Mistress for a Night

Let him wait. She swallowed half the contents of her glass, to ease the tension out of her throat, then put it carefully down on the glass-topped table that fronted one of the twin cretonne-upholstered sofas.

Lifting her chin, she told him coldly, ‘For a supposedly intelligent man you get some lunatic ideas. I had a miscarriage and there are people who can verify that.’ She looked pointedly at the wall clock. ‘It’s time you were on your way.’

It was enough. She couldn’t say more. She couldn’t talk about the lost child. Even after all these years it still hurt too much. She turned to walk out of the room but his voice stopped her. ‘Say that again.’

Deliberately misinterpreting his brusque instruction, she reiterated tartly, ‘It’s time you were on your way. I know how desperate you are to leave. If you don’t go now you’ll miss the airbus.’

She willed him to go, to leave her, to set her free from the bonds of the past, the searing animal magnetism of the present. But he closed the space between them and asked her, ‘Have you seen the state of the sea? I wouldn’t ask anyone to put out in that. This isn’t the normal tropical downpour, over almost as soon as it started. It’s a full-blooded storm.’

The whine of the wind, the clatter of the rain—neither had registered since she’d entered the room. His presence took up too much space in her mind to allow room for anything else. And he was close enough now for her to see the texture of his skin, the sweep of the long lashes that veiled the glitter of his eyes.

He wasn’t leaving! A rogue shaft of pleasure threaded through the welter of apprehension that made her breath catch in her throat, her heart beat faster. If she’d had the sense to note the state of the weather she would have known the seas were too wild to make the crossing to San Antonio anything other than downright dangerous. And she wouldn’t have dressed this way!

Her wicked need to punish him might very well be her own undoing!

Desperately striving to keep any trace of panic out of her voice, she told him, ‘What a bore for you. I’ll leave you to contemplate your navel, then,’ and swung away, stingingly aware of the flirtatious flick of her skirts, the way the soft fabric swung then settled back seductively against her thighs.

‘Don’t play games with me, Georgia!’ His voice was soft, smoky-dark, but the hand that fastened on her shoulder, lean fingers biting the naked flesh, was steel-hard, inescapable. ‘Teasing games could land you in more trouble than you can handle.’ He swung her round to face him, their bodies almost touching, and the sexual tension made the air fizz as his eyes drifted from her parted lips, down the long, elegant line of her throat, down to the swelling curves of her breasts, the tell-tale hardening of her nipples that the soft clingy fabric did nothing to hide.

‘Or is that what you want?’ he asked thickly. ‘Is that exactly what you’re asking for?’ The tips of his fingers were moving gently over her silky skin, both hands touching now, caressing her shoulders, easing the narrow straps out of the way.

Georgia felt herself catch fire, recognised the aching, heated quiver that began deep inside her, spreading upwards and outwards until her whole body came alive with the wanting. She sucked in her breath, caught the dark glitter of his eyes, and knew he was going to kiss her.

And knew she couldn’t break free from the chains of desire that bound them together.

CHAPTER TEN

BUT he put her gently aside. She watched his eyes, saw the battle he fought with himself, saw him win. And put her knuckles against her mouth to stifle her cry of pain and rejection.

He was stronger than she. He could tear the chains asunder and set himself free.

Georgia would have walked out of the room if she’d been able to find the strength, but she barely had the power to stand. She sank slowly down on the end of the sofa, watching from beneath her long dark lashes as he reached for his glass and drained the contents.

Then she shuddered as he walked back towards her, her body reacting to him as it always had and always would. But he merely flicked on the table lamp at her side, so that she sat exposed in a pool of light while he leant against the long window in the dim, concealing shadows.

She wished she had his strength. Meeting him again had shown her that she wasn’t anywhere near as tough as she’d thought she was. She hated the need that bound her to him, didn’t want it. She didn’t want the driven passion that pulsed between them, not without love.

She wanted his love, his trust. She wanted to be with him for the rest of her life.

The revelation hit her like a ton of bricks. She’d been hiding the truth from herself for such a long time.

And she knew the shock must be there on her face, because he said softly, ‘I’m not going to throw things at you, or verbally rip you to pieces. I didn’t follow you here to apportion blame, just to get at the truth.’

He had to grit his teeth until his jaw hurt to stop himself taking her in his arms and assuring her that he didn’t bite. Or only very gently, and in all the right places.

He caught that thought and quashed it firmly. Thinking of kissing every inch of her delectable body was not a good idea. From the moment she’d walked into the room, sexy and sassy, standing her corner with her bare feet firmly planted on the ground, desire had eaten at him until his body could barely contain it.

Provocative witch. Clearly she wasn’t wearing a thing under that seductive scrap she’d put on, with her long hair falling down her back, her mouth a pouting scarlet invitation.

Every damn thing about her was an invitation. An invitation he had to turn down because he knew what she was. Leaving the abortion aside—which now, apparently, she was set to deny—there was still the unsavoury business with Harold coming between them.

His mouth turned grim. There were too many unanswered questions surrounding that relationship. He didn’t think he could hear the details without throwing up. So he wasn’t going to ask.

Making sure that there was no hint of antagonism in his tone, to make her clam up and go on the defensive, he said, ‘I was told on good authority that you’d had an abortion. So, OK, I know current thinking says a woman’s body is her own, to do with as she wants, but it was my child too. I think I have the right to know what happened. And, more importantly, why it happened.’

A band of anguish tightened around Georgia’s heart. Why was it possible to hold on to love for so long? The seeds had been sown ten years ago, had briefly blossomed, but they hadn’t died, as she’d fooled herself into believing. Just grown stronger.

The bitterness of that past betrayal welling up and spilling over, she said, ‘If it’s so important to you, why did you take so long to ask questions? I left Lytham because I was frightened by what Harold had said. I might as well have stopped existing. You never once made contact. So why rake over it now?’