Mistress for a Night

It was his own fault, of course, for mentioning something as personal as her eating habits. He regretted the lack of control that had led to the remark. It wouldn’t happen again.

‘Right.’ Briefly, unemotionally, he detailed the arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral, then commented, his tone unaltered, ‘As you didn’t bother to attend your mother’s funeral I can only assume you’re here for your stepfather’s because he discussed the contents of his will with you. However—’

‘Hold it!’ The cool detachment dropped away as she pushed herself to her feet and slapped her almost empty wine glass down on the table. She stared down at him, her wide mouth tight. ‘I was out of the city on business and knew nothing of Vivienne’s death until Harold flew out to New York the day after her funeral, so you can button your lip on the snide remarks. And, no, you choose to assume wrongly; Harold never discussed his will or his financial affairs with me.’

‘No?’ One black brow arched, grey eyes cool, cynical. ‘Then what did you discuss during your cosy little lunches? Or would you rather not tell me? Did you know,’ he said flatly, almost uninterestedly, ‘that he kept all the letters you wrote him from New York?’

What the hell did he think he was implying? Emotion, raw and sharp, tore ragged holes around her heart. She was right; Harold had obviously never put the record straight. Jason thought now, as he had done then, that she’d enthusiastically thrown herself at anything in trousers.

Over the years she’d worked so hard to block out any sign of emotion where he was concerned. She had confidently believed she’d managed it, that the only emotion she

could feel for him was a cool and distant contempt. Showing any emotion in front of him, even anger, was a definite no-no.

As he tipped the bottle to refill her glass she pulled in a deep breath and made a conscious effort to un-clamp her jaws. He couldn’t get to her; she wouldn’t let him.

Controlled again now, she responded evenly, ‘You found my letters, so I’m sure you read them through a microscope.’

She hoped he had; she did so hope he had. Duty things, and not many of them, written because she’d felt sorry for the lonely, guilt-ridden elderly man, and because it had seemed unmannerly not to reply to one or two of the dozens he’d sent her. Duty letters. Nothing in them but comments about her work, the weather.

But he didn’t tell her whether he’d read them or not, and she reminded herself that she didn’t care a fig what he thought of her and watched him push her glass towards her over the smooth, polished surface of the table.

‘Forget it.’ He sounded bored with the subject. ‘Take your wine and sit down. If you really don’t know, then I’ll run over the details of his will for you.’

She shrugged, just slightly, took the glass, but didn’t sit down. The time when she would have walked over hot coals if he’d told her to was long since past. She wandered over to the window instead, tweaked aside the heavy claret-coloured curtains and gazed up at a billion stars. It was freezing hard, but the atmosphere inside was much, much colder as Jason stated matter-of-factly, ‘Everything he had comes to you. As you know, on his marriage to your mother he sold his company—I’d already told him I had no interest in property development. The proceeds were wisely invested, so he leaves an extremely healthy portfolio. The interest on the investments means you would never have to work again if you didn’t want to. And this house, of course, and everything in it. I can’t see you keeping it on, and imagine you would prefer to sell.’

He watched her closely. Her profile, cameoed against the black of the night sky, could have been carved from marble. No reaction. No pretence of being overwhelmed by such largesse. Not even a flicker of avarice. Unlike her younger self—transparent as tap water—this new Georgia played her cards very close to her chest.

He pushed aside an unwilling respect, and wondered if his next pronouncement might produce a reaction. ‘Since Harold failed to do so, I suggest you think about making provision for Mrs Moody if you do decide to sell after probate. She’s looked after things here very efficiently for as long as I can remember. I know she’s not exactly a bundle of fun, but she means well. At her age she’s not likely to find another job with living accommodation. Think about it. Then, of course, there’s Baines. He’s done the gardens for the past thirty-odd years on ridiculously low wages. He and his wife have their own small cottage, so he won’t have so much to lose as Mrs Moody. But I would suggest he deserves something.’

That got a reaction, proving—if he’d needed proof—that his assessment of her character was spot-on. He knew it when she slowly turned her head, looking at him with cold golden eyes, her delicate nostrils slightly flared, her wide mouth curved with a slight, contemptuous smile.

‘Anyone else in need of a hand-out? You, perhaps? I would imagine so, since Harold didn’t make provision for you, either. How much would you like? Would half be enough? Or do you think you should have it all?’

She didn’t regret a word. Not a single one. He was Harold’s adopted son; naturally he would bitterly resent everything going to her, the pariah. But she wasn’t about to show misgivings in front of this man who had so decisively turned his back on her at the time when she’d needed him most.

And of course she would ensure Mrs Moody and Baines received generous recognition for their years of loyalty and service, but she had no intention of telling him that, and letting him think he still had the power to pull her strings. She’d hoped her scathing comments had made him feel small, and was so appalled when she saw him lean back on his chair and actually smile that she had to look away.

‘You’re welcome to the lot,’ he told her smoothly. ‘I make my own way. I even funded my years at university with a legacy my mother left in trust. I took nothing of Harold’s after I reached eighteen, and I want nothing of his now. As I said, you’re welcome to it.’ The derisive smile slid away, his mouth going tight. ‘I’m sure you more than earned it.’

‘If you say so.’ She lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug to indicate complete indifference, to show him he could no longer wound her with his rock-bottom opinions.

She drained the wine in her glass. She needed something to help her sleep. Then wished she hadn’t because it made her feel peculiar.

‘If that’s it, I think I’ll turn in.’

She began to head towards the door, slowly, her legs feeling a bit like cotton wool now, and Jason, watching her impassively, said, ‘Not quite.’

Her progress halted, Georgia grasped the back of a chair to steady herself. The floor seemed to be dipping and swaying under her feet. ‘What now?’ she asked belligerently. She couldn’t let him see she was tipsy, would loathe the consequent scornful amusement.

‘Blue Rock,’ he said. He watched her unwillingly. She was pale, her huge eyes wide, burning. Suddenly she looked practically out on her feet. She was too sophisticated a being to be affected by a couple of glasses of wine. Over-excited by her prospects, he guessed. Meeting up with him again wouldn’t have had that effect because she didn’t have a conscience. Well, he’d give her something else to get excited about.

‘The island, the house, and everything in it. Harold never went back after the accident. Apparently, Vivienne left a lot of personal stuff behind. I doubt you’d be interested in her clothes, but you might like to get your hands on her jewellery.’ He got to his feet. He’d had enough of her company, as much as he could take. ‘If you feel like flying out, taking the boyfriend, you’d be well looked after. Blossom and Elijah still live in the annexe and look after the house.’

The room was so quiet he could hear her breathing. Sharing space with her made his blood run hot. Suddenly, the thought of her taking up his suggestion, spending time on the island with her current boyfriend—the guy who’d answered her phone?—made every muscle in his body go into spasm.

The pigeons were coming home to roost with a vengeance, and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d behaved with reckless irresponsibility, lived through the traumatic consequences, managed to put the whole thing behind him.

Or so he’d thought.