Mistresses: Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds

Her silence appeared to mollify Cleo, who interpreted it as sympathetic agreement, and in between violent bouts with the re-emerging curry she allowed the rest of the story to emerge: how Derek regularly set up dates for Cleo and some of her girlfriends with wealthy single men, the kind of men who were happy to reward a pretty woman who escorted them around town with expensive trinkets if she was willing to round off the evening in bed.

‘You mean Derek is a pimp!’ Regan gasped, her eyes rounding as Cleo’s busy social life suddenly acquired a shocking new perspective.

‘Of course he’s not!’ Cleo roused from her torpor to snap. ‘He just does a few favours for people who might one day be in a position to do him a business favour in return, that’s all. None of us makes any money out of it; it’s not like it’s a call-girl operation, for God’s sake—so you can stop looking so bug-eyed with disapproval! It’s just consenting adults being introduced to each together and…well, consenting!’

After her initial mental recoil Regan was filled with a morbid fascination. ‘But…you said that the men rewarded you for sleeping with them…’ she probed.

‘Yes, but only with jewellery, not money,’ Cleo tossed back scornfully, as if it made all the difference in the world. And perhaps it wasn’t just semantics, thought Regan, her emotions churning in dark turmoil. At least both participants in the transaction knew the score, and there was no intention to deceive with any romantic pretence of love and caring.

What would it be like to make love with someone on a purely physical basis? she wondered with a shivery thrill. Without the pretences. With a stranger. Someone who had no preconceived notions about your desirability, or your ability to respond, who just wanted a lusty romp in the hay with no questions asked…

An idea, as bizarre and impractical as it was wicked and daring, slyly insinuated itself into her consciousness. After all that had happened was she going to continue to allow herself to be a victim, crippled by the lies with which Michael had ruthlessly manipulated their marriage, or was she prepared to reach out and grab at a chance to shatter his power over her for ever?

‘A glamorous party, some recreational sex and a gold bracelet or a pair of diamond studs to wear home afterwards…what more could a girl ask of a date?’ Cleo boasted feebly, waving a limp hand and drawing Regan’s attention to the thick chased-gold bangle clasped around her bony wrist.

She stared at it as if hypnotised, goaded to ask, ‘But how can you? I mean, what would happen if you found the man—you know…physically repulsive?’

‘I don’t have to have sex with them if I don’t want to, it’s not compulsory,’ Cleo said through gritted teeth, distracted by another threatening liquid rumble in her belly. ‘Derek never promises a guaranteed score—that would be tacky. Anyway, sometimes all they want is to show up somewhere with a flirtatious woman dangling off their arm. But most times it doesn’t end up platonic, because I don’t see anything wrong with sleeping with a guy you’ve just met if he turns you on, and since Derek only does favours for the movers and the shakers of this world…well, power’s a great aphrodisiac in itself, isn’t it?

‘It so happens most of them are a hell of lot more virile and attractive than the average Joe Loser who tries to pick you up in a bar and thinks the price of a drink entitles him to a night in the sack! As if!’

Regan had been an earnest, nineteen-year-old virgin studying pre-law at university when she had first met Michael. She had never been picked up in a bar either before or since. She had never even wondered what it might be like.

Until now.

Now she was wondering about all sorts of things that she had never before considered.

‘What’s his name?’ she ventured. ‘The man you’re supposed to meet tonight?’

‘Oh, God, who cares?’ Cleo groaned, rolling off the bed to hit the floor running. ‘Look, just get hold of Derek and let him sort things out, OK? I don’t give a stuff what happens all I want is to be left alone to spew my guts out in peace!’

So Regan left her wallowing in her misery and went to rifle the contents of the sequinned purse she picked up from the floor of the lounge. From it she extracted Derek’s business card, and, after a moment of shocked contemplation, one of the packets of condoms that Cleo obviously considered essential dating equipment. Surely she hadn’t expected to use all four packets in one night!

Pushing that daunting thought aside, and acutely conscious of time ticking away, Regan hurried through her nervous preparations, hampered by her restricted access to the bathroom. Luckily she had washed her hair that morning before work, so a quick shower sufficed, and she borrowed some of Lisa’s manufacturers’ samples to experiment with a bolder style of make-up which made her violet eyes look provocatively large and heavy-lidded. Her hand shook as she carefully applied a thick coating of black mascara, her mother’s oft-repeated catch-phrase ringing silently in her ears: A painted woman is the devil’s handmaiden.

Fortunately for her nagging conscience, Saleena arrived home just as Regan was ready to leave, and she was able to gratefully hand over the responsibility for their miserable guest.

‘I was going to study for next week’s exam,’ Saleena had protested mildly, her exotic brown eyes taking in Regan’s uncharacteristic glamour. ‘But I suppose I can keep an eye on Miss Chunderful while I’m at it, to make sure she doesn’t drown in the toilet. Where’re you off to?’

‘I have a date,’ Regan replied, fussing with her hair in the hall mirror so that she didn’t have to look her flatmate in the face.

‘No kidding? Cool!’ Saleena approved the unprecedented event with her customary laid-back nonchalance. ‘Who with?’

‘Oh, no one you’d know,’ said Regan vaguely, not about to confess that she didn’t know either. For all her funloving personality, Saleena had a tendency to be a little overprotective where Regan was concerned, perceptive enough to realise what a culture shock it had been for her to move from a ritzy house in the suburbs to a cramped inner-city flat with two gregarious bachelorettes.

‘OK. Have a good time.’ No one could claim that Saleena Patel couldn’t take a subtle hint to mind her own business. She flashed a cheerful smile. ‘Did Lisa at least do the food shopping for tonight, do you know?’

‘No, but after I listened to her message I went and got a few things down the road.’ Regan was halfway out of the door before she recognised a serious flaw in her plan. She hurried back to find Saleena in the kitchen, unpacking the small plastic shopping bag that Regan had left on the bench-top.

‘By the way, if Cleo asks, tell her not to worry—everything’s sorted out as far as Derek’s concerned and she can forget all about it, because the whole thing was apparently all off anyway…’

‘What thing?’ Saleena asked, opening a packet of dry pasta, and when Regan’s face pinkened betrayingly she grinned and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, one of Derek’s high-flying pals was supposed to be in town looking for some action, huh? No wonder Cleo’s yowling so loud in there—she thinks she’s missing out on her next jewellery fix!’

‘You know about that?’

‘Sure,’ Saleena admitted casually, snacking on a brittle strand of spaghetti. ‘She even tried to get me interested in joining Derek’s swinging circle at one stage, but I told her I’d rather choose my own partners, thanks…’

Saleena was so blasé in her acceptance that Regan was once more made aware of her embarrassing naivety. What had been a shock to her was already common knowledge to her flatmates, and probably most of their friends. None of them was married, and all of them seemed to be sexually active, so doubtless they didn’t see anything so shocking in Cleo’s behaviour.

Regan contrived to act blasé now, as Pierre ushered her further into the huge, fan-shaped living space dominated by a wraparound view of the city skyline. Soft up-lights on the smooth walls and on slender free-standing lamp-bases revealed a room that was a symphony of delicate colour—subtle, warm hues blended and contrasted to present an impression of exquisite harmony. Outside the full-length windows, the wide, sweeping curve of a marble ledge echoed the various curves within—the round support pillars, the round marble coffee table centred between two long, half-round couches in blush-coloured leather and the semi-circular padded chairs dotted about the room, facing the fanned-out city. Away to one end, a few more steps led up to a raised dining area with a huge oval wooden table, and beyond that, presumably, to the kitchen. At the other end of the room was a curving corridor whose even subtler lighting suggested…the bedrooms?

Regan hastily turned her head, forcing herself to concentrate on the main room.

‘It’s beautiful!’ she murmured, and then was annoyed with herself for sounding awed. A sophisticated woman of the world would take such beauty for granted. Knowing Cleo, the first thing she would have done was demand an ashtray! ‘Monsieur has impeccable taste,’ she added, with a suggestion of dry mockery.

‘Merci.’ Pierre shifted his bandy legs, clicking his polished black heels and inclining his head. ‘This is a corporate apartment, used by many executives, so it must fulfil many functions. It was I who hired the interior designer and advised on and approved her designs, as well as supervising the physical decorating work.’

‘You!’ This time her jaw did drop at the idea of this ugly little man helping create such beauty.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ he replied modestly, unoffended.

Tell me about it! thought Regan evilly, her hand spasming on her purse as another spurt of anger shot through her veins. Michael had been blessed with sunny good looks—blond hair, boyish features, guileless blue eyes, and a white smile that predicated a charmingly frank and open manner.

Who would have believed that behind that golden façade had been a lying tongue and a cheating black heart—a man without honour? Not Regan. Right up to the night that Michael had wrapped his precious BMW status symbol around a tree she had believed that they had a secure and happy marriage, with only minor problems to cloud their shared contentment. She had admired her husband’s dedication to work and respected his ambition to succeed. Only after he had died and the huge, unexpected bills had started to roll in had she begun to re-examine her former contentment, and come to realise that her willingness to overlook the flaws in their relationship had played right into Michael’s cheating hands.

Over the following months, as the mess his lies had created had grown to staggering proportions, she had gradually been forced to the painful conclusion that, to all intents and purposes, she had been sleeping with a stranger for the four years of their marriage!

So what she was going to do tonight was not so very different after all, she thought bitterly, as she watched Pierre begin to put his personal orders into action.

He moved across to open the curved doors of a teak cabinet, revealing a wide-screen television and the most complex stereo system that Regan had ever seen. Concealed in a false support pillar next to the cabinet were racks of video tapes and CDs, arranged with alphabetical precision. Pierre settled her on one of the demi-couches with the remote controls and furnished her with a vodka and tonic with a twist of lime in a chilled crystal glass, setting it down on a round side-table on top of a deftly folded cocktail napkin. He told her that the bathroom was down the curving corridor to her right and if she had a question, or required a refill for her drink, she could summon Pierre merely by pressing one of the hidden buttons strategically placed around the room, or she could help herself from the superlatively stocked bar which opened out from yet another mock-pillar.

Left alone, Regan drank her vodka quickly, in the hope that it might help her to relax. Except for warming the pit of her belly it didn’t seem to have any appreciable effect, so she guiltily fixed herself another, embarrassed at the idea of summoning Pierre back so soon…he might think he had a rampant alcoholic on his hands!

Sipping more slowly, she ignored the television and chose a CD of smoky ballads from the wonderfully eclectic selection of music, and after a bit of clumsy experimentation managed to get the remote control to set the volume and balance at the perfect level for her position in the room. As she lounged back on the feather-soft couch in her splendid isolation she reflected that she could get used to being ultra-rich!

The most difficult part about flatting was the lack of privacy. As an only child Regan had been closely monitored by her over-strict mother, but Michael had worked such long hours—or at least, he had said that he was working—that during her marriage she had got used to the quiet freedom of having the whole house to herself for hours on end. In the flat there seemed to be a constant flow of visitors and phone calls and emotional upheavals, accompanied by the loud, head-banging music that Lisa adored.

However, all the activity did serve as a welcome distractionfrom her own weighty problems, Regan acknowledged. And although Lisa and Saleena outstripped her in street-smarts, Regan was the one they turned to when they wanted down-to-earth advice on practical matters—like how to get a pizza stain out of a silk camisole or how to fill in their tax returns. Because she had studied law, she was a valuable source of information for friends who had disputes with their landlords or whose sleazy boyfriends had stashed a joint in their handbags. It didn’t matter to them that Regan had dropped out of her degree the previous semester, a year before she was due to graduate, it only mattered that her informed opinion was free. To Regan what mattered was that she felt valued, something that her shredded confidence had badly needed.

Pierre drifted back with more murmured apologies for the elusive Monsieur and offered her a small plate of delectable canapés and a glass of champagne. Thinking that it would be unwise to mix her drinks, Regan declined the latter and hungrily consumed the former.

Her stomach gurgled in gratitude. Lunch had been a hurried sandwich at her desk and breakfast had been a mere kick-start from a cup of espresso. In the last few weeks her normally healthy appetite had dwindled to almost nothing, but now she found herself suddenly utterly ravenous.

She pressed the button concealed under a side-table, and when Pierre appeared with startling speed and stealth she sheepishly asked if there were any more canapés.

‘They really were delicious,’ she added, to excuse her greed. ‘You must have a splendid cook.’

‘But that is me.’ After a couple of vodkas, his ugliness of grin seemed actually endearing. ‘I am, after all, a Frenchman, and we excel at such things. I am pleased that you enjoy them.’

The ballads drifted to an end, and Regan realised that she had been waiting in the apartment for over an hour. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed that long. She put on some moody jazz, and turned up the volume.

Placing her empty glass on the bar, she yielded to nervous curiosity and practical necessity and wandered down the hall to find the bathroom. It was as luxurious as the rest of the apartment, boasting a multi-head shower and an oval sunken bath almost twice the size of the entire bathroom back at the flat. Big, fluffy towels warmed on a heated towel-rail, and to Regan’s amusement the toilet seat was also kept at a cosy temperature! Every conceivable toiletry a guest could require was thoughtfully provided, including—she discovered when she opened one of the drawers—a selection of various brands of tampons and condoms, nestled side by side in ironic juxtaposition.

She couldn’t resist peeping into the half-open doors further down the hall to discover an office, two huge single bedrooms and, at the far end, an even bigger room with a sprawling king-sized bed which looked, to Regan’s magnified awareness, as if it would sleep an army.

Most definitely the master bedroom, she decided, backing out…but not before she had noticed the black silk sheets, the tubular wooden slats on the teak bed-head and ends, unnervingly reminiscent of prison bars, and the vast mirror on the wall opposite the bed.

At least it wasn’t fixed on the ceiling! she thought as she hurried back to the bar, wondering what she would do if ‘Monsieur’ turned out to be seriously kinky.

She diluted another icy vodka with a splash of tonic. She still wasn’t entirely confident that she could handle a normal man’s basic requirements, let alone satisfy one who demanded a performance artist in bed. But Pierre had said that the apartment was designed for use by a number of corporate executives, she reminded herself, in which case the master bedroom was generic, and not the personalised domain of the current occupant.

In fact, she thought, looking around the living area with a more critical gaze, there were no personal touches that she could see in the whole apartment. Like a plush hotel suite, or a photograph in an interior design magazine, it was sterile of private clutter. Unlike a permanent residence there were no books, photographs, knick-knacks or stray possessions to give any clue to the character of the present occupier.

When she tired of mooching around she absently kicked off her shoes and curled up on the wide, squashy cushions of the couch, sipping her drink, nibbling snacks and closing her eyes to soak up the music. She had almost dozed off when, coinciding with the end of the jazz disc, Regan heard the distinctive closing clunk of a heavy door and a rumbling exchange of masculine voices.

She leapt up from the couch, almost tripping over in her haste, smoothing down her dress and then her hair, unconsciously biting on her lower lip as she looked towards the entranceway. The voices faded briefly to a murmur and then became more distinct, Pierre’s and one other…deeper and more staccato, edged with a weary impatience.

Suddenly Regan realised that she was curling her stockinged toes into the thick carpet, and she looked desperately around for her discarded high heels. She scooped them up and was hopping on one leg, still cramming the first shoe on her foot, when a living cliché came sauntering down the stairs.

He was tall, dark and handsome, wide-shouldered and lean-hipped, and he moved with the fluidity of an athlete.

Regan was stricken. She had gone from the ridiculous to the sublime in the space of a few hours!

This was going to turn out to be another nerve-shattering case of mistaken identity, she just knew it! Her whole mad plan had been doomed from the start.

He couldn’t possibly be the man she had been waiting for; he was simply too unbelievably perfect!

Chapter Three

‘ALLOW me…’

Regan hadn’t realised that she had dropped her other shoe until he stooped to pick it up.

‘Uh, thank you…’ she faltered, still balanced like a stork on her bare foot, stunned by the impact of his appearance.

Close up, the new arrival wasn’t as classically handsome as he had first appeared. But he was certainly tall—over six feet—and his black suit and midnight-blue shirt and tie accentuated his dark colouring. His raven hair was thick and well-shaped, springing back from a slight widow’s peak to brush his collar at the back. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, she guessed, and already carrying a tiny trace of grey at his narrow temples.

There was intelligence in his gaze and cynicism in the hard cast of his features—a gambler’s face, tense and watchful but betraying little of his own thoughts.

His eyes, which she had somehow expected to be also dark, were a light, penetrating steely-grey, slightly hooded under their heavy lids, and his stern Roman nose was framed by prominent cheekbones and a granite jaw. For such an athletic-looking man his skin was surprisingly pale and fine-grained, except on his lower cheeks and upper lip where it was roughened by a blue-black growth that was well beyond a five o’clock shadow.

Regan had to look a long, long way up at him, and as he inclined his head to meet her curious gaze she noticed the tracery of scars writhing up the left side of his lean throat and licking up under his jaw: the unmistakable scars of an old burn. To leave such a permanent stamp the injury must have been serious, and agonisingly painful.

So…he was damaged too—only his scars were on the outside…

Regan’s eyes flickered down to the flimsy black shoe cupped in his large hand as she fought to reject the dangerous rush of empathy. She saw that his hands, too, bore evidence of scarring, but it was absurd to think that a man like him would ever want, or need, her sympathy.

‘I—I took them off,’ she explained breathlessly, lowering her shod foot to the floor and transferring her weight to it, going on tiptoe with the other to maintain stability.

He smiled at her redundant comment, a slow curve of his well-defined mouth that made her wobble on her uneven perch.

‘So I see,’ he murmured on a light, teasing note that was totally at odds with his air of hard-bitten cynicism and the hooded wariness of his eyes.

His stroking thumb measured the length of the delicate spike heel in his hand. ‘Were they hurting you?’

His voice was deep and rasping, the husky edge abrading her senses like velvet sandpaper.

‘No—I—I was just lying down…’

He arched his graceful brows and she was aghast to feel herself blush as she was visited with a sudden mental image of herself languishing nude on black silk sheets, like a slave girl awaiting the arrival of her lord and master.

‘On the couch,’ she firmly emphasised, her mouth unknowingly prim.

‘Of course,’ he agreed, the quicksilver amusement in his penetrating eyes making her wonder whether he could read her skittish mind. She went hot all over. Naive she might be, but surely she wasn’t that transparent?

She tossed her head, rejecting the appalling notion, and adopted a pose of haughty confidence which came immediately under assault.

‘May I?’

Without waiting for an answer he knelt on the white carpet and encircled the ankle of her stockinged foot with lean fingers, tugging lightly to lift it from the floor.

Regan squeaked as she teetered off balance on her spindly heel, and grabbed at his shoulders to stay upright. Even through the padding of expensive fabric she could feel the shifting layers of solid muscle.

‘What are you doing?’ she gasped, wondering if he was some kind of weird foot-fetishist. ‘Oh…’

She watched him slide her shoe back onto her foot, wiggling it from side to side to ease the fit. ‘Thank you…you needn’t have bothered,’ she mumbled, embarrassed.

He tipped his head back, making no effort to rise. ‘I enjoyed it,’ he said, meeting her wide-eyed gaze, his fingers still lightly encircling her fine-boned ankle. ‘You have very pretty feet. And legs…’ he added, brushing his fingers gently up her calf to linger in the sensitive hollow at the back of her knee.

Regan stiffened as a violent tingle shot from her toes to her groin. Her heart beat furiously in her chest and her breathing quickened. She was no longer in any doubt. This was it. This was him. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, hoping that she didn’t look as flustered as she felt.

‘I’m sorry you had such a long wait. I hope you weren’t too bored.’ Having thoroughly disconcerted her with his Prince Charming act, he rose slowly back to his full height. Regan felt as if he was surveying every inch of her on the way up, and her body prickled with awareness, her eyes darkening and her nostrils flaring at the warm, spicy male scent that rose from his unbuttoned jacket.

‘Pierre tells me that your name is Eve.’

She nodded, her eyelashes fluttering nervously at his towering proximity. Being short, she was used to men looming over her, but she wasn’t used to feeling such an acute sense of feminine self-awareness.