had come hammering on the door of the flat a scant hour earlier, stridently upset when she’d discovered that her cousin wasn’t home and Regan had no idea of her whereabouts.

‘There was a message on the answer-machine when I got back from work to say that she was going out to some party and wouldn’t be here for dinner,’ Regan had said, still annoyed that Lisa had conveniently forgotten that it was her turn to cook.

‘But she can’t be out! I was sure she’d be here—I need Lisa now!’ Cleo wailed. ‘It’s a matter of life and death!’ She barged inside with none of her usual grace. ‘What about Saleena?’ she demanded raggedly. ‘Is she here?’

Regan fell back, shaking her head. ‘Evening aerobics classes.’ Saleena worked part-time at the local gym to supplement her student loan while she studied for a degree in Sport and Recreation. Like Lisa, she was extremely pretty and always game for a laugh, although—being two years older and a great deal more intelligent—her behaviour and attitudes were thankfully more mature.

Cleo screamed, a low, heart-felt shriek of frustration.

‘Can I help?’ Regan sighed, too accustomed to Cleo’s histrionics to be truly concerned. Perhaps she had run out of nail polish for her synthetic talons. Dressed to the glittering hilt, and made up to model-girl perfection, she was obviously on her way somewhere trendy and expensive.

‘You!’ Cleo uttered an insulting laugh that ended in a muffled choke as her exquisite face turned suddenly from honey-gold tan to swamp-green and she dashed towards the bathroom, clutching her concave belly.

When she tottered out and collapsed on the couch in the lounge without bothering to artistically drape her limbs for the best visual effect, Regan knew that she was genuinely at the end of her tether.

It turned out that what Cleo had convinced herself was merely a lingering all-day hangover had developed into something debilitatingly nasty at both ends, and she was frantic to find a substitute for some hot date that an ex-boyfriend, Derek, had fixed her up with for that night.

‘I’ve been trying to call Derek to tell him I didn’t think I could make it, but he’s not answering his stupid phone,’ Cleo shrilled, ‘and I haven’t been able to find anyone to fill in for me, not this late on a Friday night…

‘I thought I might manage it if I took a few pills, and they seemed to work for a while, but now I feel even worse,’ Cleo groaned. ‘In the taxi I thought I was going to throw up, so I told the driver to drop me off here—I knew Lisa would help…’ She looked up at Regan through a tangle of red hair, her green eyes tearful with angry selfpity. ‘I’m supposed to be there in half an hour and I can’t simply not turn up, because I was supposed to escort this guy out to some fancy dinner—Oh, God!’

The mere suggestion of food prompted another mad scramble to reach the bathroom on time.

When she finally emerged on wobbly legs Regan offered to call a doctor, but Cleo was adamant that she didn’t need one. ‘I just want to lie down for a while,’ she said shakily, homing in on Lisa’s cluttered bedroom and crashing gratefully across the unmade bed. ‘I have to warn Derek,’ she moaned piteously. ‘His phone number’s on his card in my evening bag—I think I dropped it in the lounge—keep trying him for me, will you? And if you get through, tell him what’s happened.’

‘Why don’t you just phone your date yourself and tell him you’re ill?’ Regan asked, unable to understand her obsession. What did one broken date matter to a woman who hardly ever went out with the same man twice?

‘Because I don’t have his phone number, that’s why—only Derek’s card, with the address I’m supposed to go written on the back and the time I’m supposed to be there!’ Cleo croaked, rolling over onto her back. ‘Hell, Derek’ll kill me if I mess this one up for him—he said he could get some really good accounts from this guy.’ Her former boyfriend was in advertising, and staying on friendly terms with him had landed Cleo several plum modelling assignments. ‘But what in the hell am I supposed to do, for God’s sake?’ she said, panic turning to petulance. ‘It’s not my fault I got sick!’

She dragged her arm from across her bloodshot eyes and glared belligerently at Regan, who wisely held her tongue. In her opinion Cleo’s hectic, party-loving lifestyle involved too much alcohol and too little food, and Lisa’s puppyish admiration for her glamorous elder cousin was leading her down the same path.