The Mistress Contract

‘Then you’ve no objection to staying for dinner?’

She stared at him, her soft golden-brown eyes enormous. Why was it that every conversation with this man was like a minefield? He was manipulative and devious, and he never missed a chance to go for the jugular. It might make him a force to be reckoned with in the business world, but on a personal level she found his high-handedness distinctly offensive. And nerve-racking.

And then, as a thought occurred to her, she said tightly, ‘Just now, when Daniella said about seeing to the dinner, she wasn’t just talking about Angus’s dinner, was she?’

His eyes narrowed just the slightest at her tone but his voice was cool and unconcerned. ‘No, she wasn’t,’ he agreed easily. ‘You seemed reluctant to go out for something to eat so I phoned Daniella when I was outside Madge’s and asked her to prepare something here for us. But first a drink to clear the palate.’

She might have known! She opened her mouth to object but he was already saying, as he poured two glasses of white wine, ‘You have been great tonight, Sephy, and dinner seemed like the least I could do. Added to which, I am, quite frankly, starving. I forgot to eat lunch and breakfast seems like a year ago. Once we have eaten I’ll take you straight home, okay?’

He walked across the room and handed her an enormous glass of sparkling white wine with the lazy smile she had seen once or twice, and although she felt as though she had been railroaded Sephy took it with a polite nod of thanks. This was a fait accompli. She could do nothing about it so she might as well accept it with good grace. Besides which, being fed and watered was hardly something to complain about. At least it wouldn’t be with anyone else!

‘Thank you.’ She managed to sound courteous without being deferential. ‘But I hope it hasn’t put Daniella to a lot of trouble to have to prepare a meal so unexpectedly.’

‘She’s half-Italian; she loves cooking whatever the time of day,’ he said smoothly. ‘It’s in the genes.’

It might well be, but she just bet he hadn’t employed the lovely Italian girl for her culinary skills, Sephy thought with an acid bitterness that shocked her. She’d have to watch herself round this man, she warned herself silently. She was getting crabby and it didn’t suit her. She had always prided herself on her sense of humour and tolerant flexibility, and both seemed to have deserted her since she had walked into Conrad Quentin’s office.

He sat down opposite her, and although there was a good three feet of space between them her heart started to thunder as he casually crossed one leg over his knee and settled himself more comfortably in the seat. He had discarded his suit jacket as they had walked in the room, slinging it down in a chair, and now, as he placed his wine glass on a small occasional table at the side of him and leant back with his hands clasped behind his head, she caught the dark shadow of body hair beneath the thin silk of his shirt and her mouth went dry. His masculinity was bold and blatant, and all the more threatening for its casual unconsciousness.

He wouldn’t know what it was to have to try and pursue a woman, she thought wryly. All he’d have to do was crook his little finger and they would fall into his hands like ripe peaches. Look at Daniella; she was stunning. And there was Caroline de Menthe champing at the bit, and probably others besides for all she knew. They obviously didn’t mind that they didn’t have the monopoly on his heart or his body; free spirits one and all.

‘You’re frowning again.’

Her eyes shot to meet his and she saw he was studying her with an air of controlled irritation.

This time she refused to blush and her chin went up a notch as she said coolly, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, you’re not,’ he said silkily. And then he suddenly leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked straight into her startled eyes and said softly, ‘You disapprove of me, don’t you, my stern little secretary with the golden eyes? Who do you get your colouring from? Your father or your mother?’

His voice was smoky, and she rather suspected it was amusement she could hear in its husky depths. The realisation she was being laughed at made her tone brittle when she said, ‘Neither, actually. My father was a blue-eyed blond, and my mother’s a redhead with hazel eyes.’

‘Was?’ The amusement was gone and his tone was gentle.

‘My father died when I was a baby,’ she said shortly.

‘I’m sorry.’ He actually sounded as though he was. ‘And did your mother marry again?’

‘No.’ She’d never been sure if she was pleased or disappointed about that. It had meant she had had her mother all to herself—she had been their first child—and consequently the two of them were best friends as well as mother and daughter, but she hadn’t come into contact with many males during her formative years and it made her a sitting target for someone like David.

‘Your mother must have struggled to raise you on her own?’ It was another probing question, but spoken as it was, in a quiet, almost tender tone, it didn’t occur to her not to answer.

‘I suppose so, certainly at first, although our house was paid for on my father’s death and he’d had the foresight to take out insurance policies and so on. Once I was at school my mother went to work again—she’s a nurse—and she has worked ever since. She likes it. She’s risen to the top of her profession now,’ she added quietly. ‘And no one deserves success more than she does.’

‘You’re proud of her,’ he murmured softly. ‘You obviously love her very much.’

‘Yes, I do.’ She had flushed again and her voice was somewhat defensive. There had been something in his tone she couldn’t place, but whatever it was, she didn’t like i

t. ‘But it’s not unusual to love one’s parents, is it?’ she added reasonably.

‘I wouldn’t know. I never had any.’ He had risen abruptly as he spoke, and now he held out a hand and said coolly, ‘Let me get you another drink.’

She hadn’t noticed she had almost drained the glass, but the frantic little sips she had taken in between speaking had all added up, and now she passed him the glass silently, her mind racing. What had he meant, he hadn’t had any? Leaving aside the biological necessity, most children who lost their parents were fostered or adopted, surely? If he had lost his, that was.

She hesitated, gnawing on the soft underside of her bottom lip, but in view of his pertinent enquiries she felt emboldened to say, as he walked back across the room with her glass, now refilled, ‘What do you mean, you never had any?’

For a moment, as she took the proffered glass, she thought from the look on his face he was going to tell her to mind her own business, but instead he expelled a quiet breath and said, his voice cold and expressionless, ‘I’ve always disagreed with the accepted definition of parent. It’s clarified as “one who has begotten or borne offspring, father or mother”, did you know that? But parenting means much more than that if it’s done properly.’

She stared at him, and he stared back at her from vivid blue eyes that were as cold as ice, then moved to lean against the ornate mantelpiece a few feet away. After folding his arms across his chest, he said, his voice taking on an almost bored, flat tone, ‘I was born to two human beings, that’s all. They had already produced another child, a girl, ten years before, and she had been a mistake too.’