To Claim His Mistress: Mistress at a Price / Mother and Mistress / His Mistress's Secret

The only thing she was aware of was her own reflection in the glass—a pale girl, with quivering lips and an ocean’s depth of pain in her eyes. And from that there was no distraction—and no retreat.

Cat walked into her flat the following evening, closed the door and leaned back against it, her shoulders slumped in weariness. The weekend stretched ahead of her like a desert, punctuated only by such excitements as dusting, vacuuming, and doing some laundry.

She might even stir up a frenzy by sorting her DVDs into alphabetical order. Hell. She pulled a face. How sad was that?

One thing she was determined on. She was not going to cry herself to sleep for a second time tonight. As soon as she’d turned off her lamp the previous evening all the suppressed emotion had come welling up inside her and she’d started to sob hopelessly—desperately—her tears soaking the pillow.

And even when exhaustion had finally claimed her there had been no respite. She’d woken near dawn to find her face wet again, and the taste of salt on her lips.

So, she would start as she meant to go on tonight—plan her evening like a campaign. A relaxing bath, she thought, with the new toiletries that held no inconvenient memories, then into the dear old velour robe. Some music, naturally—probably Mozart. And, because she’d had lunch with a potential client, just a light supper. A cheese omelette, maybe, with a glass of wine. And then she’d get her laptop and start mapping out some preliminary ideas for the new suite of offices, which had been the reason for the lunch. That should fill the time nicely.

Even two weeks ago I’d have been perfectly content with an evening like that, she told herself. And I can be again. I just need to take control.

She put on the horn concerto while her bath was running, then lay back in the water, hair pinned on top of her head, eyes closed, letting the glorious notes drive any lingering demons from her soul.

She was safely covered in her comfort blanket, and on her way to the kitchen, when her doorbell sounded. She paused, frowning slightly, wondering who the caller could be. God forbid it should be Tony, come to do penance.

She was in two minds whether to answer the door or not when she remembered that it might be her neighbour, with a parcel that she’d taken in. Those books, perhaps, that Cat had ordered on the Internet.

As the bell sounded again she called, ‘Yes, I’m here.’ She dealt swiftly with the safety lock and flung open the door.

‘I’m sorry,’ she began, then stopped dead, her eyes dilating in shock and the apologetic smile fading as she saw who was confronting her.

‘Good evening,’ Liam said quietly. He was in full City gear this evening—dark blue suit with a faint pinstripe, crisp white shirt and silk tie. His face was unsmiling and weary, his mouth taut.

Her voice was small and hoarse. ‘What—what are you doing here?’

‘I hardly know myself.’ There was a dull flare of colour along the high cheekbones. ‘I swore that I wouldn’t do this, but it seems I no longer have a choice.’

He flung back his head and looked at her, the smoky eyes cool and unflinching. He said, ‘If the offer you made me is still open, then I’ll take it. I want you, and I’ll pay any price to have you.’

She shook her head. ‘I—I don’t understand.’

‘You suggested we should meet,’ Liam said evenly. ‘On neutral territory and in comparative anonymity in order to pursue our mutual enjoyment of each other. At the time, I didn’t agree.’

His mouth hardened. ‘Since then I’ve had plenty of opportunity to think,’ he continued. ‘And I accept your terms. All of them.’

He paused. ‘But it’s up to you to say whether you still want this or not. And naturally I’ll abide by your decision. If you send me away, you won’t hear from me again.’

There was a silence. Her mind was whirling as she tried to take in what he’d said. To understand it.

He’d offered her a get-out clause, she realised numbly. She could tell him she’d made a mistake—even that it had all been a joke which had misfired—and he would be out of her life for ever, and she could return to some approximation of peace and normality. Perhaps.

Instead, she heard herself say shakily, ‘What’s made you decide to—throw down the gauntlet like this?’

‘Seeing you again last night,’ Liam said levelly. ‘Knowing that all my efforts to put you out of my head had been completely useless. Although, my God, I tried,’ he added with feeling.

Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘So did I.’

There was another silence. He said carefully, ‘Do I take it, then, that the answer’s yes?’

She nodded, swiftly and jerkily, not looking at him. She said, ‘Do you—would you—like to come in?’

‘No,’ he said, his mouth twisting. ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s probably best if we obey your rules from the outset. And you want our encounters to be on neutral territory.’

‘We also said no personal details.’ She swallowed. ‘Yet you’ve clearly discovered where I live.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But that was before I knew there were any rules, and even longer before I agreed to obey them.’

‘So how did you get my address? From the hotel?’

‘Yes.’

Cat bit her lip, remembering the pretty receptionist who’d manned the desk on Saturday evening. ‘Using your famous powers of persuasion, no doubt?’

He shrugged equably. ‘If you say so. But from now on I won’t cheat. We’ll keep our meetings strictly elsewhere.’

She went on staring at him. She said slowly, ‘My hotel bill. Was there really a problem with the computer?’

Liam propped a shoulder against the doorframe, a faint ruefulness in his expression. ‘Who knows? There often is. That’s what computers are like.’

‘You—really went to all those lengths?’ Cat shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Believe it and more.’ His voice was almost fierce. ‘I needed to see you again. I didn’t want you to turn into the Cat that walked by herself and slip away until I’d had a chance to talk you round to my point of view.’ He paused. ‘Am I eternally condemned for that?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a little late for that.’

Liam nodded. ‘So, do you trust me to find somewhere sufficiently neutral for our first rendezvous?’

Just like that? Cat thought bewilderedly. Without even a kiss or a touch? As if he was arranging a business appointment?

‘Yes,’ she said, numbly. ‘That would be—fine.’

He took a personal organiser from his inside pocket and scanned through it. ‘Next Thursday would be good for me.’ He glanced up. ‘How about you?’

‘Yes.’ She still had that curious sense of disbelief—of detachment. ‘Yes, I can manage that.’

‘Then that’s agreed.’ His smile was brief and formal. ‘I’ll send a car for you at ten o’clock. Until then.’

Send a car—as if she was a parcel to be collected? And at ten? Clearly there was to be no leisurely wooing over dinner this time.

He was actually turning away when she said his name. ‘Did I forget something?’ His brows lifted in enquiry.

So many things, Cat thought, swallowing. But there’s a barrier, suddenly, and I can’t get round it. I can’t reach you.

She clutched at a straw. Forced a smile of her own. ‘I wanted to mention last night—to explain…’

‘But you don’t have to do that,’ he said, quite gently, but with a faint trace of something like mockery in his voice. ‘Under the rules we see each other when we wish, but the rest of our lives remain a closed book. And the beauty of that is no excuses or explanations. We can both do exactly as we like.’

So he doesn’t care about Tony, she thought, with a touch of bleakness. But I’m not allowed to ask about his companion either, and that’s a different story.

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice faintly constricted. ‘Yes, of course.’

He lingered, his meditative gaze considering her in silence, and she suddenly realised what he was seeing—her face scrubbed as clean as a child’s, without a trace of cosmetic, and surrounded by the damp tendrils which had escaped from her pinned-up hair. The elderly velour dressing gown, kind as an old friend, but undoubtedly sacrificing beauty to comfort, however you looked at it. Not a speck of allure anywhere.

Her hand went almost protectively to the base of her throat, drawing the worn edges of the robe together.

She looked back at him, her chin lifting in challenge. ‘Having second thoughts?’

‘Having all kinds of thoughts,’ Liam returned coolly. ‘Which I look forward to sharing with you on Thursday night. I can hardly wait. And wear something glamorous,’ he added softly. ‘Something I’ll enjoy removing.’ His smile touched her like an intimate caress. ‘Goodnight.’

Ridiculously, she found herself blushing. Felt a warm tide of colour spread up from her toes to her forehead, and knew it would not have escaped his attention, or his amusement.

Wordlessly, she stepped backwards and closed the door between them. She sagged against the frame, her breathing ragged, her heartbeat tumultuous.

My God, she thought, swallowing. This was pragmatism carried to the nth degree.

She made herself walk over to the sofa and sat down in its corner, her feet curled under her.

What am I getting into here? she wondered incredulously. Some kind of business arrangement controlled by dates and logistics—efficient but passionless?

No, she thought, remembering his smile, and the sudden, sensuous glint in his eyes that had so rocked her. Certainly not passionless. But maybe not very romantic either.

If she was honest, she realised, she’d never considered the practical details of her idea until this very moment. But Liam had brought them home to her, loud and clear. She felt suddenly cold, and pulled the folds of the robe around her.

But she wished he’d accepted her tacit invitation to stay the night, and that he was here at this moment, beside her, his lips weaving warm magic on her skin. His body pressing hers deeper and deeper into the yielding cushions. His flesh against hers. Within hers.

She was aware of the deep burn of desire igniting inside her. She lifted her clenched fist to her mouth and bit the knuckle with almost clinical precision.

Fighting one pain with another, she told herself in self-derision.

I should have tempted him to stay—used my own powers of persuasion, she thought.

But maybe that was outside the bounds of possibility, Cat told herself, stifling a sigh. Perhaps Liam wasn’t turned on by the plain, unvarnished version of her he’d seen tonight. Instead, he wanted his mistress-to-be smoothed out, made-up, and perfectly presented. Scented and beddable.

Well, she thought, she’d wanted a secret no-strings liaison, and this was precisely what she was getting, so she could hardly complain.

This time the sigh escaped her, telling in its wistfulness. And its longing.

One thing was certain, she thought, rallying herself, she’d completely lost her appetite for supper. So she might as well go to bed, even if it was alone, and try to get some rest.

Although instinct warned her that sleep might be elusive and her dreams thoroughly disturbing, keeping her tossing and turning until dawn. And instinct, as it turned out, was absolutely right.

Work proved to be Cat’s salvation in the days that followed. She tried to fill every hour with at least seventy minutes, scheduling site visits, meeting potential sub-contractors, and following up on even the most unpromising enquiries. And she’d never been so up to date on her paperwork either.

She tried hard to put the coming Thursday night out of her mind, but not with any real success. Liam was never far away, waiting on the edge of her consciousness, making her body sing with tension.

It was ridiculous to feel so nervous, she castigated. He was the lover she’d dreamed of, and he was going to be hers—on her terms. What more could she ask?

Well, she might have wished the arrangement hadn’t been quite so businesslike, but again she was hardly entitled to complain.

She wasn’t working on Thursday itself. She was owed several days’ extra vacation, and she planned to use one of them pampering herself at a health spa with every beauty treatment known to the mind of woman.

And in accordance with his request—or was it a demand?—she’d bought herself something glamorous: a housecoat in heavy black silk, long-sleeved, floor-length and full-skirted, fastened by a long row of tiny buttons that began at the deep V of the neckline and ended at mid-thigh.

She was folding it in tissue and placing it in her overnight bag on Wednesday evening when the doorbell rang.

Cat froze, sending herself a horrified glance in the mirror. Oh, no, she besought any passing fate, he can’t have caught me again, with wet hair and wearing the comfort blanket.

She opened the door carefully, using the chain, and peeped round the edge. A young man was standing there in leathers, carrying a crash helmet under his arm and holding a padded envelope.

‘Miss Adamson? I’ve been asked to deliver this, and wait for an answer if needed.’

He passed the yellow envelope through the gap to Cat, who tore it open. Three keys on a ring with a metal tag slid into the palm of her hand. The attached label read ‘Flat 2, 53 Wynsbroke Gardens’. And, scrawled underneath the address in Liam’s distinctive writing, ‘In case I’m late.’ She stared down at it. So, she thought, this was to be the meeting place he’d arranged—not the anonymous hotel room she’d expected, but a flat in one of London’s most expensive areas. Serious stuff.

She swallowed convulsively. My God, she told herself. It’s coming true. It’s really happening. I don’t think I believed it until this moment.

Yet here was the incontrovertible truth. Liam had meant everything he said. Her hand closed round the keys so tightly that the metal dug into her hand as she stared unseeingly in front of her.

I’m scared, she realised in bewilderment. I’m actually scared. And how pathetic is that?

‘Is there an answer, miss?’ The messenger’s voice reached her from the passage outside.

I’m being offered another choice, she thought. Another chance to do the wise thing. All I have to do is hand back the keys, say there’s been some mistake, and I’m out of it for good. He won’t try again. And I’ll be safe. Safe…

The word echoed longingly in her head.

She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘But there’s no reply.’

My decision, she thought as she closed the door, is made.

‘You’re very tense,’ the masseuse said disapprovingly, her hands working essential oils into Cat’s neck and shoulders.

‘I have a lot on my mind,’ Cat returned wryly.

She’d had a wonderful facial, she’d been manicured, pedicured, and taken a sauna. By this time she should have been totally relaxed and floating, her mind free, looking forward to a night of pleasure. Instead she was as taut as a guitar string, and almost ready to snap.

I’m heading for disaster, she thought, biting her lip.

In many ways it might have been more sensible to have spent a normal day at work. At least she would have been forced to concentrate her mind on something apart from the evening ahead.

Yet here she was, being waxed, plucked, smoothed and scented as if her life depended on it.

I feel, she thought moodily, like some harem girl who’s been summoned by the Sultan. And I wonder what the Sultan would have said if the harem had started summoning him instead. Probably had the lot of them tied up in sacks and chucked into the Bosphorus. Where, of course, they would have sunk without trace.

And that’s what I’m risking too. That sooner or later, when all passion’s spent, I’ll be left alone and floundering. And how will I bear it?

But I mustn’t think like that. It’s the beginning of the affair, not the end. I’m getting what I want, and I should be happy about it.

‘You’re clearly under a lot of stress,’ the masseuse told her as they parted. ‘Maybe you should consider having regular treatments.’

I hope I won’t need them, Cat returned silently, murmuring something non-committal. As she was putting her credit card away, after paying the bill, she heard the clink of the keys in the bottom of her bag. Flat 2, 53 Wynsbroke Gardens, she repeated silently, as she’d been doing all day. As if there was any real chance of her forgetting.

She’d planned to go straight home, of course. Told herself that bringing the keys with her had been some kind of mild aberration and was of no importance. But that didn’t explain why she found herself turning right instead of left at the traffic lights, and heading straight for Notting Hill.

She found Wynsbroke Gardens without difficulty, and managed to squeeze into a parking space some two hundred yards away round the nearest corner.

She walked back slowly, counting the numbers on the houses until she reached number 53. She simply wanted to look at it, that was all, she told herself in self-justification. Just to see where Liam had chosen for this strange tryst. She hadn’t the slightest intention of going in, of course.

Number 53 turned out to be a tall house, part of a terrace, with a flight of stone steps leading up to a pillared portico, and narrower stairs going down to a basement.

There was an entry system by the front door, but there was no name beside the buzzer for Flat 2.

I’ll try one key, Cat thought. And if it doesn’t fit I’ll walk away. Wait until tonight.

But the key did fit, and she stepped forward into a tiled hallway. The entrance to the ground floor flat was on her left, and there was another door straight ahead bearing a brass number two on its gleaming surface.

Once inside, a flight of carpeted stairs led up to yet another door.

I’m beginning to feel like Bluebeard’s wife, Cat mocked herself, fitting the third key into the lock. Beyond lay a passage with pastel walls and seagrass flooring.

Cat hesitated momentarily, then turned right, opening the door at the end. She found herself in a large sunlit room, with long windows and a balcony overlooking the communal gardens below.

The floorboards had been stripped and waxed, and the walls were painted a pale cream. Two deeply cushioned sofas upholstered in dark green flanked a marble fireplace, and a dining area with a table, four chairs and a small sideboard had been created in an alcove at the far end of the room.

The whole place had that pristine just-decorated look. It was also curiously vacant. Apart from a tray of bottles with some crystal tumblers on the sideboard, there was nothing there. Not a picture on any of the walls, or an ornament on one of the surfaces. Not even a clock on the mantelpiece. Even the furniture looked brand-new, as if no one had ever sat on one of those cushions or eaten a meal at the polished table.

It was undeniably a beautiful room, Cat thought, yet the effect was almost soulless.

The main bedroom opened out of the living room. The wide bed had already been made up, Cat realised, her heart missing a beat, and the tailored blue coverlet was turned back to reveal crisp white linen.

Well, at least the priorities had been dealt with, she thought, her mouth twisting as she noted that soap and towels had been laid out in the gleaming bathroom next door.

Cat found herself backing out again, almost on tiptoe, as if she’d entered a church in the middle of some service. Absurd, she told herself as she crossed the living room again, deliberately letting her shoes clatter noisily on the wooden floor.

She found the kitchen at the other end of the passage. It had a full range of fitted units and appliances above and below the granite work surface, but all the drawers and cupboards were unused, and the refrigerator was empty.

It’s just a very elegant shell, Cat thought bleakly, with no clue about who it might belong to. In fact, it doesn’t look as if anyone’s ever lived here at all, least of all Liam.

Perhaps he had flats like this across London, she thought, biting her lip. Blank, transitory boxes where he entertained his women.

No, she told herself abruptly. That’s nonsense. After all, this was all my idea, not his. And I was the one who specified it had to be neutral territory too.

Well, he’s done me proud. This is about as utilitarian and neutral as it’s possible to get.

What did I expect, anyway? A heart-shaped bed with black silk sheets and mirrors on the ceiling? A fur rug in front of a blazing fire?

She sighed. So, it was hardly a love nest, but at least she could make it rather less of an echoing void.

She took the car up to Notting Hill Gate. In the supermarket she bought staples, like bread, milk and eggs, then added bacon, smoked salmon, fresh raspberries, cream, coffee and a couple of bottles of champagne. She also bought an armful of lilies and carnations, and a tall dark green vase to put them in.

Back at the flat, she stocked the fridge neatly, then arranged her flowers, which she set in the centre of the dining table. By the time she left their scent was already beginning to permeate through the warm air, making the place a little less bleak.

But it’s still nothing like home, she thought as she got back in the car—and stopped herself right there with a gasp. Because that was the whole point—wasn’t it?

And now she simply had to make the best of it, she told herself. And shivered.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE car Liam sent for her was long, dark and powerful, and punctual to the second. Which was just as well, Cat thought as she handed her overnight case to the driver, because her nerves by this time were stretched to screaming point.

Her chauffeur was a polite, taciturn man, in a neat grey suit with a peaked cap. Cat longed to ask him if he regularly delivered Liam’s women to him, but didn’t dare. In any case, the glass partition between him and the back of the car, where she sat almost on the edge of her seat, remained firmly closed.

What I really want is someone to take my hand and tell me everything’s going to be all right, she thought, a bubble of near-hysteria rising in her throat. And I’ve never been that naïve. I’m still the Cat that Walks by Herself. I have to be.

She hadn’t realised how much she was hoping that Liam would be there ahead of her, waiting to take her in his arms, until she unlocked the doors and found the flat still empty.

She drew the heavy cream curtains across the windows, and after a brief hesitation lit the gas fire in the marble hearth, telling herself it felt chilly now that darkness was here. Or was she just nervous?

Stagefright, she thought with a grimace, sitting back on her haunches and watching the flames flicker blue.

She took her case into the bedroom and extracted the new housecoat. It moulded her slenderness like a second skin, the skirts flaring into soft folds at her hips and falling open, mid-thigh, to reveal her slim legs. The unrelieved black emphasised the creaminess of her skin against the dipping neckline.

She studied her reflection in the long mirror, trying to see herself with his eyes.

It was undoubtedly seductive, she acknowledged restively, but was it rather too obvious—especially against this minimalist background? Well, only time would tell.

And it was time that Liam was here. She needed his reassurance—the flare of passion in his eyes—the hunger of his mouth.

There was no television, no stereo or radio in the living room. Nothing, not even a magazine, to alleviate the tension of this endless waiting.

She was beginning to wonder if he’d changed his mind—or even if he’d planned all this as a cruel joke to punish her for daring to damage his male pride—when she heard the outer door open and slam shut, and his footsteps on the stairs.

She’d intended to be stretched on the sofa, cool and casual, her smile offering a welcome that was his alone. Instead, she found herself jumping to her feet, her clenched fists buried in the folds of her gown to conceal the fact that they were trembling.