Mistress by Agreement

‘Don’t say fine.’ He raised a hand, palm facing her. ‘I couldn’t stand it. Look, what sort of a guy do you think I am? You’re in pain and the least I can do is to make sure you have something to eat before you turn in. Okay? Where’s the kitchen?’

This was crazy. Her lips were still tingling from the brief contact with his and she wanted to ask him why he had kissed her, but the fact that he had seemed to dismiss it as totally unimportant made it difficult. In fact, if it weren’t for the tingling she’d have wondered if she’d imagined it. But he had kissed her, and that wasn’t in the contract. No way, no how. But how did you throw a six-foot-plus-a-few-inches, hard, lean, muscled man out of your flat when you couldn’t even walk properly?

Her heart was beating so hard it hurt, but she managed to keep her voice very matter-of-fact when she said, ‘I am more than capable of making myself a sandwich and after that lovely lunch I couldn’t eat anything more.’ That was a lie. She was amazed to find she was starving. Perhaps breaking a bone in your ankle was an appetite enhancer? Or perhaps it was all the nervous energy she expended around this man?

‘A sandwich?’ He eyed her reprovingly. ‘It’s—’ he consulted the magnificent gold watch on his wrist ‘—now nearly eight, and we ate at one. You need something more than a sandwich and so do I.’ It was a definite statement of fact, which brooked no reply.

It seemed churlish to tell him he was perfectly welcome to leave and go for a meal somewhere—considering he’d just told her he’d cancelled his dinner engagement for her—but that was exactly what she felt like doing. Rosalie bit back the words, saying instead, ‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything in. I was going to shop tonight on my way home.’

‘Freezer food?’ he suggested easily.

‘Don’t have one.’ She tried to keep the triumph out of her voice. ‘Cooking for one doesn’t necessitate a freezer, besides which I prefer fresh produce.’ So goodbye, Mr Know It All.

He smiled. ‘That’s okay, I was going to order some food in. Chinese, Indian, Italian, Thai?’

Rosalie gave up. Her ankle was too sore and she was too tired to argue any more. ‘Chinese.’

He beamed. ‘My favourite. Anything in particular you fancy?’

‘Surprise me,’ she said testily.

‘Nothing I’d like better.’ One dark eyebrow arched. ‘Got a menu handy anywhere?’

‘No, sorry.’ She wasn’t trying to be difficult, she genuinely hadn’t got a menu. ‘But there’s an excellent Chinese take-away on the corner of the next street.’

He nodded, before walking across the room and switching on the TV, handing her the remote as he said, ‘Keys? I shall need to get back in.’

She passed them over without a word, and when the front door clicked shut a few moments later exhaled a long breath of air. The day had taken on a life of its own; she had never felt so railroaded in all her born days. And she must look a mess.

The last thought prompted her to pull herself upwards, and she found by hitching and hotching along the walls and furniture the short journey to the bathroom wasn’t too bad. She gazed at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her face was shiny and almost devoid of make-up, most of her mascara smudged under her eyes creating a faintly panda-style image. She groaned. Why on earth he wanted to stay and have dinner with her looking like this she didn’t know!

She set to work feverishly, washing her face and then creaming it, before using just a touch of mascara on her lashes and careful foundation to take away her paleness. She brushed her hair until it curved in sleek wings against her cheeks, applied a few drops of her special French perfume, which cost an arm and a leg, and surveyed the results. Better, much better, but with her ankle throbbing like mad and her other leg protesting at the flamingo pose she’d had to adopt she really needed to sit down rather than get the plates ready.

Nevertheless, she struggled into her small but wonderfully compact little kitchen, flopping on one of the two pine stools and sitting limply for a moment or two. Her trousers were absolutely ruined; the nurse had slit the right leg to above her knee, and they were covered in dried mud from her fall. She didn’t feel up to changing though, she decided as she fetched out plates, cutlery and wine-glasses.

Ten minutes later she was ensconced at the small pine table in a corner of the sitting room, a gargantuan feast spread out before her and her wineglass full of orange juice—he was driving and she was on pain-killers that didn’t mix with alcohol, Kingsley had informed her on his return with the food.

‘Kingsley, this would feed a small army.’ Rosalie gazed at the mixed hors d’oeuvres, beef with black peppers, pork in Kung po, chicken with ginger and pineapple, fried rice, prawn crackers and several other dishes crammed onto the table.

‘I’m hungry.’ He grinned at her, and her nerves jerked.

‘Good, because I can’t eat a quarter of this, let alone half,’ she said evenly, refusing to relax her guard.

She wouldn’t have believed how much food he could pack away if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, and when the table was practically clear he fetched her pain-killers without her asking him to, along with a glass of water. ‘Thanks.’ It was reluctant. She didn’t need looking after, especially not by Kingsley Ward. She was well able to look after herself. And she refused to consider how nice it had felt.

He recognised the tone, but as she had the pallor of a ghost and was clearly bushed he let it go. ‘Want me to help you get ready for bed?’ he asked helpfully.

Grey eyes met blue, and when she saw the gleam in his she was forced to smile, albeit grudgingly. ‘I can manage.’

‘Do you want a coffee before I go?’

She shook her head.

‘Tea? I know you English like your tea.’

‘No, thanks.’ Just go, for goodness’ sake.

/> ‘Cocoa? Bovril? Ovaltine?’ he offered.