His Temporary Mistress

And yet she couldn’t imagine him being anything other than fair, which, reason told her, was ridiculous, considering the way their relationship had commenced. He had blackmailed her into doing what he wanted. Since when had he turned into a good guy? He had drifted into a sexual relationship for no better reason than she had made a change from the sort of women he usually dated, but he had nothing to offer aside from a consummate ability to make love. So how was it that she had managed to fall in love with him? For every glaring downside in his personality, her rebellious mind insisted on pointing out the good things about him—his wit, his sincere attempts to do what was right for his family, his incredible intellect, which would have made a lesser man sneering and contemptuous of those less gifted than he was, and yet, in Damien’s case, did not.

The decision to call Eleanor or not was taken out of her hands when, a week and a half after Damien had walked out of her house, Eleanor called.

She sounded fine. Yes, yes, yes, everything was coming along nicely. The prognosis was good...

‘But my son tells me that the two of you have decided to take a break...’

So that was how he had phrased it. Clever in so far as he had left open the possibility that the break might not be permanent. His mother’s disappointment would be drip-fed in small stages, protecting her from any dramatic stress their separation might have engendered.

‘Um...yes...that’s the...er...plan...’

‘I confess that I was very surprised indeed when Damien told me...’

‘And I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to break the news as well, Eleanor.’ Violet rushed into apologetic speech. ‘I wanted so much to...er...’

‘I’d never seen Damien so relaxed and happy.’ Eleanor swept past Violet’s stammering interruption. ‘A different man. I’ve always worried about the amount of time he devotes to work, but you must have done something wonderful to him, my darling, because he’s finally seemed to get his perspective in order... He hasn’t just made time for me, but he’s made time for his brother...’

‘That’s...great...’

‘Which is why I’m puzzled as to how it is that suddenly you and he are...taking a break...especially when I can see how much the two of you love one another...’

‘No! No, no, no... Damien just isn’t...he’s...we...’

‘You’re stumbling over your words, my darling,’ Eleanor said gently. ‘Take your time. You love my son. I know you do. A woman knows these things when it comes to other women...especially an old lady like me...’

Violet lapsed into temporary defeated silence. What could she say to that? Even with Eleanor talking down the end of a phone, she still had the uncanny feeling that the older woman was seeing right into the very heart of her. ‘You’re not old,’ she finally responded. ‘And I’m so glad the treatment’s going well...’

‘Is that your way of changing the conversation?’ Eleanor asked tartly. ‘Darling, I do wish we could have sat down and talked about this together, woman to woman. Somehow, hearing it from Damien...well, you know what men are like. He can be terribly tight-lipped when it comes to expressing anything emotional...’

‘That’s true...’

‘So why don’t you pop over to his place, say this evening...around eight...? We can...chat...’

With unerring ability, Violet realised that Eleanor had found her Achilles heel. She would have thought that Hell might have frozen over before she faced Damien again. She just wanted to somehow try and get him out of her system and paying him a visit was the last thing destined to achieve that goal. But she was very fond of his mother and Eleanor, despite her cheerful optimism about her health, did not deserve to be stressed out.

She was also still in the throes of guilt at not having spoken to the older woman yet.

‘You’re in London?’

‘Flying visit. Check-up... So, darling, I really must dash now. I’ll see you shortly, shall I? Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to that! Don’t think that I’m going to allow you to creep out of my life that easily.’

Those two, Eleanor thought with satisfaction as she peered through the window of her chauffeur-driven car on her way back down to Devon, needed to have their heads banged together. Or at least made to sit and really talk because she refused to believe that whatever had taken place between them couldn’t be sorted with a heartfelt conversation. And who better to engineer that but herself? If, at the end of it, things were over, then so be it but Damien had been so sketchy in his details, so alarmingly evasive...and men so often didn’t recognise what was best for them...

Violet was disconnected before she had time to start thinking on her feet. Was, for instance, Damien going to be present? Would there be an awkward three-way conversation where they both tried desperately to undo what they had so carefully knitted together at the very beginning? She assumed not. She assumed that Eleanor had invited her for a one to one. She had no idea what she would say to the other woman. She would have to be vague. Her fingers itched to dial Damien’s mobile and ask him what he had said to his mother but she felt faint just at the thought of hearing that deep, dark, sexy drawl down the end of the line.

Several hours later, standing in front of the imposing Georgian block, some of which had been converted into luxury apartments, others remaining as vast houses, such as his, Violet had to fight down a sickening attack of nerves.

The road where he lived was a statement to the last word in opulence. Gleaming back wrought-iron railings guarded each of the towering white-fronted mansions. The steps to each front door were identical in their scrubbed cleanliness and the front doors were all black with shiny brass knockers for appearance only as a bank of buzzers was located at the side.

She had only been to his place a handful of times but she remembered it clearly. The exquisite hall with its flagstoned floor, the pale walls, the blond wooden flooring that dominated the huge open spaces. Everything within those mega-expensive walls was of the highest standard and state-of-the-art. There was no clutter. She had always found its lack of homeliness off-putting. Now, as she dithered in front of the imposing black door, she had to take some deep breaths to steady her nerves, even though she was nearly a hundred per cent certain that he would not be at home. A cosy chat with Eleanor and she would be on her way. Her uneasy conscience that she hadn’t contacted the older woman would be put to rest. They would meet in the future, of course they would, and it would be fine just as long as Damien wasn’t around, and maybe, down the line, he could be around because she would have moved on from him.

She pressed the buzzer and settled back to wait because she was certain that Eleanor would not be moving at the speed of light to get to the door, however keen she was to see her.

It had been a lovely day which had mellowed into a cool but pleasant evening. In this expensive part of London, there were few cars and even less foot traffic and she was idly watching a young woman saunter past on the opposite side of the wide, tree-lined road, attempting to infuse a reluctant puppy with enthusiasm for a walk it clearly didn’t want, when the door was pulled open behind her.

The greeting died on her lips. For a few seconds her heart seemed to arrest. Damien framed the doorway. He was wearing a pair of faded black jeans that hugged his long, muscular legs and a white T-shirt, close-fitting enough to outline the strong, graceful lines of his body. Memories of touching that body rushed towards her in a tidal wave of hot awareness. In only a matter of a few months, he had guided her down myriad sensual roads never explored before. Her mouth went dry as she thought of a few of them.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked inanely.

‘It’s my house and, funny...I was just about to ask you the same thing.’ He half stepped out, pulling the door behind him and blocking out the light from the hall.

‘I came to see your mother.’ She just wanted to stare and stare and keep on staring. Instead, she looked down at her shoes, some sensible black ballet pumps that worked well with her skinny jeans. She had stopped dressing to hide. It was one of his many lasting legacies to her—the self-confidence to be the person she was.

‘And that would be...? Because...?’ Damien leant indolently against the doorframe and folded his arms. His fabulous eyes were veiled and watchful as he stared down at her. However, his nerves were taut and he was angry with himself for the seeping away of his self-control. There was nothing left to be said on the subject of their non-relationship. He had offered her marriage. She had thrown his offer back in his face and he was not a man who allowed second bites at the cherry.

He wondered why she had come. Had she had second thoughts? Had she come round to all the advantages marriage to him would provide? His mouth curled with derision. He shifted as his body refused to cooperate and jumped into gear as his eyes unconsciously traced the sexy outline of her breasts underneath the figure-hugging top she was wearing. But hell, she could wear something only seen on someone’s maiden aunt and yet have any red-blooded male spinning round in his tracks to stare. He couldn’t understand how he could ever have credited her with being anything but sex on legs. He must have been blind and those tight jeans...that jumper. He wanted to pounce and rip them off her so that he could touch what was underneath. Given the circumstances, it was an entirely inappropriate reaction and he was furious with himself for even allowing his mind to travel down those pathways.