Mistress by Agreement

Rosalie’s eyebrows rose higher.

‘He’s partial to a well-turned ankle.’

Dear Mike. Only he could use such a quaint old-fashioned phrase to describe a womaniser, Rosalie thought fondly, before she said teasingly in a mock American accent, ‘You mean he likes the broads?’

Mike wasn’t smiling now. ‘He likes them, all right,’ he said quietly. ‘Lots of them.’

‘What’s that got to do—?’ Rosalie stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, come on, Mike,’ she said disbelievingly, ‘you don’t seriously think a man like the one you’ve just described would waste time trying to seduce a little provincial mouse like me, do you? He’s used to the celebs and model types who have been everywhere and done everything for sure.’

‘Rosalie, you’re a very beautiful woman, and no one in his right mind would describe you as a mouse,’ Mike said matter-of-factly. It was always amazing to him that she seemed so completely unaware of her effect on the opposite sex. What did she see when she looked in the mirror, for crying out loud? It was a question he’d asked himself many times, and now he answered it as he usually did; she saw something different from everyone else for certain. And she had Miles Stuart to thank for that. ‘Anyway, all I’m saying is watch him, okay? I’d say the same to Wendy in a similar situation, you know that.’

‘Yes, I know, Mike.’ She put out a hand and touched his jacket sleeve. ‘And I appreciate it, but, really, there’s no need.’

Nevertheless, that conversation of a few weeks ago was now on Rosalie’s mind as she finished the last item in the bill of quantities and settled back in her seat in front of the word processor. Kingsley had asked her to contact him once she had this ready and before she sent copies to various contractors to put a cost on each part of the work. She had got the impression he was the type of man who liked to keep his finger on even the tiniest pulse. She would try the English number he had given her first and ask his secretary where he was in the world. Since the conversation with Mike she had made it her business to find out everything she could about Kingsley Ward, and she had discovered he had hotels in the Caribbean as well as the States and was constantly on the move. She had also found out that Mike had not exaggerated about Kingsley’s love life.

She dialled the number herself; she had come into the office very early to finish off the list of materials and, as it was now still only eight o’clock in the morning, Jenny hadn’t arrived. Undoubtedly her call would be intercepted by an answer machine in Kingsley’s new English office in Oxford, but that was all right. It was another thing off the multitude of jobs she’d got lined up for the day, and his secretary could call Jenny later.

‘Kingsley Ward.’

Rosalie almost dropped the telephone at the sound of the deep cold male voice, her heart giving a resounding thump. It was a moment or two before she could say, ‘K…Kingsley?’ Oh, don’t stutter, girl, for goodness’ sake, she told herself in the next instant, hearing her breathless voice with utter contempt. Her voice was stronger as she continued, ‘It’s Rosalie Milburn here from Carr and Partners.’

There was a pause, and then, ‘Yes, Rosalie?’

She gulped. She preferred the first abrupt cold voice to the warmer, faintly sexy burr with which he’d spoken her name. And then she told herself not to be so darn ridiculous and to get on with it. ‘I’m sorry to bother you so early,’ she said politely. ‘I was expecting to just leave a message on your secretary’s answer machine to say that the bill of quantities is ready that you wanted to look over, and to ask where to send it. I wasn’t sure if you were in England or America.’

‘That was quick,’ he said appreciatively. ‘I’m in London today, I’ll call in for it. There were a couple of things I wanted to discuss with you anyway. Are you free for lunch?’

‘L…Lunch?’ She was doing it again! Her brain scrambled. She wasn’t doing anything for lunch but the last thing she wanted was to spend a couple of hours in close proximity to Kingsley Ward with no hope of escape. And then logic and reason took over. This was a massive job, she was going to have to liaise with Kingsley considering he was the type of man who insisted on overseeing everything. She forced her voice into neutral. ‘Lunch would be fine.’

‘Great.’ If he’d sensed her hesitation he gave no sign of it when he said, ‘I’ll pick you up round noon, okay?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

The phone went click. No goodbye, no social pleasantries. A man of few words, obviously. Rosalie sat staring at the receiver for some seconds, aware that she was feeling rail-roaded but that it wasn’t really fair on Kingsley. She could have said no to lunch, but if he needed to talk to her there was no point, added to which she had to make herself get on enough with him for them to establish a working relationship.

She looked down at what she was wearing. She had dressed for an unremarkable day in the office—pencil-slim grey trousers and a wrapover white buttoned shirt, with a pearl-grey bouclé wool jacket for later in case the May evening turned chilly on the walk home. Her flat was only half a mile from the office and she always travelled on foot, enjoying the wake-up in the morning and the wind-down at night. The only time she drove was when she needed to call on site or visit an architect or contractor or something similar.

She wrinkled her nose at her clothes. Kingsley Ward would be used to women who dressed to kill, for sure. And then she caught the errant thought, horrified at herself. What did it matter what he was used to? This was a business lunch with a client, that was all. As long as she was presentable that was all that mattered, and Kingsley probably wouldn’t notice what she was wearing anyway.

Kingsley did. He arrived to collect her just before noon, his gaze going over her steadily as Jenny ushered him into Rosalie’s office. Rosalie made a huge effort to act as she would with a man who wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, smiling brightly and forcing herself to extend her hand this time as she said, ‘Kingsley, how nice to see you again.’

His smile was lazy, with a mocking quality that suggested he knew she was lying. ‘Likewise.’

‘I’ve got everything ready if you’d like to glance through before we leave?’ she asked briskly, once her flesh had left contact with his. The tingling in her hand she could do nothing about.

‘Later. I’m hungry.’ His gaze hadn’t left her face, his eyes like blue crystal.

‘Fine.’ She busied herself in collecting the wool jacket and her handbag, hoping her bustle hid her agitation. She had forgotten what a startlingly deep blue his eyes were; if it were anyone else but Kingsley Ward she would have suspected they were wearing cosmetic contact lenses.

‘I hope you had nothing pressing this afternoon? I would like to visit the site after lunch. The architect will be there and it would be good for you to meet him.’

‘Of course.’ Rosalie thought of her work schedule and prayed for calm. ‘I’m all yours.’

The carved lips twitched. ‘How generous.’

It was, actually. She had already visited the site twice and didn’t really need to meet the architect today, Rosalie thought aggressively. There would be time enough for that once the tenders were returned, a builder selected and the work began. It would be her job to see the chosen builder kept to his prices, and she would be visiting the site frequently to value the work done for interim payments.

‘Shall we?’ He had taken her arm and whisked her out of the office before she had time to reflect further, and it was with dark amusement that Rosalie noticed Jenny’s expression of envy. If her secretary had but known it she would have swopped places with her for the lunchtime like a shot!

Carr and Partners was situated in a row of terraced houses, and once out on the pavement Kingsley led the way to a nifty little silver sports car that would have done credit to James Bond. Rosalie was eternally grateful to her guardian angel that she’d decided to wear trousers that day; the car’s low interior was not conducive to entering and exiting in anything else. As it was she slid into the leather interior with more than a measure of aplomb. This faded somewhat when Kingsley climbed into the driver’s seat. He was close, very close, and he smelt nothing short of delicious.

Rosalie hit her traitorous libido a sharp crack on the knuckles and swallowed deeply a few times. Her voice higher pitched than usual, she said, ‘Is it far? Where we’re eating?’

Damn it, but she was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Was it him or was she like this with the whole male race? ‘No, not far,’ he said easily as he pulled out into the traffic, the car’s engine growling softly. ‘A friend of mine owns a little place near Finsbury Park where I often eat when I’m in London. Unless there’s somewhere else you’d prefer?’ He glanced at her.

She shook her head, making the silky swirl of hair move and shimmer. Kingsley felt his loins tighten in response and turned his head, concentrating on the traffic.

After a few tense moments during which Rosalie registered every single movement he made and the car’s interior seemed to shrink still more, she said carefully, ‘I’m really excited about this job, and I never did thank you for looking me up after the dinner party. Who mentioned I was a quantity surveyor, anyway?’

He executed a manoeuvre that was totally illegal, receiving a few kindly gestures from passing motorists in the process, before he said, ‘What? Oh, I don’t remember. Is it important?’

He turned to look behind him as he changed lanes and Rosalie glanced at the back of his head where his hair had been tapered into his neck. It was so sexy it wasn’t true. As the big body turned again her head shot to the front. She felt like a voyeur, for goodness’ sake, she admitted to herself crossly, willing each taut muscle to slowly relax. But she hadn’t expected to be cocooned in an inch-square box with him, that was the thing.

Kingsley was clearly a man who didn’t go in for chatter when he was driving, and the short journey was accomplished in almost total silence. By the time they drew up outside a small neat restaurant Rosalie felt she’d got her act together, in spite of not quite being able to identify what it was about Kingsley Ward that threw her into such a spin.

True, he was silver-screen handsome with the added authority that came with wealth and influence, but he was also hard, ruthless and possessed of a giant ego, from all the background she’d gathered on him. Women galore had been enjoyed and discarded if half the stories about him were true, and Rosalie didn’t doubt that they were, looking at the man. And she loathed men like him, individuals who took and never gave, plundered and demanded what they wanted as though it were their God-given right. In fact they disgusted her.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘What?’ She spun round in her seat as the quiet voice registered on her, becoming aware in that moment that her face must have reflected her thoughts as she gazed out unseeing at the building in front of them. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I was thinking of something else,’ Rosalie said quickly. ‘This looks very nice.’

‘Don’t let the nondescript appearance fool you,’ he said evenly as he cut the engine. ‘Glen isn’t into glitz and glamour, but he has the punters fighting a path to his door now word has got out about the food here.’

He exited the car in a smooth, controlled uncurling motion that Rosalie could but envy; she knew she was going to have far more trouble levering herself out of the low seat. As it was he had opened her door and extended a hand before she had to try, and once she was standing on the pavement she tried to ignore his towering height and the fact that she was all flustered again.

Kingsley opened the door of the restaurant for her and then waved her through in front of him, thinking as he did so, Nice bottom. In fact nice everything. She was one hell of a woman and yet there was something so fiercely defensive about her it screamed disastrous love affair. Who had let her down and had it been recently? Certainly Jamie and one or two other of her friends who had been at the dinner party claimed they knew nothing. He wasn’t sure if he believed them. Whatever, she intrigued him. She’d intrigued him that night, enough for him to follow through and arrange for her to get the quantity surveyor’s job, after he had checked her credentials, of course. Much as he liked the idea of being the hunter for a change, he wasn’t about to endanger what was a very tasty business opportunity because he wanted a woman who had made it clear she didn’t want him.

‘King! My friend, my friend.’

Rosalie hadn’t expected the said Glen to be foreign, somehow—Glen sounded too English for that—but the slim, wiry man who came rushing up as they entered was Italian or she’d eat her hat. He kissed Kingsley on both cheeks—something Kingsley had obviously been expecting and which didn’t phase him at all—before turning his attention to her, saying, ‘You have brought the most beautiful lady in London to grace my restaurant. How can I thank you, my friend?’

‘Cut the spiel, Glen,’ Kingsley said dryly, ‘it won’t work on this lady. And she’s a business colleague, before you get too carried away.’

‘So there is hope for me? Even better!’

The black eyes were wicked but full of laughter, and Rosalie found herself laughing back as she said, ‘If the food is as good as the welcome, no wonder you are so popular.’

‘Rosalie; Glen Lorena, the biggest sweet-talker this side of the ocean. Glen; Rosalie Milburn, my new quantity surveyor for the English job.’

‘This is true?’ The Latin face expressed surprise. ‘But you are too lovely to do such work. I cannot believe this.’

‘Believe it, buddy.’ Kingsley had noticed the dimming of Rosalie’s smile and took swift action, ushering her further into the restaurant as he said over his shoulder, ‘Usual table free?’

‘Of course, my friend, of course. The moment I received your reservation the table became yours.’

Glen joined them a moment later, taking their order for drinks as he presented them with two dog-eared menus before disappearing again. Rosalie glanced round. The room was not large and it was packed with diners, in spite of the furniture being on the basic side without a taste of luxury anywhere. They were sitting in what was clearly a prime position in a small alcove, a table that gave an element of privacy without obstructing the view.

As her eyes returned to Kingsley he leant forward slightly. ‘Glen didn’t mean anything by that last remark,’ he said softly. ‘It’s just his way. His wife used to work as a barrister before they got this place so he’s got no problem with women and careers.’

Rosalie nodded stiffly. It was true she hadn’t appreciated the Italian’s comment about her job; she’d suffered the same sort of surprise too often in the past, normally accompanied by a distinctly patronising interest afterwards. After a degree course followed by three years of practical training and then the Assessment of Professional Competence, she felt she’d served a good apprenticeship before she began working as a fully qualified surveyor in what was still very much a male-dominated environment.

She had found she had to be just that bit better than her male colleagues at first to be taken seriously, but being a female in such a position was definitely a situation of swings and roundabouts. Most of the builders were tickled pink to see her arrive on site, and, once they realised she knew her onions and wasn’t going to be fooled or cajoled into accepting late dates or poor quality work, they were pussy-cats in her hands.

She’d often heard Mike and the others bemoaning the fact that they got all the stick from both the builder’s own surveyors and also the client when things went wrong, but usually, with just a smidgen of charm, her jobs ran on nicely oiled wheels.

‘Whilst we’re on the subject of careers,’ Kingsley continued smoothly, ‘what did make you take up quantity surveying?’

Rosalie stared at him. She hadn’t been aware they were on the subject of anything. She shrugged after a moment or two, her lashes sweeping down and hiding her gaze from the piercing one opposite as she said carefully, ‘I liked the mix of office work and getting my hands dirty on site, I suppose.’

‘Commerce is a hard world,’ Kingsley said quietly, ‘especially for a woman dealing with men who might not like being told what to do or not to do by a female, and a young and attractive one at that.’

Rosalie shrugged again. ‘I’m tougher than I look,’ she said without smiling.

He gazed at her, one dark eyebrow quirked and a disturbing gleam in the back of the brilliant eyes. ‘Are you now?’ he murmured softly. ‘A lady of mystery?’

‘There’s no mystery.’ She had spoken too quickly and she knew it as well as he did. She buried her face in the menu.

So, he’d hit a nerve? Kingsley’s eyes narrowed a fraction as he sat back in his seat just as one of the waiters arrived with the bottle of wine and another of sparkling mineral water. Life had taught him a few lessons in his thirty-five years on the earth, he reflected as he watched the waiter filling their glasses. One, expensive wine was worth every dollar compared to the other stuff. Two, gambling was a mug’s game. Three, never trust a woman, especially a beautiful one with hair like bronzed silk and eyes the colour of a stormy sky, eyes that carried secrets in their cloudy depths. For sure the secrets would be nothing more important than what hair dye she used to colour her hair, and within a few weeks he would be itching to move on. Although Rosalie’s hair looked natural…

He picked up the menu, suddenly annoyed with his thoughts and the world in general although he couldn’t have explained why. ‘The roasted shallot and lemon thyme salad is very good to start with,’ he suggested mildly. ‘One of Glen’s specialities. Or the mediterranean fish soup? And I can recommend the roast lamb or braised tangerine beef with herb dumplings.’

Rosalie smiled politely. She chose watercress soufflé followed by poached fillet of sea bass with asparagus tips, and after she had given her order to Glen, who had reappeared like the proverbial genie out of a bottle, she sat back in her seat and had a couple of hefty swallows of the very good wine whilst she watched Kingsley discussing the merits of the lamb against the beef with his friend. If ever she had needed a drink it was now, she thought with wry self-mockery. Why ever she had agreed to come out to lunch with this disturbing individual she didn’t know, let alone commit to spending what virtually amounted to a whole afternoon in his presence.

When the food came it was utterly delicious, although Rosalie had to admit that Kingsley’s Mediterranean fish soup and roast lamb looked and smelt wonderful, added to which she had never particularly cared for sea bass. But her food was excellent, all of it, along with the wine and the chocolate macadamia steamed pudding drenched with whipped cream she chose for dessert. She didn’t think she had ever tasted food so good, and she told Kingsley so as they drank their coffee.

He smiled. He’d smiled quite often during the meal as they had made light conversation, and she had to concede he’d got the art of conversation, along with the smile, down to a T. But the smile had never reached the cool blue of his eyes and the conversation was such that she knew nothing more about him than when they had first sat down at the table. Which was enough, more than enough, she told herself dryly.

‘Glen’s easily the best chef I’ve ever come across.’ Kingsley drained his coffee-cup and gestured to the hovering waiter for the bill. ‘As the waiting list for a table bears out.’

‘Surely he could earn a fortune if he chose to work somewhere like the Savoy or the Ritz?’ Rosalie asked, her eyes wandering round the interior of the restaurant again.

‘He’s done the big-time thing and ended up nearly ruining his marriage and his health,’ Kingsley said shortly. ‘He got out of the rat race, bought this place and set up with Lucia, his wife, who does all the behind-the-scenes work. He’s had offers galore to go back as a head chef or expand here to bigger and better, but the bottom line is he doesn’t need it. He’s happy here, Lucia’s happy, that’s all that matters to Glen in the long run. He’s found his Shangri-La.’

Rosalie stared at him. ‘You sound as if you envy him,’ she said at last.

He smiled but this time it didn’t even crinkle the skin around his eyes. ‘Why would I do that?’ he said easily. ‘I’m exactly where I want to be in life. How about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Are you where you want to be in life?’ he asked with a silkiness Rosalie immediately suspected. ‘Doing what you want, being who you want, with whom you want?’

She didn’t like this conversation. ‘Certainly,’ she said briskly.

‘Then we are both very fortunate.’

Rosalie’s jaw set. She couldn’t quite put a label on the quality of his voice but it suggested disbelief, and who the hell was Kingsley Ward to question her, anyway? ‘Yes, we are.’ She rose from her seat. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ she said coolly before making her way to the door marked ‘Signorinas’ at the back of the restaurant.

Once in the small but immaculately clean little cloakroom Rosalie walked across to the two tiny washbasins situated under the plain, unframed mirror. She stared at the flushed reflection and two angry eyes stared back at her. She had done what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do weeks ago when she’d taken the job, and let Kingsley Ward get under her skin. Her soft lips tightened but her irritation was at herself and not Kingsley.

Self-control. It was all about self-control, everything was, she knew that. If anyone knew that, she did. She shut her eyes, shaking her head as it drooped forward, but today the memories she usually kept firmly under lock and key surfaced in a flood. Suddenly she was a little girl again, sitting shivering on the landing with her eyes straining down into the shadowed hall as she listened to the familiar sound of her father shouting at her mother in the sitting room below. Other sounds followed, they always did, but what made this occasion more memorable than all the ones that had gone before was that in the midst of the sound of slaps there came a silence, and then her father’s voice, the tone agitated, saying, ‘Chantal? Chantal, get up. Come on, get up.’

The memory blurred at this point but she could recall the bright lights of the ambulance and then the police car when they had arrived at the house. It had been a police-woman who had come and found her, still sitting in numb silence on the stairs. They had taken her to her maternal grandparents—her father had been brought up in a children’s home and had no family—and it had been a day or two later when her grandmother had told her, very gently but with tears streaming down her face, that Mummy had gone to see the angels in heaven. Her beautiful, tender mother, who wouldn’t have hurt a fly, had never recovered consciousness from the aneurysm that had begun to bleed in her head, caused by one of her husband’s blows.

On the day of the court appearance her father had taken his own life, and at the age of five she had become an orphan. Her grandparents had looked after her from that point, and with her mother having had younger siblings who had gone on to have children her childhood had not been an unhappy one. But there had been a void, a massive gap because she had been a mummy’s girl from the moment she had been born. As she had grown she had begun to understand why her mother had absorbed herself so completely in her child. Her grandparents had told her that her father had been an unhappy individual as a result of a traumatic childhood, insanely jealous of any attention his wife had paid to another adult, be they man or woman, and consequently her mother had led a life isolated from the rest of the world in an effort to keep the peace. Her headstone was a memorial that this hadn’t worked.

Rosalie raised her head, her eyes large and dark with the painful memories. When she’d been eighteen and entering university her grandparents had decided to return to their native France to live their autumn years with the relatives there; her grandfather’s health had been poor and he’d wanted to be close to his brothers.