The Pregnant Mistress

“You’ve never had a mistress?” Samantha asked.

Demetrios took a deep breath. “Yes, I have had mistresses.”

He felt her tense under his hands and he held her harder, determined to make her listen. “But they have not lived with me. I have not woken up in the morning and shared breakfast with them in this house. I have never wanted that.”

“And now you do?” Sam’s voice shook and she hated herself for it, for wanting to believe him.

“Yes, now I do.”

SANDRA MARTON is an author who used to tell stories to her dolls when she was a little girl. Today, readers around the world fall in love with her sexy, dynamic heroes and outspoken, independent heroines. Her books have topped bestseller lists and won many awards. Sandra loves dressing up for a night out with her husband as much as she loves putting on her hiking boots for a walk in a south-western desert or a north-eastern forest. You can write to her at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut, USA (please enclose a self-addressed envelope and postage for reply), or visit her Web site at www.sandramarton.com.

The Pregnant Mistress is the seventh book in her well-loved miniseries THE BARONS.

The Pregnant Mistress

Sandra Marton

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

SAMANTHA BREWSTER was bone-weary even though she’d slept like a corpse the night before, but crossing too many time zones always did her in.

Why wait for a better moment to slip away?

The party was going full steam. Carin’s and Rafe’s guests crowded the living room; the band was playing a hot samba and everybody was having a blast. Surely nobody would notice if she left, not even her ever-diligent mother and sisters.

Sam took a sip of her caparhinia, savoring the sweet taste of the rum, and put the glass on one of the little tables scattered over the moonlit terrace. She’d done the right thing by making an obligatory appearance at the festivities. Now she could go upstairs, kick off her spiked heels, trade her green silk cropped top and trousers for a T-shirt and a pair of cotton panties and tumble into bed. That was all she wanted to do, after spending forty-plus hours waiting in terminals and getting on and off airplanes. Jakarta to Honolulu, Honolulu to San Francisco, San Francisco to New York because she’d wanted to make a quick stop in her apartment, and then New York to Sao Paulo…

Just thinking about it made her want to curl up right there on the flagstone terrace and sleep.

Sam grinned. She could just imagine her sisters’ reactions if she did. And her mother’s. Marta would be horrified, more horrified than she’d been a couple of hours ago when Sam had teased her about what she planned on wearing to Carin’s and Rafe’s party.

“Jeans and a T-shirt?” Marta had said, staring at Sam as if she were a changeling who’d been dumped on the doorstep at birth. “To your sister’s fifth anniversary party? Honestly, Samantha…”

“Honestly, Mom, Sam’s kidding.” Carin had shot a beseeching look at her over their mother’s head. “Isn’t that right, Sam? You’re just joking.”

“Of course she is,” Amanda had said quickly, flashing the same ‘oh please, don’t make a scene’ look.

Too bad, Sam thought ruefully. Marriage changed people. Once upon a time, her sisters would have known a gag when they heard it. Of course, she’d been joking. Even she knew better than to turn up at a party like this in jeans. It was just that she was tired to start with and when she realized her ever-hopeful family was still trying to get her Settled Down and Married, well, she’d gone from tired to cranky in the blink of an eye.

So, okay. Sam ran her hands through her hair even though she knew it wouldn’t do much good. The humid Brazilian night had turned the tumbling auburn waves into a mass of wild curls despite enough hair spray to lacquer the entire chorus line in a Las Vegas production but she supposed she looked civilized enough to go back through the living room, nodding and smiling to anybody foolish enough to try and engage her in conversation. She could probably even assure Carin she was having a wonderful time, if she bumped into her. All she had to do was make it through the hall, to the stairs, and…

Sam’s breath caught.

A man had just entered the living room. He was tall, with the kind of wide-shouldered, lean-hipped, long-legged body that did justice to his black tux. His hair was the color of midnight, his eyes were blue or gray—it was hard to tell, at this distance—and were set in a face that was all hard lines and chiseled bones.

He was, to put it bluntly, a gorgeous specimen. A woman would have to be dead not to notice. Suddenly Sam didn’t feel quite so tired anymore.

If her sisters wanted to play matchmaker, why didn’t they set her up with someone like this? Not that it would get them the desired result. Handsome or not—and on a scale from one to ten, this guy was an absolute twelve—she wasn’t interested in settling down…and that, Sam thought with a sigh, was the reason her family never steered her to hunks.

Men who looked like this weren’t Suitable. They didn’t have Marriage on their minds any more than she did. She’d heard the speech often in the days when she’d still been foolish enough to take the latest man in her life to some family function.

“He’s charming,” Marta would say during the inevitable post-mortem, “and handsome, of course. But, darling, you know he’s not husband material. He’s, well, he’s Unsuitable.”

Well, yes. Unsuitable for marriage, maybe, but marriage wasn’t the only reason a woman would want a man. And Sam would tell her mother she was right, that Jason or Brad or Charlie was definitely not a man who would ever Marry and Settle Down and that was fine because she wasn’t a woman who was interested in those things, either.

Unfortunately, her mother just wouldn’t believe it. Neither would her sisters, now that they were married. Sam had become her sisters’ Project. They’d taken up their mother’s cause. That was why she knew, in her bones, that somewhere in this crowd lurked the newest in the long list of men who were Eminently Suitable, someone her family was convinced she would just adore.

Mister Eminently Suitable. Mister Deadly Dull.

Sam took her glass from the table and sipped at her drink. The hell she would.

She wouldn’t adore any man with marriage on his mind, who’d want to clip her wings, put her into a gilded cage, turn her from a world-class translator fluent in half a dozen languages into a kitchen-class housefrau with a hundred recipes at her fingertips.

Her family actually thought that would make her happy. It was the reason they kept introducing her to the Eminently Suitable men they believed capable of transforming and reforming her. Last time, Marta had come up with a stodgy academic twenty years her senior. The time before that, it had been a widowed rancher who’d given her a fascinating evening telling her all about the finer points of bull semen.

The truth was that both men had been nice enough, but Sam wasn’t looking for nice. She was looking for freedom, adventure, and an occasional liaison with the kind of man who could make her blood heat without even touching her.

Someone like the Twelve who’d strolled through the door a few minutes ago.

Sam scanned the room. Where was he? Ah. There he was, talking with a blonde who looked as if she’d be happy if he’d strip her naked right then and there. No. Her sisters wouldn’t introduce her to anyone like him. Since their marriages, they seemed to think they were the only Brewster women who could safely be involved with dangerously sexy types.

“The kinds of men you date won’t ever settle down,” Amanda had said primly at breakfast, and Sam had thought, sadly, Mandy, Mandy, what happened to you? Was her sister turning into a Marta-clone?

“That’s right,” Sam had replied, just as seriously. “That’s what makes them so much more interesting.”

Carin had sighed, and Amanda had sighed, and the only thing that had saved them all was that Sam had sighed, too, with all the drama she could muster. Her sisters had tried to look stern but, thank goodness, they hadn’t been able to pull it off. All three of them had started to giggle and, finally, they’d laughed so hard that Rafe and Nick had asked them to be let in on the joke, which had only made them laugh harder.

Later, Sam saw the four of them with their heads together, deep in a low-pitched conversation that stopped abruptly when they spotted her. Her brothers-in-law—Twelves, the both of them—had colored and said hello, wasn’t it a beautiful day, and Sam had known, known, that they were all part of the Get Samantha Married conspiracy.

The proof, if she’d needed any, had come a couple of hours later.

“You’ve been to Greece, haven’t you, Sam?” Nick had said casually over lunch.

“Uh-huh.” Sam had speared a grape tomato with her fork. “Beautiful place.”

Everyone had stilled. “It is,” Nick had said to the rest of the table. “A beautiful place.” And they all nodded before conversation resumed.

A little while later Rafe had strolled by while she was stretched on a chaise longue, pretending to read but really napping under the hot kiss of the sun.

“So,” he’d said brightly, “do you speak Greek?”

“Tourist Greek, I guess. You know, ‘Where is the toilet? How much does that cost?’ That kind of stuff.” Sam had pushed her sunglasses down her nose and looked at him over the rims. “Why? Is there a reason I should?”

“No, no,” he’d replied quickly. Too quickly. That was why warning bells rang in her head when first Carin and then Amanda just happened to stop by her room as she dressed for the party and agreed, with studied nonchalance, that it was truly a pity she didn’t speak Greek because one of the guests, an old friend of Rafe’s and Nick’s, was from Greece.

“Well, of course, I’ve never met Mr. Karas but I should think he’d have appreciated it if someone spoke his language,” Carin had murmured, studying her carefully manicured nails.

“Interesting,” Sam had said politely. “That the gentleman should be a friend of Rafe’s and Nick’s and speak only Greek. I’d have thought English was sort of the lingua franca that the three of them would have in common.”

Her sisters had tripped over their own words, hastily explaining that Demetrios Karas spoke English, of course.

“Ah,” Sam had replied, as if she hadn’t already figured out their plan, “is that his name? Demetrios Karas?”

Yes. It was. And he was a Shipping Magnate—Sam could almost hear the capitalization—and even though she didn’t speak Greek, it would be kind of her—

“And such a help to Rafe and me,” Carin had added, with a bright smile.

“—kind of you, Sam, if you’d try and make Mr. Karas feel comfortable by spending a little time with him tonight.”

Sam sighed and folded her hands around her half-empty glass.

What she was going to do was make herself comfortable by going to her room. Tomorrow, she’d tell her sisters she’d waited as long as she could but the estimable Mr. Karas had not arrived by the time exhaustion overcame her. That much was certainly true. She had yet to spot any short, overweight, overaged Eminently Suitable shipping magnates, and she didn’t want to. The probability was that she was too tired to be polite to Demetrios Karas if and when he swooped down on her.

Though, if she were in the mood, she could probably dredge up a smile for the hunk who’d wandered in a little while ago.

She wasn’t. She really was tired and besides, her determined family would be watching and who knew what they’d do if they saw her flirting with a dark, dangerous, sexy stud? Still, it didn’t hurt to see what he was up to…There he was, surrounded this time by a little covey of females. Two blondes, a brunette and one whose hair was highlighted so many shades that she looked like a used paintbrush. All of them were gazing up at the man as if they wanted to eat him, whole.

What a fine idea, Sam thought dreamily.

Whoops! Oh, yes. She was tired, for sure. She liked men and she liked sex, but she wasn’t given to daydreaming about…

Uh-oh. Carin had just rushed into the living room. She gave a gave a squeal of delight and launched herself at Mr. Twelve…who looked over Carin’s dark head, straight at Samantha.

Sam’s pulse sky-rocketed. His eyes were, indeed, the hot blue of a summer sky on the Côte d’Azur. They swept her from head to foot, then climbed again until they met hers and locked. Carin leaned back in his arms, said something. He laughed, turned his attention to her…and it was all over.

Sam let out her breath. All over? It had never been. He couldn’t see her, not on the dark terrace.

She swung away, moved further into the darkness. Tired, she thought with a tiny shudder, that was what it was. Her hand trembled as she lifted her glass and brought it to her lips. It was ridiculous to feel so shaky. A good thing she was alone out here. It was a magnificent night, fragrant with flowers that bloomed in the pots set on the flagstone floor and lit by a full moon that rode high over the Brazilian prairie. Too hot, she’d heard one woman say of the weather, but to Sam it felt just right.

“Hello.”

Her heart kicked against her ribs. She spun around…but it wasn’t him. And it couldn’t be the Greek. This was a tall, pleasant-looking guy with sandy hair. Very civilized. Civilized? What an odd distinction to attach to a person she didn’t even know. Everybody here was civilized, the women in their elegant gowns, the men in their tuxes. How much more civilized could you get? Still, there was something—well, something less than civilized about the man she’d been watching, a hint of raw, even primitive power…

Sam blinked and put out her hand. “Hi. I’m Samantha Brewster.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too, unless…I’m sure it’s not, but just reassure me. Your name isn’t Demetrios, is it?”

He laughed. “No way! I’m Jack Adams. I went to school with Nick al Rashid. And you’re his sister-in-law, Samantha.”

How many Eminently Suitables were wandering around tonight, Sam thought grimly, clutching her name in their reliable, stultifying hands?

“Ah,” she said politely, “then you must know his wife. My sister.”

Jack did. He and Sam talked about Philadelphia, where he lived, and New York, where she lived. They talked about Indonesia, where she’d just been, and New Jersey, where he’d just been. Then Jack fell silent, cleared his throat and said it would be nice to get together sometime, maybe when he was in Manhattan on business.

“I’d love to,” Sam said, “but I’m hardly ever home. I do a lot of traveling.”

Jack’s smile turned cool. “Yeah,” he said, “so I’ve heard.” He excused himself, went inside and melted into the crowd.

Sam took a sip of her caparhinia.

Well, hell. She hadn’t wanted to be impolite and she’d ended up being unkind, instead. She hadn’t meant to be; she’d just pulled out the first excuse that came to mind but now that she thought about it, telling someone not to call you because you did a lot of traveling ranked right up there with “Sorry, but I can’t see you tonight. I have to wash my hair.”

It wasn’t her fault. Not really. She was just wary, that was all. It was her sisters’ fault. The two of them needed to start minding their own business instead of hers.

She probably shouldn’t have flown down to Rio de Ouro for this party, not after three months translating Italian into English and English into Italian as the language liaison for ethnologists from Rome and San Francisco, but she hadn’t wanted to miss Carin’s and Rafe’s fifth anniversary or her niece’s fifth birthday. The two events were only separated by a few days, a fact that neither her sister nor brother-in-law ever denied, and who could blame them, when they were so obviously still crazy in love? If only Carin wasn’t convinced love was the universal panacea.

“I met Rafe at a party just like this one,” she’d chirped this morning.

“So did I,” Amanda had chirped back. “Met Nick at a party, I mean.”

Sam gave a sigh and peered into the living room again. Carin was nowhere in sight. She could chance a quick exit…But the man was still there. He was talking with someone whose name she couldn’t remember. The Twelve smiled. So did the other man. They shook hands and the other guy wandered off…

Samantha’s heart thudded.

There was no doubt about it. The stranger was looking at her. Directly at her, while a little smile curved over his mouth, and now he was coming towards the terrace, towards her, making his way through the crowded room…

“Demetrios!”

Sam’s eyes widened. The booming voice belonged to her brother-in-law but the man who responded to it by stopping dead in his tracks and turning towards Rafe was no rotund, over-aged Lothario.

It was Mr. Twelve.

She watched, openmouthed, as he and her brother-in-law clasped hands, then laughed and threw their arms around each other in a bear hug.

“When did you get here, Demetrios?”

Demetrios. Demetrios Karas. Sam could hardly get her mind around the reality. This gorgeous creature was the man her sisters wanted her to meet? Not a toad that marriage would turn into a prince? This tall, handsome, dangerously sexy-looking man was their idea of Mister Eminently Suitable?

Only two women floating on the euphoria of wedded bliss would come up with such a plan. Demetrios Karas was no more marriage material than she was. What was that old saying? It took one to know one. Well, she knew. The man was a confirmed bachelor, a state of mind Sam understood, completely.

She stepped quickly back into the darkness and bit her lip to keep from bursting into laughter. Here she’d been skulking around because she didn’t want to be shoved into the arms of someone like the professor or the rancher, men who’d expect her to cook a hot meal at the end of a long, dull day of knitting or crocheting or whatever it was the wives of men like that did and all the time her sisters’ quarry had been the best-looking male on three continents.

Make that four continents.

Marriage must have turned her sisters’s brains to mush.

Surely, they knew this man was not marriage material. He would cherish his freedom just as much as she cherished hers. Actually, she wouldn’t even date someone like this. Oh, he might be fun for an evening but that would about do it. The smile. The swagger. He’d be self-centered, hot-tempered…and Greek. Really Greek, as in old-world, I-am-male, you-are-female, macho.

Sam rolled her eyes.

Just wait until she got hold of Carin and Amanda in the morning. Her brothers-in-law, too. And her mother, who’d done more than her fair share of trying to find her The Right Man. Get out of my life, she’d tell the bunch of them. No more matchmaking. No more setting me up. No more—

“Samantha.”

Rafe purred her name in that wonderful Brazilian accent of his. Sam took a deep breath and turned towards him.

“Rafe,” she said calmly. She smiled, rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. “What a lovely party.”

“Carin arranged it all,” he said proudly.

“Well, she did a wonderful job.”

Rafe nodded. Then he tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and cleared his throat. “So. Have you met everyone?”

Here we go, she thought. “How could I?” she said, with wide-eyed innocence. “You have a zillion guests. I couldn’t possibly meet everyone.”

“Ah. No, of course not. But you should come inside, Sam, so you can—so you can meet some of them.”

She stared at her usually unflappable brother-in-law. A flush spread across his tanned cheeks and she sighed.

“Rafe,” she said gently, “I do not wish to meet Demetrios Karas.”

“Carin thinks…”

“Carin should stop thinking. About me, anyway.” Sam softened her words with a smile. “I’m happy as I am. Honestly.”

Her brother-in-law looked relieved. “I know it. I tried telling that to her, but…”

“You didn’t say anything to him, did you? To Karas?”

“Certainly not,” Rafe said briskly.

“Well, that’s good.” Sam fluttered her lashes. “Because I’d hate to have him think of me as goods in the marketplace, if I should decide to go over and introduce myself.”

“But you just said—”

“I said I didn’t want to meet him. I meant as a marriage prospect.” She dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper. “Actually, he wouldn’t be a very good one.”

“He would agree with you, I am certain,” Rafe said, and smiled.

“But he’d make a great evening’s entertainment.”

“Samantha!”

Sam laughed. “I’m joking.”

Of course she was. It was all a joke. The matchmaking. The handsome stranger with the groupies hanging all over him. The attraction she’d imagined she felt to him and the idea that he’d been looking at her. Even if he had noticed her, even if he were her type, what did it matter? She wasn’t in the mood to get involved with anybody, not for an evening, not for a week, not for a long time. She wanted some peace and quiet while she came down after the months in Indonesia. Some simple translating arrangement that would keep her in New York for a bit. Then, perhaps, she’d be in the mood to meet someone and enjoy him until the next job took her someplace else.

“…if you’ll forgive me.”

Sam focused her eyes on Rafe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get that.”

“I said I was going to find my wife and see if I can steal her for myself for a little while. That is, if you’ll excuse me…?”

She smiled. “Of course. Actually, when you do find Carin, would you give her a message? Would you tell her the party’s marvelous but I’m completely wiped out, and I’m going to call it a night?”

“Of course.” Rafe kissed her temple. “Boa noite, Sam.”

“Good night, Rafe.”

That was precisely what she was going to do. No slinking around on the dark terrace, either. She’d go straight through the house. She’d been behaving like a schoolgirl, trying to avoid Demetrios Karas. And so much for imagining he’d been watching her, coming to claim her…

To claim her?

Sam rolled her eyes. Enough was enough. She needed a good night’s sleep and she was going to get one. She smoothed back her hair, lifted her chin, put a polite smile on her face, walked briskly into the crowded living room…

And went in search of Demetrios Karas.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE was beautiful, this woman with hair the color of autumn and eyes the deep green of the open sea.

Demetrios had noticed her as soon as he entered the room.

She was a vision of femininity in silk a shade just paler than her eyes. A short top—cropped, his last mistress had called the style—skimmed her breasts. Her trousers matched the pale green top. Ordinarily, he didn’t care for women in trousers, but these…

Idly, his eyes traveled the length of her body.

These were different. They began just below her navel, clung to her hips and thighs before falling to her ankles. Her shoes were the same pale green and seemed to be made of nothing but straps and slender, delicately spiked heels.

Only a saint would not have imagined her wearing just the heels and, perhaps, a scrap or two of tantalizingly placed lace, and no one would ever propose him for canonization.