Accidental Mistress

‘Why, where do they live?’ he said sharply.

Perhaps he imagined they were starving in some fetid foreign prison, she thought sourly—and that she came from a whole family of con artists.

‘Everywhere and nowhere,’ she said with deliberate vagueness.

He wasn’t going to let her get away with it. He sat up. ‘What the hell does that mean?’ he rapped out.

No, he certainly didn’t like being kept out of the information loop. No wonder he had come hot-footing to investigate his uncle’s apparent brainstorm.

‘It means they rarely stay long in one place—at the moment, it’s somewhere in Central Africa, at one of the missions,’ she said, sipping her water.

‘Your parents are missionaries?’ His startled incredulity was her reward.

His coffee cup had rattled on its saucer, and a drop of coffee splashed out onto the tempered-glass table top. She watched in malicious silence as it soaked into the edge of his immaculate French cuff, making an ugly brown blot on the light blue cotton.

For an instant she flirted with the idea of allowing him to believe she was a vicar’s daughter, but she was forestalled by Peter’s arrival and eager plunge into the conversation.

‘Not missionaries, although they do seem to go to the extremes of altruism with a very similar fervour!’ he said, explaining their demanding jobs as he carefully negotiated the single step and limped out onto the timber decking. He always insisted that it didn’t bother him, but Emily guessed that the bad break twenty years ago that had left him with one leg slightly shorter than the other was now gifting him an arthritic hip.

Ethan had half risen to his feet, but didn’t offer to help as Peter awkwardly repositioned a heavy chair to his liking, even though Emily could tell from his coiled tension that he was itching to take over.

‘How did it go with Robinson—did you sort out things to your satisfaction?’ he asked smoothly.

Cut off in mid-spate about her parents’ past endeavours, Peter appeared momentarily confused. ‘Hmm? What? Oh, yes, yes…just a trivial little personal matter,’ he said dismissively as he settled into his chair.

‘What? No Scrooge-like attempt to get it done on the cheap? You always used to say you hated wasting money on lawyers,’ persisted Ethan with a soft chuckle that made Emily blink. ‘You relied on me to deal with all your legal donkey-work.’

‘Yes, well…’ Peter adjusted his bow tie and smiled sheepishly. ‘I know what a big shot you are these days. I don’t like to trouble you with every little thing…’

‘Never too busy for you, Uncle Pete.’ Ethan’s light words carried an undertone of seriousness that made his uncle clear his throat.

‘I know that, my boy, I know…but there’s no need for you to waste your valuable time on me—’

‘Family is always top of my priority list. So anything you need, any time, even if it’s just a rant about the latest cricket test.’ Ethan grinned. ‘You have my mobile number, and you know my office can always get hold of me at short notice on the radio if I’m in the air, or the satellite phone if I’m out on a remote job site.’

‘Yes, of course, of course I do!’ Peter’s eyes darted to Emily and she responded instinctively to his slightly hunted look. She knew how uncomfortable it felt to be on the receiving end of all that concentrated attention, and she was getting the subliminal message Ethan was sending loud and clear: Peter might live alone, but he wasn’t unprotected.

‘Your nephew obviously has a very pronounced sense of responsibility,’ she ventured.

‘Yes, he does, doesn’t he?’ Peter enjoined hopefully, his light brown eyes latching on to the fugitive gleam that leavened her pompous statement.

‘He also has a very pronounced appetite. I would have saved you another muffin if he hadn’t taken the lion’s share,’ she continued gravely. ‘That’s his third.’

‘Coop would have my guts for garters if I had three!’ Peter perked up at her nonsense. ‘You can see who the favourite is around here…’

‘Tell-tale,’ Ethan growled at her, his eyes smouldering with suspicion over her silent exchange of glances with Peter, even as he affected good-humoured resignation to the whimsical turn of the conversation. ‘You were eating them, as well,’ he accused, sounding even more like a thwarted boy.

‘Half a one,’ she corrected him, pointing at the pile of crumbs on her plate, adopting a pious blue gaze.

‘What about all those starving children in Africa?’ He trotted out the hoary old parental reproach as being particularly apposite.

But Emily had long lived with the pressures of perceived guilt. ‘It would’ve gone mouldy by the time it got there—anyway, I do much more good with my donations to international children’s charities.’

That should have shut him up, but he crossed his arms over his chest, tipping back his head to study her with arrogant self-assurance. ‘I bet you’re an only child.’

It was her turn to be suspicious. ‘What makes

you say that?’