One Man's Mistress: One Night with His Virgin Mistress / Public Mistress, Private Affair / Mistress Against Her Will

It was completely uncluttered, with not a stray scrap of paper in sight. Well, not until she’d arrived, anyway, she thought, wrinkling her nose. It was slightly more lived-in now.

Nor could she relate the Kit Benedict she’d encountered to all this orderly professionalism. Frankly, it had never occurred to her that working in the wine trade would require him to set up this kind of dedicated workplace at home.

Unless, like herself, he moonlighted, she thought, which in turn would explain how he could afford the array of suits with designer labels, the expensive shirts and handmade shoes she’d found in the master bedroom’s fitted closets as she’d tried to make space for her own few things.

But, whatever Kit did in this room, he kept strictly to himself because everything was securely locked up—the desk drawers, the cupboards, the filing cabinets and the bookcases, which seemed, she noted with surprise, to be devoted to mathematics and scientific topics.

Not that it matters to me, Tallie told herself firmly. Unless it’s illegal and the Metropolitan Police suddenly arrive.

But that was an unlikely scenario and, in the meantime, she had the use of the desk and the printer, and she provided her own stationery so she had no need or wish to pry any further.

She got up, stretching, then collected together the completed pages slipping them into the waiting folder before wandering off to the kitchen to put together some pasta carbonara.

She ate, as usual, from a tray on her lap in the sitting room. There was a dining room across the passage, but she never used it as it was clearly designed for smart dinner parties, not solitary suppers, and she found it a little daunting.

There was a drama series she wanted to watch on television and, while she was waiting for it to start, she took her plate and fork into the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher along with the utensils she’d used.

When she got back with her coffee, she found the start of her programme had been slightly delayed by an extended newscast. The situation in the African state of Buleza had deteriorated swiftly over the past few days. The initial coup had been defeated but the rebels had regrouped and a full-scale civil war had broken out. All British nationals had been evacuated from the capital, but there’d been concern over a group of engineers constructing a bridge across the Ubilisi in the north of the country who’d been cut off by the fighting.

According to the excited tones of the reporter covering the story, the men had now been traced and air-lifted to safety across the border. From there, they would be flown home, and the Foreign Office had a number for concerned relatives to call.

For once a happy ending, Tallie thought as the signature tune for her programme began and she curled up in her corner of the sofa to enjoy it. And that’s what we all need—more happy endings.

The last of the groceries safely put away, Tallie straightened, moving her shoulders wearily. Thank goodness that’s over for a while, she thought.

Shopping was never her favourite pastime at the best of times, and this afternoon the supermarket had been busy and the bus hot and crowded, forcing her to stand with her two heavy bags. To make matters worse, the journey had been held up by a collision between a car and a van. No one had been injured, but both vehicles had been damaged, tempers had been frayed and the police called as a result, so she’d got off and walked the last half mile back to the flat.

It was a humid, overcast day, as if a storm was threatening, and she felt grimy and frazzled, her hair sticking to her scalp. She’d have a shower before she prepared the salad for her evening meal, she decided with a sigh of anticipation.

In the bedroom, she chose clean underwear and a fresh pair of cotton trousers with a green scoop-neck top and left them on the bed. She undressed in the bathroom, thrusting her discarded clothing into the laundry basket, then stepped into the shower. She shampooed her hair vigorously and turned the water pressure to full as she rinsed the lather away, before beginning to apply her rose-scented body wash to her skin, smoothing away the remaining weariness and lingering aggravation of the day, then letting the water stream over her, lifting her face, smiling, to its power.

Then suddenly—shockingly—she became aware that she was no longer alone. Glimpsed a dark shadow, tall and menacing, outside the steamy glass of the cabinet. Felt the gush of cooler air as the sliding doors of the shower were wrenched open and someone—a total stranger—was standing there, staring in at her. A lean pillar of a man, wearing a shirt and trousers in stained and scruffy khaki drill.

Tallie had a horrified impression of black tousled hair, an unshaven chin, hands clenched aggressively at his sides and dark brows snapping together in furious astonishment as ice-cold green eyes swept over her.

She shrank back instinctively into the corner, cowering there, her voice cracking as she tried to scream and failed. As her own hands rose in a futile attempt to cover her body—to conceal her nakedness from this … predator, who was turning the worst—the ultimate nightmare into harsh reality. As fear warred with shame under his gaze.

Where had he come from? Had he been hiding somewhere in the flat, biding his time—choosing his moment? Her mind ran crazily like a rat trapped in a maze. Yet the door had been locked when she’d returned from shopping, and she’d re-locked it behind her. It was the most basic security precaution, and never neglected, so how could he have got in?

‘Turn that bloody water off.’ He spoke above its rush, his voice low-pitched and well-modulated, but grim as an Arctic wind. ‘Then, sweetheart, you have precisely one minute to explain who you are and what the hell you’re doing in my flat before I call the police.’

Ridiculously, the word ‘police’ brought a kind of fleeting reassurance. It wasn’t the kind of threat a rapist or a psychopath would use—was it? she thought desperately, her fingers all thumbs as she forced herself to deal with the shower flow, shivering with panic and burning with embarrassment at the same time. And he’d said ‘my flat’, so what was going on—apart from her own imminent death through shame?

‘I’m waiting.’ He took a towel from the rail and threw it towards her and she snatched at it, huddling it almost gratefully round her body as she struggled to make her voice work.

‘I’m looking after the flat while Mr Benedict is away.’ It was hardly more than a shaken gasp.

‘Is that a fact?’ He looked her over again, standing with his hands on his hips, the firm lips twisting. ‘Well, now Mr Benedict is back and I made no such arrangement, so I suggest you think up another story fast.’

‘No, you don’t understand.’ She put up a hand to push the sodden tangle of hair back from her face and the towel slipped. She grabbed at it, blushing. ‘My agreement’s with Kit Benedict—who’s in Australia. Are—are you a member of his family?’

‘I’m the head of the damned family,’ he returned icily. ‘Kit, unfortunately, is my half-brother, and you, presumably, are one of his little jokes—or compensation for some misdemeanour I have yet to discover. Payment in kind rather than cash. My welcome home present.’

The green eyes narrowed, their expression becoming less hostile and more contemplative, bordering on amusement, and Tallie felt fresh stirrings of panic under his renewed scrutiny.

‘Under normal circumstances, of course, I wouldn’t touch Kit’s leavings,’ he went on, as if he was thinking aloud. ‘But there’s been nothing normal about the past few eternally bloody days, and maybe finding a naked, pretty girl in my shower is immaculate timing. A hint that a few hours of mindless enjoyment could be just what I most need.’ He began to unbutton his shirt. ‘So put the water on again, darling, and I’ll join you.’

‘Keep away from me.’ Tallie pressed herself against the tiled wall as if she was trying to disappear through it. Her voice was hoarse and trembling. ‘I’m not anyone’s leavings, least of all your brother’s. We had—we have a business agreement, that’s all.’

‘Fine.’ He dropped his shirt to the floor and started to unzip his trousers. He slanted a smile at her. ‘And now your business is with me, only the terms have changed a little.’

‘You don’t understand,’ she insisted more fiercely. ‘I’m just here as the caretaker. Nothing more.’

‘Then take care of me,’ he said equably. ‘You can start by washing my back.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I won’t.’ She swallowed. ‘And I warn you now that if you come near me—if you dare try and lay a hand on me, I’ll have you charged with rape. I swear it.’

There was a taut silence, then he said softly, ‘You actually sound as if you mean that.’

‘I do.’ She lifted her chin. ‘And you’d better also believe that I’m not involved with Kit and I never was, and never would be either. I think, in his own way, he’s almost as obnoxious as you are.’

‘Thank you.’ There was an odd note in his voice.

‘I came here simply to do a job and, until a few minutes ago, I didn’t know you even existed. I thought this was his flat.’

‘I’m sure it pleased him to give that impression.’ He shrugged a bare shoulder, setting off a ripple of muscle that she would have preferred not to see. ‘It always has. But let me assure you that the flat is mine and so is everything in it, including that inadequate towel you’re clutching, and the bed where you’ve apparently been sleeping,’ he added silkily, watching the colour storm back into her face at the implication of his words.

‘In reality, I’m Kit’s occasional and very reluctant host. And currently, for some reason which I’m sure you’re eager to share with me, I seem to be yours too.’

She made a desperate stab at dignity. ‘Naturally, I do see that you’re … owed an explanation.’

‘Perhaps we should postpone any discussion on the extent of your indebtedness for a more convenient moment.’

His soft-voiced intervention had her biting her lip, but she pressed on doggedly, ‘However, my reasons for being here are perfectly genuine. I—I have nothing to hide.’

‘No?’ he queried, the green eyes measuring her with dancing cynicism. ‘You could have fooled me.’

He strode over to the door and took down the bathrobe that hung there. ‘And now I intend to take my shower whether you remain there or not,’ he said as he returned. ‘So I suggest you put this on and make yourself scarce—if your maidenly reluctance to pleasure me is actually genuine.’

He paused, holding the robe. ‘Is it—or could you still be persuaded to offer a weary traveller the comfort of that charming body?’

‘No,’ she said, teeth gritted, ‘I could not.’

He shrugged again, tossing the bundle of towelling into her arms. ‘Then go. However, I should warn you that I’m still considering having you charged with trespass.’ He observed her lips parting in a silent gasp of alarm and went on, ‘But some good coffee—black, hot and strong—might help your cause.’

‘Is that an order?’ She tried a defiant note.

‘Merely a suggestion,’ he said. ‘Which you’d do well to heed.’

He watched with open amusement as Tallie turned her back to manoeuvre herself awkwardly out of the wet towel and into the robe.

‘Your modesty is delightful, if a little belated,’ he commented dryly as she sidled out of the shower cabinet, looking anywhere but at him, the robe thankfully drowning her from throat to ankle. ‘I’ll join you and the coffee presently.’

He paused. ‘And don’t even think of doing a runner, because I would not find that amusing.’

‘You mean before you’ve counted the spoons?’ She glared at him.

‘Before any number of things.’ He stripped off the khaki trousers and kicked them away. ‘I suggest the sitting room as suitably neutral territory. Unless you have a more interesting idea?’ he added, his hands going to the waistband of his shorts. ‘No? Somehow I thought not.’

And, as he casually dropped his final covering and walked into the shower, Tallie turned and fled, hearing, to her chagrin, his shout of laughter following her.

CHAPTER THREE

DON’T even think of doing a runner …

If only I could, Tallie thought bitterly as she switched on the percolator and set a cup, a saucer, cream jug and sugar bowl on a tray. I’d be out of here so fast, my feet wouldn’t touch the ground.

But, unfortunately, it wasn’t as simple as that. For one thing, she had nowhere else to go. For another, nearly everything she owned was in the master bedroom—and so, now, was the master. In her haste to get away from him, she’d even left her change of clothing strewn across the bed. His bed, she reminded herself, groaning inwardly.

She’d steeled herself to creep back at one point to retrieve it, but the bathroom door had been wide open, the sound of the shower only too audible, and she dared not risk being seen—or seeing him again either, she thought shuddering, so it had seemed more sensible to turn away.

Which meant that when she did have to face him in a short while, she’d still be swamped in yards of towelling that also didn’t belong to her. But at least she’d be covered this time, she thought, a wave of heat sweeping over her as she remembered that remorseless green-eyed gaze assessing every detail of her quivering body.

Not to mention the way he’d casually stripped in front of her, which had almost been more of an insult …

Tallie swallowed. People reckoned that there came a time when you could look back at moments of truly hideous embarrassment and laugh about them, but she couldn’t imagine any moment, however far into the future, when she would be able to find the events of the last half hour even remotely amusing. When remembering them would not make her want to curl up and die of shame.

She was already cringing at the prospect of her next confrontation with him. It had already occurred to her that her agreement with Kit Benedict had been purely verbal, and that she hadn’t a scrap of paper to back up her claim that she was flat-sitting on his behalf.

That the real owner, however vile, probably had every right to regard her presence as trespass. But not to assume she was involved in some sordid relationship with his brother, she told herself hotly. A discarded plaything that could be … handed on for his own use. Or who might even be willing for that to happen.

If she was being honest, she had to admit she’d had a lucky escape. That if he’d decided her protests were simply coy and not to be taken seriously, then her nightmare could have taken on a whole new dimension that she didn’t want to contemplate. His hands—touching her. That mocking mouth …

Shivering, she hurriedly refocused her train of thought.

Too good to be true …

Her own words came back to haunt her. Well, she knew the truth of that now. Realised how stupid she’d been to ignore the obvious pitfalls in such a casual arrangement. To dismiss the clear anomalies between the Kit Benedict she’d met and this serene, luxurious background he’d apparently appropriated as his own.

He’d never really belonged here, she thought. And she’d always suspected as much. But then, for God’s sake, neither did Real Owner—the sexist thug with his scruffy hair, filthy clothes and three-day growth. He was even more out of place—like the brutal invader of a peaceful foreign territory. Inexperienced as she was, she’d sensed the danger in him, the anger like a coiled spring threatening to erupt.

Shivering, she wandered restively out into the passage, noting that the door to the master bedroom was now firmly shut. There was no sound from beyond it, or anywhere else, but the stillness and quiet she’d cherished suddenly seemed to have turned into an oppressive silence beating down on her. As if she was waiting for some other dreadful thing to happen.

Don’t think like that, she advised herself, swallowing, as she retreated to the kitchen. Put those ghastly minutes in the bathroom behind you and try to behave normally. Moving in here was obviously a mistake, but you’re not a criminal and he must see that.

She set the coffee pot on the tray and carried it through to the sitting room, placing it on a charming walnut table in front of one of the sofas.

Television, she thought. Men liked television. The first thing her father and Guy seemed to do when they walked into the house was switch on the set in the living room, whether or not there was anything they wanted to watch. Real Owner might well think along similar lines.

She clicked on to one of the major channels and stood for a moment, adjusting the sound. The picture on the screen was coming from an airfield, showing a plane coming in to land, and a group of weary, dishevelled men disembarking from it. About to turn away, Tallie sent them a casual glance, then paused, her eyes widening as she realised that the tall figure leading the ramshackle party down the plane steps looked horribly familiar.

No, she thought, transfixed in spite of herself. No, surely not.

‘Glad to be safely home are the British engineers, who found themselves stranded by the civil war in Buleza,’ said an authoritative voice-over. ‘At the press conference following their arrival, Mark Benedict, the chief consultant on the Ubilisi bridge project, said it had been a major target for the opposition forces and, as a result, completely destroyed.’

Mark Benedict, she thought with a swift intake of breath. Mark Benedict … Then it really was him. It had to be.

She heard a step behind her and turned. ‘My God,’ she said huskily. ‘You were out there—in that African country where there’s been all the terrible fighting.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And, believe me, I don’t need any reminders.’ He took the remote control from her hand and the screen went blank.

He was hardly recognisable, Tallie thought blankly, apart, of course, from those amazing eyes. He certainly hadn’t the kind of looks she admired but, now that he was clean-shaven, she had to admit that he had a striking face, with high cheekbones, a strong beak of a nose and a chin that was firm to the point of arrogance.

Altogether, there was a toughness about him that Kit signally lacked, she decided without admiration, something emphasised by the line of an old scar along one cheekbone and the evidence of a more recent injury at the corner of his mouth, accentuating the cynical twist which was probably habitual with him.

The over-long dark hair had been combed into some kind of damp, curling order and the lean, tawny body was, thankfully, respectably clad in chinos and a black polo shirt.

He looked at the coffee tray. ‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘you can take away the cream and sugar, because I never use them, and, at the same time, bring me a mug in place of the after-dinner china. And, while you’re there, bring another for yourself.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ Tallie lifted her chin. ‘After all, it’s hardly a social occasion.’

‘A fair amount of business can also be settled over coffee.’ His tone was quiet but brooked no arguments. ‘So why not just do as I ask, Miss—er …’

‘Paget,’ she supplied curtly. ‘Natalie Paget.’

‘And I’m Mark Benedict, as I expect you already know.’ He paused. ‘Please don’t look so stricken, Miss Paget. I assure you that you’re just as unpleasant a shock to me as I am to you. So let’s sit down with our coffee in a civilised manner and discuss the situation.’

‘Civilised,’ Tallie brooded as she trailed back to the kitchen with the unwanted items, was not a word she would ever apply to her unwanted host. But ‘discuss’ was hopeful, because it didn’t suggest that he was planning to bring charges immediately.

However, knowing that all she was wearing was his bathrobe still placed her at a serious disadvantage, no matter how businesslike the discussion. As he was probably well aware, she told herself bitterly.

On her return to the sitting room, she accepted the mug that he filled and handed to her and sat down on the sofa opposite, hiding her bare feet under the folds of the robe—a nervous movement that she knew was not lost on him.

‘So,’ he began, without further preliminaries, ‘you say Kit’s in Australia. When did that happen and why?’

She looked down at her coffee. ‘He went at the end of last week,’ she returned woodenly. ‘I understand it’s a business trip—visiting various vineyards on behalf of the company he works for.’

The hard mouth relaxed into genuine amusement. ‘Well, well,’ he said softly, ‘I bet Veronica didn’t consider that was an option when she wangled the job for her baby boy.’ He paused. ‘He didn’t ask you to go with him?’

‘Of course not.’ Tallie stiffened indignantly. ‘I hardly know him.’

‘That’s not always a consideration,’ he murmured. ‘And, where Kit’s concerned, it could be a positive advantage.’ He leaned back against the cushions, apparently relaxed, but Tallie wasn’t fooled. She could feel the tension quivering in the air, like over-stretched wire. ‘Anyway, if it was such a brief acquaintance, how did you get to find out about this place?’

‘It was his own suggestion,’ she said defensively. ‘He knew I was looking for somewhere cheap to live for a few months.’

His brows lifted. ‘You regard this as some kind of doss-house?’ he asked coldly.

‘No—on the contrary—truly.’ Tallie flushed hotly. ‘I suppose when I came here and saw what it was like, I should have realised there was something … not right about the arrangement. But I was desperate, and grateful enough not to ask too many questions. And, anyway, I thought I could repay him by being the world’s greatest flat-sitter. Looking after it as if it was my own.’ She swallowed. ‘Even better than my own.’

‘Or, knowing he was going away, you could have decided to squat here.’ His eyes were hard.

‘No, I swear I didn’t.’ She met his gaze bravely. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask my former boss at the wine bar. He was there when your brother made the offer.’ She took a gulp of the hot coffee to hearten her. ‘Besides, a squatter wouldn’t know about forwarding the mail to the lawyers, or have a key, or been told the security code—any of it.’

‘You’ve been working in a wine bar?’ He frowned slightly.

‘Why not?’ she challenged. ‘It’s a perfectly respectable occupation.’

‘Respectable—sure.’ He studied her curiously. ‘But as a career? I’d have thought you’d want better than that.’

‘Well,’ she said tautly, ‘as we’re total strangers, that’s hardly for you to judge.’ She paused, then added reluctantly, ‘Besides, I also had a day job working as a secretary for a temps agency. The bar was … extra.’

‘I notice you keep using the past tense,’ Mark Benedict commented. ‘Am I to take it that you’re no longer gainfully employed?’

‘I’m no longer wage-earning,’ she admitted. ‘But I am working.’

‘At what? Your questionable duties as flat-sitter won’t take up too many hours in the day.’

She bit her lip, unwilling to expose her precious plan to his undoubted ridicule. She said primly, ‘I’m engaged on … on a private project.’

‘As you’ve gate-crashed my home, Miss Paget, I don’t think the usual privacy rules apply. How are you planning to earn a living?’

She glared at him. ‘If you must know, I’m writing a novel.’

‘Dear God,’ he said blankly and paused. ‘Presumably it’s for children.’

‘Why should you presume any such thing?’ Tallie asked defiantly.

‘Because you’re hardly more than a child yourself.’

‘I’m nineteen,’ she informed him coldly.

‘I rest my case,’ he returned cynically. ‘So what kind of a book is it?’

She lifted her chin. ‘It’s a love story.’

There was a silence and Tallie saw a gleam of hateful amusement dawn in the green eyes. ‘I’m impressed, Miss Paget. It’s a subject you’ve researched in depth, of course?’

‘As much as I need,’ she said shortly, furious to discover that she was blushing again.

‘In other words—not very far at all.’ He was grinning openly now. ‘Unless I miss my guess—which I’m sure I don’t, judging by your terrified nymph act when I walked in on you just now.’