Mistress for a Night

The humiliation wouldn’t be nearly so great if they really had been enjoying—

No! She mustn’t let herself think that way, conjuring up images of their naked bodies twined together in the silky water, of slow, exploring hands, of kisses that deepened until they were devouring each other, of a hunger that built until it exploded into a wild white heat that fused them together in the ultimate intimacy…

Grimly, she blanked out the erotic mental images, dragged off her crumpled clothes and stepped under the shower, adjusting the jet to cold. The heat seemed even more oppressive than usual now. Liberal dashes of cool cologne gave marginal relief. She brushed her wet hair and left it loose to dry.

He would have showered, too, by now. And packed. He hadn’t appeared to have much in the way of luggage with him, so maybe he had never intended to stay for more than a couple of days. Maybe even less, if other things hadn’t got in the way of what he had really come for. Unfinished business.

Things like the unreal, out-of-this-world happening down at the woodland pool, the discovery of the letter her mother had started to write. So what was he doing now? Passing time, leaving only the minimal amount of it to be spent with her, asking questions? Was he lying on his bed, naked, the paddle fans turning above his body, cooling him down?

She imagined his body as it had been this morning, tanned, lithe, sleek with water. Imagined it without the scrap of black fabric that had only just concealed his impressive manhood.

Just stop that! she told herself fiercely. Think of something else. Anything else.

What to wear? She padded to the built-in wardrobe and opened the sliding doors. No need to smother herself in all-concealing cotton, she thought rebelliously. She had nothing to hide that he hadn’t seen before.

Not bothering with underwear, because the heat was sticky now, she plucked a silky scarlet sundress from its hanger and wriggled into it. Tiny straps supported a scooped-out bodice. She could see the outline of her nipples through the clingy fabric, the soft curve of her tummy before the skirt flared out slightly, ending midway down her thighs.

Provocative. She tossed her head, shaking her hair back from her face. She should worry! If he took one look at her and had a resurgence of the lust that had almost overcome the two of them down by the pool then there really wouldn’t be a problem.

He had a boat to catch, a plane out to sanity and reason.

The minimum of make-up: a slick of moisturiser, a flick of mascara and a gloss of scarlet on her lips. All flags flying. They would never see each other again, and she wanted his last memory of her to be vibrant.

And that mattered to her. Probably much more than it should.

She spent the waiting time in the quietness of Vivienne’s former room. She felt a deep empathy with her mother now, understood her, the way she’d acted. They’d both loved and been betrayed. The only difference between them was the outcome. Vivienne had had her child, and had bitterly resented the financial drain, the loss of freedom and the opportunity to have fun. Whereas she had lost the child she would have loved devotedly for the rest of her life.

She couldn’t blame her mother for the way she’d acted. Different people handled disillusionment and pain in different ways.

She heard Blossom calling out for her and suddenly became aware of the rain, a heavy tropical downpour. She slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

‘So there you are. Mr Jason’s looking for you. I put cold drinks in the sitting room.’ Blossom’s eyebrows rose when she saw the way the flirty scarlet dress clung, but she nodded her head in silent approval. ‘Mr Jason tell me I won’t be needed again today, so I’m off to my own place to finish up my ironing—that’s if the rain don’t drown me first!’

It was coming down in stair-rods; Georgia could hear it drumming on the roof. But it would stop as suddenly as it had started and everything would be back to normal—bright and sunny and serene. Just as she would be when Jason had taken himself out of her life again.

Which couldn’t be soon enough. She was finding his presence increasingly hard to handle.

He was waiting for her. The room was dusky, the heavy cloud cover hiding the daylight. He turned from the long window, where he’d been watching t

he once placid waters of the cove turn to a heaving gun-metal-grey capped with foam as it crashed to the shore.

As his eyes swept from the top of her head to the tips of her bare toes and slowly back again she caught the dark glitter of his smoky eyes, the tightening of his hard jawline, and her heart punched her breastbone, her nipples tightening against the silky cradling fabric in unwitting response.

He couldn’t hide the effect she had on him, she thought, with a wild and reprehensible stab of elation, and the way she’d chosen to dress was her only means of punishing him for making her body crave the magic of his.

And no chance of it rebounding on her because he would be leaving—she glanced up at the wall clock—in fifteen minutes!

She could play with fire and not get burnt!

‘Before you say anything, Georgia, let’s get one thing straight.’ His voice sounded rusty, as if he had difficulty getting it to function. ‘I’m not like your father. I don’t run from responsibilities.’ He was pouring gin into two tall glasses, topping it up with Blossom’s tangy home-made lemonade. ‘Earlier, you said you thought I’d believed what Harold said and dumped you because of it. I would have married you, provided for you and our child, regardless.’

He held out a glass to her and she stepped forward to take it, her fingers closing on the cool surface. Regardless of what? Of her coming on to Harold?

He didn’t give her time to ask, said rawly, ‘Was the fear that I might do what your father had done to your mother responsible for what you did? Was Vivienne’s resentment of you, and the reason for it, the only thing you could see?’

Her throat tightened with anguish. Accusing her of rushing for an abortion was the cruellest thing he could throw at her. Worse, far worse, than his belief that she’d been having an affair with her own stepfather. That was simply too absurd to bother to refute.

He was watching her closely, waiting for her reaction, his hands pushed into the side pockets of his narrow-fitting fawn cotton trousers, his wide shoulders rigid beneath the black polo shirt he was wearing.