Mistress Arrangements: Passion's Mistress / Desert Mistress / Mistress by Arrangement

Carly’s mind reeled as several conflicting emotions warred in silent turmoil. Was his presence here tonight sheer coincidence, or did he have an ulterior motive?

She’d covered her tracks so well. She had even consulted a solicitor within days of arrival in Sydney, instructing that a letter be dispatched requesting any formalities to be handled by their individual legal representatives.

In seven years there had been no contact whatsoever.

It seemed incredibly ironic that Stefano should reappear at a time when she’d been forced to accept that he was the last ace in her pack should she have to raise more money for Ann-Marie’s medical expenses.

Where her daughter’s well-being was concerned there was no contest. Even it if meant sublimating her own personal reservations, and effecting a confrontation. His power and accumulated wealth could move figurative mountains, and if it was necessary she wouldn’t hesitate to beg.

Carly caught the lower edge of her lip between two sharp teeth, then winced in silent pain as she unconsciously drew blood.

The desire to make some excuse and leave was strong. Yet only cowards cut and ran. This time she had to stay, even if the effort almost killed her.

Carly found each minute dragged interminably, and more than once her eyes strayed across the room to where Stefano Alessi stood conversing with Clive Mathorpe and two senior partners.

In his presence, all other men faded into insignificance. There was an exigent force apparent, which, combined with power and sexual magnetism, drew the attention of women like bees to a honeypot.

It was doubtful there was one female present whose pulse hadn’t quickened at the sight of him, or whose imagination wasn’t stirred by the thought of being able to captivate his interest.

Carly waited ten minutes after Stefano left before she crossed the room to exchange a few polite pleasantries with Clive Mathorpe and his wife, then she slipped quietly from the house and walked quickly down the driveway to her car.

Safely behind the wheel, she activated the ignition and eased the car forward. A quick glance at the illuminated dashboard revealed it was nine-thirty. One hour, she reflected with disbelief. For some reason it had seemed half a lifetime.

Stefano Alessi’s disturbing image rose up to taunt her, and she shivered despite the evening’s warmth. He represented everything she had come to loathe in a man.

For one brief milli-second she closed her eyes, then opened them to issue a silent prayer that fate wouldn’t be so unkind as to throw her beneath his path again.

It was a relief to reach the sanctuary of her apartment building, and after garaging the car she rode the lift to the third floor.

‘Hi,’ Sarah greeted quietly as Carly entered the lounge. ‘Ann-Marie’s fine. How was the evening?’

I met Ann-Marie’s father, she longed to confide.

Yet the words stayed locked in her throat, and she managed to relay an informative account as they shared coffee together, then when Sarah left she checked Ann-Marie before entering her own bedroom, where she mechanically removed her make-up and undressed ready for bed.

Sleep had never seemed more distant, and she tossed restlessly from one side to the other in a bid to dispel a flood of returning memories.

Haunting, invasive, they refused to be denied as one by one she began to recall the angry words she’d exchanged in bitter argument with a man she’d chosen to condemn.

CHAPTER TWO

CARLY SLEPT BADLY, haunted by numerous dream sequences that tore at her subconscious mind with such vivid clarity that she woke shaking, shattered by their stark reality.

A warning, perhaps? Or simply the manifestation of a fear so real that it threatened to consume her?

Tossing aside the covers, she resolutely went through the motions entailed in her early morning weekday routine, listening to Ann-Marie’s excited chatter over breakfast as she recounted events from the previous evening.

When pressed to reveal just how her evening had turned out, Carly brushed it off lightly with a smile and a brief but satisfactory description.

It was eight-thirty when Carly deposited Ann-Marie outside the school gates, and almost nine when she entered the reception area of Mathorpe and Partners.

There were several files on her desk demanding attention, and she worked steadily, methodically checking figures with determined dedication until mid-morning when she reached for the phone and punched out a series of digits.

The specialist’s receptionist was extremely polite, but firm. Ann-Marie’s results could not be given over the phone. An appointment had been set aside this afternoon for four o’clock.

It sounded ominous, and Carly’s voice shook as she confirmed the time.

The remainder of the day was a blur as anxiety played havoc with her nervous system, and in the specialist’s consulting-rooms it was all she could do to contain it.

Consequently, it was almost an anticlimax when she was shown into his office, and as soon as she was comfortably seated he leaned back in his chair, his expression mirroring a degree of sympathetic understanding.

‘Ann-Marie has a tumour derived from the supporting tissue of the nerve-cells,’ he informed her quietly. ‘The astrocytoma varies widely in malignancy and rate of growth. Surgery is essential, and I recommend it be carried out as soon as possible.’

Carly’s features froze with shock at the professionally spoken words, and her mind immediately went into overdrive with a host of implications, the foremost of which was money.

‘I can refer you to a neuro-surgeon, someone I consider to be the best in his field.’ His practised pause held a silent query. ‘I’ll have my nurse arrange an appointment, shall I?’

The public hospital system was excellent, but the waiting list for elective surgery was long. Too long to gamble with her daughter’s life. Carly didn’t hesitate. ‘Please.’

It took only minutes for the appointment to be confirmed; a few more to exchange pleasantries before the receptionist ushered Carly from his rooms.

She walked in a daze to her car, then slid in behind the wheel. A sick feeling of despair welled up inside as innate fear overruled rational thought, for no matter how hard she tried it was impossible to dispel the terrible image of Ann-Marie lying still and helpless in an operating theatre, her life reliant on the skill of a surgeon’s scalpel.

It will be all right, Carly determined as she switched on the ignition, then eased her car on to the street. One way or another, she’d make sure of it.

The flow of traffic was swift, and on a few occasions it took two light changes to clear an intersection. Taxis were in demand, their drivers competent as they manoeuvred their vehicles from one lane to another, ready to take the first opportunity ahead of city commuters.

The cars in front began to slow, and Carly eased her sedan to a halt. Almost absently her gaze shifted slightly to the right, drawn as if by some elusive magnet to a top-of-the-range black Mercedes that had pulled up beside her in the adjacent lane.

Her eyes grazed towards the driver in idle, almost speculative curiosity, only to have them widen in dawning horror as she recognised the sculpted male features of none other than Stefano Alessi behind the wheel.

Her initial reaction was to look away, except she hesitated too long, and in seeming slow motion she saw him turn towards her.

With a sense of fatalism she saw his strong features harden, and she almost died beneath the intensity of his gaze.

Then a horn blast provided a startling intrusion, and Carly forced her attention to the slow-moving traffic directly ahead. In her hurry she crashed the gears and let the clutch out too quickly for her aged sedan’s liking, causing it to stall in retaliatory protest.

Damn. The curse fell silently from her lips, and she twisted the ignition key, offering soothing words in the hope that the engine would fire.

An audible protest sounded from immediately behind, quickly followed by another, then a surge of power shook the small sedan and she eased it forward, picking up speed as she joined the river of cars vacating the city.

It wasn’t until she’d cleared the intersection that she realised how tight a grip she retained on the wheel. A light film of moisture beaded her upper lip in visible evidence of her inner tension, and she forced herself to relax, angry that the mere sight of a man she professed to hate could affect her so deeply.

It took almost an hour to reach Manly, yet it felt as if she’d been battling traffic for twice that long by the time she garaged the car.

Upstairs, Sarah opened the door, her eyes softening with concern at the sight of Carly’s pale features.

‘Sarah helped me draw some pictures.’

Carly leant forward and hugged her daughter close. Her eyes were suspiciously damp as Ann-Marie’s small arms fastened round her neck in loving reciprocation.

‘I’ll make coffee,’ Sarah suggested, and Carly shot her friend a regretful smile.

‘I can’t stay.’ Her eyes assumed a haunting vulnerability. ‘I’ll ring you.’ She paused, then attempted a shaky smile. ‘After eight?’

Entering her own apartment, Carly moved through to the kitchen and prepared their evening meal, then when the dishes had been dealt with she organised Ann-Marie’s bath, made the little girl a hot milky drink, then tucked her into bed.

It was early, and she crossed to the phone to dial directory service, praying they could supply the number she needed.

Minutes later she learned there was no listing for Stefano Alessi, and the only number available was ex-directory. Damn.

Carly queried Consolidated Enterprises, and was given two numbers, neither of which responded at this hour of the night. There was no after-hours number listed, nor anything connected to a mobile net.

Carly cursed softly beneath her breath. She had no recourse but to wait until tomorrow. Unless she rang Clive Mathorpe at home and asked for his coveted client’s private telephone number.

Even as the thought occurred, it was instantly dismissed. What could she offer as the reason for such an unorthodox request? Her esteemed boss would probably suffer an instant apoplectic attack if she were to say, ‘Oh, by the way, Clive, I forgot to mention that Stefano Alessi is my estranged husband.’

Tomorrow, she determined with grim purpose. Even if she had to utilise devious means to obtain her objective.

A leisurely shower did little to soothe her fractured nerves, nor did an attempt to view television.

Long after she’d switched off the bedside lamp Stefano’s image rose to taunt her, and even in dreams he refused to disappear, her subconscious mind forcing recognition of his existence, so that in consequence she spent another restless night fighting off several demons in numerous guises.

The next morning Carly dropped Ann-Marie at school then drove into the city, and on reaching her office she quietly closed her door so that she could make the necessary phone call in private.

It was crazy, but her nerves felt as if they were shredding to pieces as she waited for the call to connect, and only Ann-Marie’s plight provided the courage needed to overcome the instinctive desire to replace the receiver.

Several minutes later, however, she had to concede that Stefano was virtually inaccessible to anyone but a chosen few. The majority were requested to supply verbal credentials and leave a contact telephone number.

The thought of waiting all day for him to return the call, even supposing he chose to, brought her out in a cold sweat. There was only one method left open to her whereby she retained some small measure of power, and she used it mercilessly.

‘Stefano Alessi,’ she directed coolly as soon as the receptionist answered, and, hardly giving the girl a chance to draw breath, she informed her, ‘Tell his secretary his wife is on the line.’ That should bring some response.

It did, and Carly derived some satisfaction from the girl’s barely audible surprise. Within seconds the call was transferred, and another female voice requested verification.

Stefano’s personal staff were hand-picked to handle any eventuality with unruffled calm—and even a call from someone purporting to be the director’s wife failed to faze his secretary in the slightest.

‘Mr Alessi isn’t in the office. Can I have him call you?’

Damn. She could hardly ask for his mobile number, for it would automatically be assumed that she already had it. ‘What time do you expect him in?’

‘This afternoon. He has an appointment at three, followed by another at four.’

Assertiveness was the key, and Carly didn’t hesitate. ‘Thank you. I’ll be there at four-thirty.’ She hung up, then quickly made two further calls—one to Sarah asking if she could collect Ann-Marie from school, and another to Ann-Marie’s teacher confirming the change in routine.

The day loomed ahead, once again without benefit of a lunch-hour, and Carly worked diligently in an effort to recoup lost time.

At precisely four-fifteen Carly entered the lobby of a towering glass-faced edifice housing the offices of Consolidated Enterprises, stabbed the call-button to summon one of four lifts, then when it arrived stepped into the cubicle and pressed the designated disk.

The nerves she had striven to keep at bay surfaced with painful intensity, and she mentally steeled herself for the moment she had to walk into Reception and identify herself.

By now Stefano’s secretary would have informed him of her call. What if he refused to see her?

Positive, think positive, an inner voice urged.

The lift paused, the doors opened, and Carly had little option but to step into the luxuriously appointed foyer.

Reception lay through a set of wide glass doors, and, acting a part, she stepped forward and gave her name. Her eyes were clear and level, and her smile projected just the right degree of assurance.

The receptionist’s reaction was polite, her greeting civil, and it was impossible for Carly to tell anything from her expression as she lifted a handset and spoke quietly into the receiver.

‘Mr Alessi is still in conference,’ the receptionist relayed. ‘His secretary will escort you to his private lounge where you can wait in comfort.’

At least she’d passed the first stage, Carly sighed with silent relief as she followed an elegantly attired woman to a room whose interior design employed a mix of soft creams, beige and camel, offset by opulently cushioned sofas in plush chocolate-brown.

There were several current glossy magazines to attract her interest, an excellent view of the inner city if she chose to observe it through the wide expanse of plate-glass window. Even television, if she were so inclined, and a well-stocked drinks cabinet, which Carly found tempting—except that even the mildest measure of alcohol on an empty stomach would probably have the opposite effect on her nerves.

Coffee would be wonderful, and her hand hovered over the telephone console, only to return seconds later to her side. What if the connection went straight through to Stefano’s office, instead of to his secretary?

Minutes passed, and she began to wonder if he wasn’t playing some diabolical game.

Dear lord, he must know how difficult it was for her to approach him. Surely she’d suffered enough, without this latest insult?

The thought of seeing him again, alone, without benefit of others present to diffuse the devastating effect on her senses, made her feel ill.

Her stomach began to clench in painful spasms, and a cold sweat broke over her skin.

What was taking him so long? A quick glance at her watch determined that ten minutes had passed. How much longer before he deigned to make an appearance?

At that precise moment the door opened, and Carly’s eyes flew to the tall masculine frame outlined in the aperture.

Unbidden, she rose to her feet, and her heart gave a sudden jolt, disturbed beyond measure by the lick of flame that swept through her veins. It was mad, utterly crazy that he could still have this effect, and she forced herself to breathe slowly in an attempt to slow the rapid beat of her pulse.

Attired in a dark grey business suit, blue silk shirt and tie, he appeared even more formidable than she’d expected, his height an intimidating factor as he entered the room.

The door closed behind him with a faint decisive snap, and for one electrifying second she felt trapped. Imprisoned, she amended, verging towards silent hysteria as her eyes lifted towards his in a gesture of contrived courage.

His harshly assembled features bore an inscrutability that was disquieting, and she viewed him warily as he crossed to stand within touching distance.

He embodied a dramatic mesh of blatant masculinity and elemental ruthlessness, his stance that of a superior jungle cat about to stalk a vulnerable prey, assessing the moment he would choose to pounce and kill.

Dammit, she derided silently. She was being too fanciful for words! A tiny voice taunted that he had no need for violence when he possessed the ability verbally to reduce even the most worthy opponent to a state of mute insecurity in seconds.

The silence between them was so acute that Carly was almost afraid to breathe, and she became intensely conscious of the measured rise and fall of her breasts, the painful beat of her heart as it seemed to leap through her ribcage. Her eyes widened fractionally as he thrust a hand into his trouser pocket with an indolent gesture, and she tilted her head, forcing herself to retain his gaze.

‘Shall we dispense with polite inanities and go straight to the reason why you’re here?’ Stefano queried hardily.

There was an element of tensile steel beneath the sophisticated veneer, a sense of purpose that was daunting. She was aware of an elevated nervous tension, and it took every ounce of courage to speak calmly. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d see me.’

The eyes that speared hers were deliberately cool, and an icy chill feathered across the surface of her skin.

‘Curiosity, perhaps?’ His voice was a hateful drawl, and her eyes gleamed with latent anger, their depths flecked with tawny gold.

She wanted to hit him, to disturb his tightly held control. Yet such an action was impossible, for she couldn’t afford to indulge in a display of temper. She needed him—or, more importantly, Ann-Marie needed the sort of help his money could bring.

‘Coffee?’

She was tempted to refuse, and for a moment she almost did, then she inclined her head in silent acquiescence. ‘Please.’

Dark grey eyes raked her slim form, then returned to stab her pale features with relentless scrutiny. Without a word he crossed to the telephone console and lifted the handset, then issued a request for coffee and sandwiches before turning back to face her.

His expression became chillingly cynical, assuming an inscrutability that reflected inflexible strength of will. ‘How much, Carly?’

Her head lifted of its own volition, her eyes wide and clear as she fought to utter a civil response.

One eyebrow slanted in a gesture of deliberate mockery. ‘I gather that is why you’re here?’

She had already calculated the cost and added a fraction more in case of emergency. Now she doubled it. ‘Twenty thousand dollars.’

He directed her a swift calculated appraisal, and when he spoke his voice was dangerously soft. ‘That’s expensive elective surgery.’

Carly’s eyes widened into huge pools of incredulity as comprehension dawned, and for one brief second her eyes filled with incredible pain. Then a surge of anger rose to the surface, palpable, inimical, and beyond control.

Without conscious thought she reached for the nearest object at hand, uncaring of the injury she could inflict or any damage she might cause.

Stefano shifted slightly, and the rock-crystal ashtray missed its target by inches and crashed into a framed print positioned on the wall directly behind his shoulder.

The sound was explosive, and in seeming slow motion Carly saw the glass shatter, the framed print spring from its fixed hook and fall to the carpet. The ashtray followed its path, intact, to bounce and roll drunkenly to a halt in the centre of the room.

Time became a suspended entity, the silence so intense that she could hear the ragged measure of her breathing and feel the pounding beat of her heart.

She didn’t move, couldn’t, for the muscles activating each limb appeared suspended and beyond any direction from her brain.

It was impossible to gauge his reaction, for the only visible sign of anger apparent was revealed in the hard line of his jaw, the icy chill evident in the storm-grey darkness of his eyes.

The strident ring of the phone made her jump, its shrill sound diffusing the electric tension, and Carly watched in mesmerised fascination as Stefano crossed to the console and picked up the handset.

He listened for a few seconds, then spoke reassuringly to whoever was on the other end of the line.

More than anything, she wanted to storm out of the room, the building, his life. Yet she couldn’t. Not yet.

Stefano slowly replaced the receiver, then he straightened, his expression an inscrutable mask.

‘So,’ he intoned silkily. ‘Am I to assume from that emotive reaction that you aren’t carrying the seed of another man’s child, and are therefore not in need of an abortion?’

I carried yours, she longed to cry out. With determined effort she attempted to gather together the threads of her shattered nerves. ‘Don’t presume to judge me by the numerous women you bed,’ she retorted in an oddly taut voice.

His eyes darkened until they resembled shards of obsidian slate. ‘You have no foundation on which to base such an accusation.’

Carly closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again. ‘It goes beyond my credulity to imagine you’ve remained celibate for seven years.’ As I have, she added silently.

‘You’re here to put me on trial for supposed sexual misdemeanours during the years of our enforced separation?’

His voice was a hatefully musing drawl that made her palms itch with the need to resort to a display of physical anger.

‘If you could sleep with Angelica during our marriage, I can’t even begin to imagine what you might have done after I left!’ Carly hurled with the pent-up bitterness of years.

There was a curious bleakness apparent, then his features assumed an expressionless mask as he cast his watch a deliberate glance. ‘State your case, Carly,’ he inclined with chilling disregard. ‘In nine minutes I have an appointment with a valued colleague.’

It was hardly propitious to her cause continually to thwart him, and her chin tilted fractionally as she held his gaze. ‘I already thought I had.’

‘Knowing how much you despise me,’ Stefano drawled softly, ‘I can only be intrigued by the degree of desperation that forces you to confront me with a request for money.’

Her eyes were remarkably steady, and she did her best to keep the intense emotion from her voice. ‘Someone I care for very much needs an operation,’ she said quietly. It was true, even if it was truth by partial omission. ‘Specialist care, a private hospital.’

One eyebrow lifted with mocking cynicism. ‘A man?’

She curled her fingers into a tight ball and thrust her hands behind her back. ‘No,’ she denied in a curiously flat voice.

‘Then who, Carly?’ he queried silkily. His eyes raked hers, compelling, inexorable, and inescapable.

‘A child.’

‘Am I permitted to know whose child?’

He wouldn’t give in until she presented him with all the details, and she suddenly hated him, with an intensity that was vaguely shocking, for all the pain, the anger and the futility, for having dared, herself, to love him unreservedly, only to have that love thrown back in her face.