His Mistress for a Week

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  Clem frowned. ‘Geez. How much money did she have on her? Monte Carlo isn’t exactly a backpacker’s destination.’

  ‘It’s not her money she’s spending.’

  ‘Your problem, not mine.’

  His eyes never wavered from hers. ‘Our problem.’

  Don’t remind me. Clem turned back to her bag, which was half in and half out of her car. She blew away the wisps of hair that had fallen around her face and gave the bag another hard shove.

  ‘Here. Let me.’

  His body came up behind her, one of his hands reaching past her to take the handle of her bag. It was the most intimate contact she’d had with a man since...well, for a long time.

  Clem tried to duck out of the way but somehow got tangled in his limbs. One of his arms blocked her escape on one side while the other held her bag on the other. She tried to step past his long legs but ended up doing a weird little dance with him. God knew what this looked like from Mavis’s window.

  ‘Is he your new man?’ Mavis called out loud enough for the neighbours to hear. In the next street. In the next borough. Possibly in America.

  Clem stepped over Alistair’s long leg and tried to get her lungs to inflate. ‘No. He’s just a...someone I used to know.’

  ‘You can’t fool me,’ Mavis said with a teasing smile. ‘Look at you, blushing like a schoolgirl on her first date. It’s about time you got a nice man in your life. How long’s it been? Two, three years?’

  Four. Clem wasn’t game enough to look in Alistair’s direction but she had a feeling he was smiling. Or smirking, more like. ‘It’s not what you think, Mavis. He’s like a brother to me. Our parents used to be in a relationship.’ She went for the knockout punch to wipe that smile off his face and added, ‘We were kind of like The Brady Bunch.’

  Alistair’s body brushed Clem from behind. ‘Fess up, darling.’ He put his hands on the tops of her shoulders and gave them a light squeeze. ‘You’ve always been a little bit in love with me.’

  So not true. Well, maybe she’d had a moment when she’d first met him, when she’d blushed to the roots of her hair and gone all starry-eyed. But it had only been a moment. Two seconds max. Trust him to remind her of it.

  Clem put her heel on his toe and pressed down. Hard. She wished she were wearing stilettoes. Ballet flats didn’t quite cut it. He didn’t flinch at all. It was as if she had tried to flatten a flea with a feather. She was acutely aware of the wall of his firm body touching her, from her shoulder blades to her hips. Her bottom was way too close to his groin. It stirred all sorts of wicked imaginings inside her brain. And her body. Oh, dear God, what was happening to her body? It was leaning back against him like it had a mind of its own. Searching for the evidence of his arousal. Yikes! Finding it. ‘I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You,’ she said in an undertone, punctuating each word with another push down of her foot.

  He leaned down and began to nuzzle the side of her neck, the sexy scrape of his late-in-the-day stubble sending a frisson down her spine. His warm breath smelt of mint and coffee. Not the cheap instant stuff she had in her flat but the good stuff. ‘I’m going to kill you right back. Slowly.’ His voice was a low, deep burr that reverberated deep in her core like a tuning fork struck and left to hum.

  Mavis clasped her hands like a fairy godmother enormously satisfied with her day’s work. ‘Have a wonderful time, you gorgeous lovebirds. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  Clem pulled out of Alistair’s hold and turned and threw him a look that would have blistered paint. ‘You think you’ve won this, don’t you?’

  His eyes had a determined glint that made every knob of her spine shudder. ‘Get in the car.’

  Every cell in her body wanted to defy him. Every pore tightened with anger. Fury. Rage. She could barely stand still with the force of it thundering through her. But making a scene in front of her nosy neighbour was not something she was prepared to do. There were other ways to skin a cat, and Alistair Hawthorne’s pelt was one she wanted to take her time removing while inflicting as much excruciating pain as possible.

  Clem slipped into the passenger seat, keeping her fake smile in place for the sake of Mavis until they were out of sight. ‘If you think I’m going to speak another word to you then you can think again,’ she said. ‘You’re the most obnoxious, control-freaky man I’ve ever met. As if I’d ever imagine myself in love with you. What a joke. You’re the last man I’d ever be interested in. I hated you ten years ago and I hate you now. You’re a stuck-up snob who thinks you can order people about like puppets. Well, listen up, because my strings are not going to be pulled by you. No freaking way.’

  The silence continued for three blocks.

  Clem cast him a sideways glance. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

  He flicked her an ironic look. ‘I thought you weren’t going to speak to me?’

  Clem pinched her lips together and turned back to face the front. She waited another four blocks before speaking. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘The airport. I have a flight booked.’

  She swung her gaze back to him. ‘You were that certain you’d get me to come?’ Ack. Probably not the best choice of words.

  Even though he was still facing the traffic, she could see from his expression her unintentional innuendo had amused him. ‘But of course.’

  Clem didn’t care for his confident tone. Sexually confident men annoyed her. They were so smug about their prowess but they didn’t factor in that every woman was different. It wasn’t ‘one size fits all’, or at least not in her experience. It made her wonder whom he was currently seeing. She’d seen a photo in a gossip magazine a few months ago of him at some architectural awards ceremony with a gorgeous blonde with an eye-popping figure. The sort of figure Clem would never get even if she never ate a morsel of food again. ‘What does your girlfriend think about you flying off to France with me?’

  ‘I’m not in a relationship at the moment.’

  ‘When was your last one?’

  He slanted her a glance. ‘Why do you want to know? Are you thinking of replacing her?’

  Clem coughed out a disparaging laugh. ‘As if.’

  Another silence ticked past. A silence that seemed to make a mockery of her denial. She couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have sex with him. Not selfish sex, like the men she’d been with. But satisfying sex. Sensual sex. Sex that made her whole body sing with delight. Not that hers had done any singing lately. There were occasional solo performances but nothing that would make the chandeliers—if she had any—rattle.

  ‘What about you?’ Alistair said. ‘Should I be on the watch out for a jealous lover coming at me with a baseball bat?’

  Clem considered inventing a boyfriend. Someone decent and respectable. Someone who would stand up for her and do all the things she dreamed a man in love with her would do. Someone who would make her feel special, treasured, adored. It seemed pathetic to admit she was single when everyone her age was out having a good time; lately her idea of a good time was a family-sized block of chocolate and a good book. ‘I’m enjoying my independence. Not having to fit in with someone else’s timetable. No waiting for the phone to ring. No boring weekends watching football or fighting over the remote. Bliss.’

  The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Bliss indeed.’

  ‘Have you ever lived with anyone?’ Why the heck are you asking that?

  ‘No. I too like my independence.’

  ‘So where does Harriet live just now?’

  The tension was back around his mouth. ‘With me, but I’ve booked her into boarding school starting next term.’

  Clem wondered if that was what had triggered the runaway caper. Had Harriet felt shunted aside? How could she not with her mother haring off to chase after some new lover? Being dumped with your mother’s ex’s adult son during the summer holidays was hardly something to be happy about. The poor girl was probably desperate to find a place where she was wanted. It was a pity
she had chosen Clem’s brother, however. Jamie wasn’t exactly mature enough to take care of himself, let alone a partner. ‘How did she feel about going to boarding school?’

  ‘She’s a child. I didn’t give her a choice. It’s the best thing for her.’ Bang. Bang. Bang. The words came out like a drill sergeant’s command. No wonder the poor kid had flown the coop. The head honcho wasn’t exactly Mr Let’s Negotiate.

  ‘Maybe you should’ve discussed her options with her,’ Clem said. ‘You know, had a family discussion.’

  The look he gave her would have shrivelled even the hardiest of Yucca plants. ‘She’s not my family. She’s nothing to do with me. But I couldn’t put her out on the street, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave her with your father?’

  The question hung in the air between them for a second or two too long. Long enough for Clem to join some dots. Some ugly dots.

  ‘That wasn’t an option.’ Alistair’s tone was curt. Do-not-even-go-there curt.

  Clem had never liked his father. How could she warm to a man who had abandoned his terminally ill wife to hook up with another woman? Lionel Hawthorne was a self-serving charmer, a fact she’d seen on their very first meeting. No amount of money or presents splashed around had changed her opinion of him. But did Alistair’s tone suggest his father was even worse than she had suspected?

  ‘Are there no other relatives?’ Clem asked. ‘Doesn’t she have a father? Or aunts or uncles or grandparents?’

  ‘There’s no one. Apart from her mother, but you can forget about her.’ His cynical tone suggested he had already tried that avenue and failed.

  ‘Where is her mother?’

  His hands were gripping the steering wheel as if he wanted to strangle it or the subject of their conversation. ‘Sunning herself on some beach in Mexico with a drug lord, probably.’

  Clem chewed at her lower lip. This was sounding all too familiar, like her experience of growing up with a mother who’d changed partners faster than other people changed their mind. Some of the men were nice—like the one whose parents owned the cottage outside of Nice. But others were the very opposite of nice. They were nasty. Nasty men who exploited her naïve and trusting mother, encouraging her addictive tendencies without measuring the consequences for her children. Partying, drinking and child-rearing did not mix. Which was why Clem was so determined to keep Jamie from going down that path. ‘What about the authorities? Like Social Services and so on? Have you contacted them to take care of her?’

  ‘Harriet’s been in foster care in the past,’ he said. ‘It didn’t go well. She’s been through several caseworkers as the system is overloaded and underfunded. I thought I’d do the right thing by her and get her into a good school to improve her chances of a future. But did I get any thanks for offering to foot the bill? No.’

  ‘You have to talk to teenagers,’ Clem said. ‘You can’t just issue them with ultimatums or plans set in stone. It’s all about negotiation.’

  He gave her another withering look. ‘Like you’re doing so brilliantly with your brother?’

  Clem felt a blush steal over her cheeks. So? She was a crap stand-in parent. She knew that. Didn’t need to be reminded of it. ‘Teenage boys are hard work. They need a good male role-model. I’m doing my best but I’m well aware it’s not enough. Nowhere near enough.’

  ‘Where’s his father?’

  Clem knew if she didn’t tell him he would make it his business to find out—if he hadn’t already. ‘In jail.’

  ‘For?’

  ‘Armed robbery.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Yep.’ She blew out a jaded breath. ‘Real Father of the Year material.’

  A small silence passed.

  ‘Where’s yours?’ Alistair said.

  ‘Dead.’

  She felt his gaze swing her way but she kept staring straight ahead. ‘How long ago did he die?’ he asked.

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Clem gave a grating laugh. ‘Don’t be.’ I just hope he stays ‘dead.’

  ‘Did he have much to do with you while you were growing up?’

  ‘No, he was the epitome of the absent father. Even when he was with us he wasn’t with us, if you get my drift.’

  He turned the car for the parking area at Heathrow. ‘Unfortunately, I do.’

  * * *

  Alistair handed over his keys to the valet-parking attendant and then took Clem’s bag. ‘What have you got in here? It weighs more than the damn hire car.’

  Defiance sparked and swirled in her brown eyes. ‘I’m not a toothbrush and a clean pair of knickers type. I need...stuff.’

  He began to roll the bag but one of the wheels was wonky. He crouched down and fiddled with it but it came off in his hand. He swore under his breath and straightened. ‘We need to get you a new bag.’

  Something flashed in her gaze. Pride...or was it panic? ‘What for? It’ll do. I’m not going to unpack my luggage in the middle of the airport. Anyway, I can’t afford a new bag.’

  ‘My treat.’

  Her cheeks went a deep shade of pink. ‘I’m not a charity case. No pun intended.’

  She was kind of cute when she was worked up about something. Like a cornered kitten hissing and spitting at a potential threat. Something about her sense of pride impressed him. She thought she could outsmart him but he had her covered. More than covered. ‘I promise not to spend too much. Come on. The luggage shop is through here.’

  Once they were inside the shop, Alistair waited for her to choose a bag but she stood there with a mutinous scowl on her face. ‘If you don’t choose then I’ll have to do it for you,’ he said. ‘Do you have a preference for colour?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want a new bag.’

  He pointed to the Louis Vuitton display. ‘What about this one?’

  ‘No. That’s ridiculously expensive. I couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘We’ll take this one,’ he said to the hovering attendant.

  Alistair carried the bag to a space outside where Clem could repack. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘No. Thank. You.’ Her response was as stiff as her body when she crouched down to see to the task. She tugged at the zip but because the bag was bulging so much the zip wouldn’t budge.

  ‘You sure you don’t need a hand?’

  ‘I’ve. Got. It.’

  She’d got it all right. The zip suddenly gave way and an explosion of clothes tumbled out of the bag. She began to scoop them up like someone trying to gather up a load of spilled oranges. There were tops, and scarves and bras and knickers and shoes. How many pairs of shoes did one woman need?

  ‘I think you might’ve left some space in that back corner.’ Alistair fought back a smile. ‘For an earring.’

  She gave him a look that would have soured milk. ‘Ha. Ha. Ha.’

  But then she started scrabbling through her clothes as if she was searching for something. Her forehead puckered in a frown, her teeth worrying her lower lip. She dug deeper into the pile of clothes, tossing things this way and that, her air of desperation apparent in the way her movements got more and more jerky and her top lip began to bead with perspiration.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The word came out on a shaky breath, and she scrabbled about some more, but the clothes were in such a mess by now it was hard to see what was there and what wasn’t.

  Alistair could feel the panic building in her. It was a palpable energy pulsating in the air. He bent down beside her and picked up a blue-and-white-striped mug that was covered by a black T-shirt. ‘I’ve heard of people packing everything but the kitchen sink, but this I’ve never seen before.’ He gave her a teasing glance. ‘They do have crockery and cutlery in France, you know.’

  Her mouth was buttoned down so tightly her lips were outlined in white. ‘It’s my favourite mug.’ She snatched it out of his hand and clutched it close to her hea
ving chest. ‘I don’t go anywhere without it.’

  Alistair watched as she put her things in the new bag. Gone was the disordered panic. In its place was meticulous care and precision. He had never seen a bag packed so well. It was like a work of art, colour and fabric coordinated. Amazing. Finally she wrapped the mug in a sweater and carefully placed it in the middle of the bag as if she was tucking in a baby. It wasn’t as if the mug was priceless porcelain. It was a common chain-store one so old it was losing some of its stripes.

  What significance did it have for her? Had someone she loved given it to her? Her mother? It seemed a pretty cheap present to give your only daughter, but that didn’t surprise him, knowing what he knew of her mother. Her father? She hadn’t sounded all that fond of her father. Her brother? ‘Who gave you the mug?’

  ‘No one.’ She closed the bag like she was closing the subject. ‘I just like it, that’s all.’

  Alistair studied her flushed features. Defiance or embarrassment? What did she have to be embarrassed about? It was a little quirky but there were worse things than quirky. Way worse. ‘If you’re so fond of it then shouldn’t you put it in your hand luggage?’

  ‘I don’t want to risk someone taking it off me at the security checkpoint. Those guys can get pretty touchy about stuff.’

  ‘True, but have you ever seen the baggage handlers loading and unloading? Some of them drop pianos on anything marked “fragile.”’

  ‘Another reason I don’t fly that often.’

  Alistair gave her a searching look. ‘Are you nervous about flying?’

  A spark of defensiveness shone in her gaze. ‘What on earth gives you that idea?’

  ‘You keep picking at the stitching on your tote-bag strap.’

  Her fingers stopped fidgeting as if they had been snapped frozen. ‘Anything else you’d like to criticise?’

  ‘I’m not criticising, I’m observing.’

  She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  Alistair hoped to hell not, otherwise she would never get on that plane with him. ‘What am I thinking?’ Apart from how much I want to kiss that pert little mouth.