The Pregnant Mistress

by Sandra Marton

  For days, she’d waited for Demetrios to talk about what would happen when the contracts were signed. In moments of painful honesty, she knew that she’d waited for him to ask her to stay with him.

  He hadn’t.

  For the thousandth time, she told herself it was for the best. It eliminated lots of problems. She couldn’t have said yes, even if he’d asked her. She had a life in the States. She had a career. She couldn’t just give it all up and go on being his mistress—could she?

  Sam looked down at her notepad, stared blindly at the scribbled words. How could she, of all women, have been reduced to this? She was waiting for a man to ask her a question that would decide her future. No. This was impossible. She couldn’t have put herself in such a humiliating position.

  “…doesn’t seem possible, does it?”

  She blinked, looked up. The Italian translator was leaning in close, obviously waiting for an answer to whatever question she’d asked. The formal meeting had ended, though Sam had never noticed. Demetrios and the others had risen from their chairs; they stood in a loose circle, the Frenchman and the Italian chatting…

  The hair rose on the back of her neck. Demetrios was staring at her, his eyes as cold as she’d ever seen them.

  Sam forced herself to look at her Italian counterpart. “Sorry,” she said, “I missed that.”

  “I said it seems hard to believe this is almost over and I’ll be in Rome in a few days.” The woman frowned. “Samantha? Are you all right?”

  Did her despair show on her face? That would be the ultimate humiliation.

  “I’m fine,” Sam said quickly, “just a little tired.” She reached for her briefcase, opened it and began putting her pads and pencils away. “I think I’m coming down with that flu that was going around.”

  “Better late than never,” the woman said, smiling, “although ‘never’ is probably the best time to come down with a bug. Here’s hoping you’re over it before you fly home.” She paused. “Or were you planning to stay on for a while?”

  The other translator’s smile was bland but her eyes were bright with questions. It was easy to see what she was thinking. For months, Demetrios had given Sam private little smiles. Those smiles had all but vanished. Sam had been painfully aware of it but she hadn’t considered the others might have noticed. Now she knew that they had, that they might even have whispered about it behind her back.

  She jammed another few pieces of paper into the briefcase and snapped the clasp shut. “I’m not sure,” she said briskly. “I’m still trying to decide what to do next.”

  Damn you, Demetrios, she thought. Damn you for doing this to me!

  And yet, she couldn’t blame it all on him. If he held such power over her, she’d given it to him. She’d never been stupid enough to put herself in a man’s hands before. She’d run her own life, made her own rules, and gone from that to all but groveling to a man who hardly noticed her anymore, except in bed—and not even there lately.

  When had that happened? When had he stopped turning to her the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning? He still made love to her but it wasn’t the same. She could feel him holding something back and it hurt, so much so that she felt herself holding back, too.

  She didn’t come up behind him when he was shaving anymore, slip her arms around him and touch him the way she once had. In the beginning, she’d been completely uninhibited with him. Not anymore. She’d turn into his arms, reach for him—and wonder, suddenly, if he were only accommodating her, if his response to her was only of the body and not of the heart.

  What heart? That part of his anatomy had never been involved in what went on between them.

  Sam felt herself tremble with barely suppressed anger. At Demetrios. At herself. She wanted to fly across the room and beat her fists against his chest. Even if she did, what would be the point? Nothing would change. He didn’t love her. He never had and he never would.

  She shoved back her chair and rose to her feet. Her vision blurred; the room grayed. She put out a hand, clasped the table edge for support.

  “Mademoiselle? Are you ill?”

  Sam took a shuddering breath. “I’m okay.” She shook her head, cleared her vision and smiled shakily at the Frenchman. “Well, maybe not. I seem to be coming down with the flu.”

  “So late in the season?” The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. “Why not let me help you to that little settee in Monsieur Karas’s private office? You can lie down, put your feet up—”

  “If Miss Brewster needs help,” Demetrios said, “I will provide it.” Hadn’t he made the same kind of ridiculous statement once before? he thought furiously, as he shouldered past the Frenchman and put his arm around Sam’s waist. Why did he keep making a spectacle of himself over this woman? “Thank you for your assistance,” he said, in a tone that made it obvious that wasn’t what he meant at all. “I am here now.”

  The Frenchman shot Sam a sympathetic look. “But of course. Mademoiselle, I hope you feel better soon.”

  Sam waited until the room cleared. Then she pulled loose of Demetrios’s embrace and turned her flushed face up to his.

  “That was incredibly rude!”

  “What happened to you? Are you ill?”

  “I’m getting the flu. He was only trying to help me.”

  “Help you?” Demetrios snorted. “The man has spent four months trying to get you into bed.”

  “That’s so ridiculous it doesn’t deserve a response.”

  “Do you think our relationship grants you the right to treat me with disrespect? To let another man put his hands on you while I watch?”

  Sam stared at him. Then she grabbed her briefcase and strode towards the door.

  “Samantha? Samantha! Come back here. I did not say you could leave!”

  She didn’t stop. Demetrios cursed and went after her as she disappeared down the hall. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins like a river in flood. He’d been angry with her for days. Angry? Hell, he’d been furious. How dare she treat him as she’d been doing? The silence. The moodiness. The way she got into bed at night and turned her back to him.

  Now she’d made him look like a fool. Why had he ever gotten involved with a woman who didn’t know her place?

  He caught her at the foot of the steps and wrapped his hand around her wrist.

  “Are you deaf?” he snarled. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “I heard you.” Sam glared at him. “If you think we’re going back to the days of sit, stay and heel, you can think again.”

  “Crazy, as well as deaf. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Let go of me.”

  “I will, when you start to make sense.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Something is wrong with you lately.”

  “You’re what’s wrong with me,” she snapped. “And I’m tired of putting up with it.”

  A muscle knotted in his cheek. “This is hardly the place for such a discussion. What I wish to say to you should be said in privacy.”

  Sam wanted to weep. Instead, she lifted her chin. “This is private enough.”

  “A doorway in my office building is hardly private.” His hand closed on her elbow. Grimly, he marched her out to the street and to his car. He had taken the Ferrari today and he held on to her while he unlocked the door. “Get in.”

  “Do you ever say ‘please’?”

  “Not often, no. Get in, dammit—or did you intend to wander the streets alone? Perhaps you’ve forgotten what happened the last time you did that.”

  “Oh, I remember, all right.” Tears burned in her eyes but she’d sooner have died than let them flow. It was bad enough he thought he could treat her this way, go from days of indifference to out and out hostility. She would never let him steal what little remained of her pride. “How could I forget when I’ve wished that night, and everything that came after it, never happened?”

  Demetrios stared at her, his eyes cold and flat. “Get in the car,” h
e said softly.

  What would she gain by not complying? Sam pulled free of his hand and got into the Ferrari. They didn’t exchange a word all the way to the heliport, or to Astra.

  The house was unusually quiet. Cosimia was away on a long weekend and it was the cook’s day off. Sam had forgotten that, just as she’d forgotten how much she’d foolishly looked forward to being completely alone with Demetrios. She’d imagined puttering in the kitchen, cooking for him, making him scrambled eggs and cheese the way she had late one night. He’d acted as if he’d never eaten anything better. Ambrosia, he’d said, fit for the gods, and then he’d kissed her.

  Now, she wished Cosimia were present, if only to break the heavy silence.

  Demetrios took off his suit jacket and tossed it on a chair. His tie went next. Then he undid the top buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. It was a break from routine. Normally, they went upstairs, showered together. Sometimes, an hour or more slipped by before they thought about anything but each other.

  “I’m going to have a drink.” He walked past her to his study. “Scotch, on the rocks. Do you want one?”

  That, too, was different. She’d never seen him drink anything but wine.

  “No,” she said carefully, “I don’t.”

  Demetrios went to the breakfront and poured an inch of whiskey into a Baccarat tumbler, and knew right away that he’d made a mistake. He was in no hurry to have this talk with Samantha. Wine would have made a better diversion. Choosing a bottle, uncorking it, pouring it would all have taken time. On the other hand, wine would not numb his growing anger, once the discussion ended.

  Discussion? That was an amazing word to use for a conversation he was certain would leave him empty.

  Demetrios looked at the tumbler of Scotch. To hell with it, he thought, and tossed the whiskey down his throat, let it burn its fiery way into his belly, but it did nothing to dispel the chill that had been with him for days now, for weeks, ever since he’d realized the days were rushing past and Samantha clearly didn’t give a damn that their time together was ending.

  He reached for the bottle and thought better of it. There was a delicate balance between the amount of alcohol a man needed to calm him and the amount it took to make his temper explode. He concentrated instead on how he’d felt when he saw the Frenchman standing with his arm curved protectively around Sam’s shoulders, his face a study in false concern, and the way she’d been looking at him, as if he were Lancelot and she Queen Guinevere.

  Demetrios put down the tumbler, took a few seconds to compose himself, and turned to the woman who had shared his bed and his life the past three months. She was standing just inside the door to the study, her posture stiff with removal. Her face was pale and her eyes blazed with anger, though for one incredibly foolish minute, he almost thought that what he saw glittering in her eyes were tears.

  She was so beautiful. More beautiful than ever, if that were possible. She had changed, in some subtle way he couldn’t put his finger on. Her body seemed more lush, her breasts still small but with a new roundness, her belly gently convex. Perhaps it was simply that he noticed things differently, now that she’d stopped offering herself to him with such heart-stopping eagerness.

  When he made love to her lately, it was he who did the asking with a touch, a kiss, a whisper, and even though she still responded, he knew she held back. That killed him. She had never held anything back, not at the beginning. She’d been open to whatever they did in bed, open to life with an infectious joy that had made him feel renewed. He had never known a woman like her. She could weep at Aida and laugh at a children’s cartoon. She could take as much joy in a seashell as in a jewel, and kiss him with tenderness as well as passion.

  Most of all, he’d never known a woman who could make him forget the world and want only her.

  How could she leave him, without so much as a backward glance?

  He’d never considered what would happen when her four month contract ended. Why should he? Surely, she’d want to stay with him. That was what he’d assumed.

  How could he have been so damn stupid?

  What they’d had was only an interlude in her pursuit of freedom. She was ready to move on. He could tell by the way she behaved. She was withdrawing from the life they shared, and there was nothing he could do about it except beg her to tell him why she wanted to leave him…and he’d sooner have suffered the tortures of Tantalus than do something as stupid as that.

  Hell, he thought, and turned back to the whiskey and poured another inch in the glass.

  Why was he being so maudlin? How long could an affair last? Maybe the trouble was that he’d let Samantha get the upper hand. He should be the one who was ending things, not she.

  He put down the whiskey and turned towards her again. “Samantha…”

  She shook her head, silenced him with an upheld hand. “You don’t have to say it.” Her voice was husky. “I know.”

  “It’s over,” he said flatly.

  “Yes. It is.”

  “You are eager to return to your own life.”

  He was putting words into her mouth. Was he being gallant, or was he only hoping to avoid a scene? He didn’t have to worry. She’d sooner have died than let him know the truth.

  “Yes.”

  He cleared his throat. “When will you leave?”

  Did he want her gone right away? “Next week. When my contract ends.”

  “There’s no rush. I mean, if you wanted to stay on for a while…”

  He could afford to be polite, now that she’d said she was leaving. For the second time that day, she wanted to strike him.

  “Thank you,” she said, and managed to smile. “But I think it would be better, all around, if I left next week just as we’d planned. I have—I have some interviews lined up.”

  A hot throb of anger beat in his blood. He could feel his composure slipping. As they’d planned? They had planned no such thing. They had never talked of when she would leave him, but it was obvious she had thought about it. She’d even arranged for job interviews. All the times he’d been holding her, trying to figure out how he’d lived without her in his life, she’d been thinking ahead, arranging her future—a future that didn’t involve him.

  “Really,” he said, very calmly. “You have job interviews lined up?”

  She nodded. It was a lie, but she needed to cloak herself in falsehoods if she were going to get through this.

  “Well, one or two.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You are going to work for the Frenchman.”

  “For God’s sake, Demetrios—” Sam took a breath. “No. Not for him. I, uh, I sent out some e-mails a couple of weeks ago.”

  “A couple of weeks ago,” he said softly, ominously. “While you were still in my—in my employ.”

  “Well, yes.” She forced a laugh. “But I did it on my own time.”

  “Your time belongs to me. All of it.” He came towards her; she took a step back. “Until the day you walk out of this house, you are mine.”

  “Do you have any idea how silly that sounds?” She wanted to try another laugh but she was afraid it would come out a sob. “You don’t own me.”

  “I have owned you for the past three months,” he said roughly. He reached for her, pulled her into his arms. “You have been mine.”

  “That might play well in your country, Demetrios, but not—”

  He cupped her face and crushed her mouth beneath his. Sam told herself she wouldn’t let this happen. It was over. What had existed between them was done…but she felt the race of his heart against hers, the hardness of his erect flesh against her belly, and knew that she would take this one last night before leaving him.

  She put her arms around him and kissed him back. He lifted her and carried her up the stairs to his bedroom, undressed her slowly, savoring the taste of her mouth, her skin, the nectar that he sought out and found between her thighs. When he entered her, it was with a slowness that almost killed him, but he
wanted all of it, all of her, to see the darkness fill her eyes, the color flood her face, to hear the sounds she made, the whispers and sighs that told him how much she wanted him here, if no place else.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, when he knew she was nearing climax. He caught her hands, linked their fingers together. “Look at me,” he said again, and when she did he pressed deep inside her, pulled back, rocked into her again and again until she was frantic, bucking against him, begging him for release. “Now,” he whispered, and she convulsed around him as he let go of everything that anchored him to the world and lost himself in this woman who had changed him, forever.

  He buried his face in her throat, absorbing her smell, her shudders. Once, he’d always held her like this, after they made love; lately, he’d used every excuse not to, but the time for excuses was over. With Sam in his arms, with their flesh still joined, he knew he’d left her because he was afraid to stay with her, afraid to look into himself and face what she had come to mean to him.

  Was it possible she cared for him? That she was only waiting for some sign? He took a deep breath, rolled to his side and scooped her against him. “Sam,” he said softly, “kitten…”

  She was asleep. That was just as well. He wasn’t sure of what he really wanted to tell her. Perhaps it would be clear, in the morning.

  But when he awoke, she was gone. All she’d left behind was a note that said she hadn’t known how to tell him that she’d already accepted one of those job offers. She thought it best if she left now, instead of next week. The deal was concluded. He didn’t actually need her services anymore.

  He felt himself turn hot with fury. He shot from the bed, pulled on his clothes and went after his helicopter pilot. White-faced, the man said Miss Brewster had requested transport to the Athens airport. Was there a reason he should have turned her down?

  Demetrios stared at the pilot. “No,” he said, after a moment, “none.”

  Samantha was gone. The night in his arms had meant nothing to her. And, now that he thought about it, it hadn’t meant anything to him, either. Whatever stupid, sentimental crap had oozed through his veins had been the result of good whiskey and good sex, and the world was full of bottles and women who could provide the same thing.