The Mistress Deal

by Sandra Field

  “You, too,” she said. “’Bye, Reece.”

  As she put down the receiver, she was smiling. Impulsively she turned on the radio and to the strains of Bing Crosby began to dance around her studio floor, imagining that Reece was with her, holding her in his arms just as he’d said he longed to do.

  Heaven, she thought. Sheer heaven.

  Christmas with Reece. What other gift could she possibly want?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  REECE was half an hour early at the airport on the twenty-third. He was never early for appointments, his time was too valuable for that. So why was he standing in the crowded arrivals area watching a clock change its digital numbers with agonizing slowness? Not, as Lauren would have said, his style.

  Lauren. Would they recapture the passion, the intimacy they’d shared in her loft bedroom? Or was that a once-in-a-lifetime closeness, destined never to be repeated? And why did he care so much about the answer to his own questions?

  What was she to him, this woman with hair like sunlight on copper, and a body that lacerated all his senses? She was as far from complaisant as a woman could be; she’d challenged his ingenuity for her Christmas present; and he was desperate to possess her again.

  He hadn’t allowed himself to feel remotely like this in the last five years. Not even before that, if he were honest. He’d never permitted a woman to arouse him to such extremities of emotion; hadn’t wanted to. Which had had nothing at all to do with Clea and everything to do with a growing cynicism about the power of his own fortune.

  He took out a financial magazine and tried to concentrate. Slowly the red numbers on the clock changed, until, over the heads of the crowd, he saw a tall woman with turquoise eyes hesitating at the barrier. He lifted the bouquet he’d been clutching, waving the great sheaf of lilacs over his head; and watched her face break into laughter.

  She edged her way through the crowd toward him. She was wearing a dramatic long cape of loden green; as she finally reached him, he said, “This isn’t your Christmas present. It’s a welcome-to-England present.”

  Her eyes dancing, she said, “Where on earth did you get lilacs at this time of year?”

  “It wasn’t easy…hello, Lauren.”

  Her cheeks were flushed; she looked uncertain, happy and shy all at the same time. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips, and as his heart rocketed in his chest, murmured against her mouth, “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

  “I’m not sure this is the place for me to find out.”

  “You’re probably right. Let’s go find your luggage.”

  He tucked her arm in his, covering her fingers with his own, and realized with a jolt of surprise how happy he was. The same kind of feeling he’d had as a little boy, waking up one Christmas morning and finding Santa had brought him the model yacht he’d craved.

  He was a big boy now and this was certainly the woman he craved. Should he be reminding himself that he’d outgrown the model by the following Christmas?

  To hell with it, thought Reece, and said deliberately, “I thought of taking you to a hotel in the city. First. Then driving to Surrey afterward.”

  Her blush deepened. “So why aren’t you?”

  “I guess I’d like us to settle in. In the country.”

  “I’d like the same. I love Manhattan, but trees and fields sound really good to me right now.”

  He let his eyes roam her face, simultaneously so familiar and so unknown. “You look tired,” he said slowly.

  “You mean all that very expensive makeup I splurged on two days ago hasn’t done its job?”

  “Why so tired, Lauren?”

  She hesitated. “If I said the Christmas rush or jet lag, it would be only partly true. Basically, I found the time you were in Ecuador so long that I worked like a mad-woman the whole time. Night and day. If it’s any consolation, I did three pieces that are probably the best I’ve ever done. My agent was really bugging me before I left—she’s got potential buyers lined up already, but I couldn’t deal with the commercial end of it yet. Wasn’t ready.”

  As always, Reece found himself oddly exhilarated by her honesty. Later, when they were alone, he’d ask her more about the three works she’d produced; and knew he’d like to see them. To buy them? He said impulsively, “I didn’t really buy those bronze pieces of yours as an investment. There was something about them—I can’t explain, but it was as though you knew me. Knew something very important about me…I certainly wasn’t going to tell you that on the first day we met.”

  Someone jostled her, thrusting her against Reece’s chest. As his arms automatically went around her, the lilacs sprinkled her cape with tiny mauve blossoms. “Thank you for telling me now,” she said softly.

  The feel of her body so close to his was driving him out of his mind. “Let’s get out of here. I want to be alone with you.”

  “You really are glad to see me?”

  Surprised that she should have to ask, he said, “Of course, isn’t it obvious?”

  “I don’t take anything for granted where you’re concerned.”

  “That, darling Lauren, you can take for granted,” he said, and watched her smile glimmer in her eyes. As they claimed her luggage, inched their way out of the city and drove steadily nearer his country estate, Reece found they had plenty to talk about. He described the excruciating weeks he’d spent in Ecuador, she told him about a play she’d seen, they discussed movies and books; as always, he was intrigued by her often unique way of looking at things, and by the play of expression on her face.

  Finally they turned into the driveway of his estate. Dusk was falling; as the huge Queen Anne house loomed into view, he saw Lauren’s eyes widen. He said awkwardly, “We could stay in the big house, if you’d like. But I thought you might prefer the lodge, it’s more comfortable.”

  He turned down the lane, which was overhung with the bare branches of beech and ash; the lodge, made of stone with a slate roof, had a wreath hanging beside the oak door, and golden light streaming a welcome from the lead-paned windows. Lauren let out her breath in a small sigh. “I like this much better.”

  “I thought you would. The big house is fine for impressing all the right people—but not for day-to-day living. Hazel, the housekeeper, said she’d leave dinner ready for us. You must be hungry…I’ll get your suitcase, if you’ll take the lilacs.”

  He was talking too much. Because he was as excited as a child at Christmas? Because he very much wanted her to like the house that of all the properties he owned was his favorite? He took out the key and unlocked the front door, catching a tang of pine from the wreath along with the subtle, delicate scent Lauren was using. What he mustn’t do was fall on her as if he was the one who’d just been released by kidnappers.

  The hallway was decorated with holly and mistletoe, its burnished oak paneling reflecting the light from an intricate pewter chandelier. Reece led the way into the living room, where a fire was laid in the hearth. A fir tree was standing in the corner, with a cardboard box beside it; what had seemed a fine idea yesterday now seemed merely sentimental. He said clumsily, “I’m hoping you’ll help me decorate the tree tomorrow, that’s why I asked Hazel to leave it.”

  She clasped her hands in delight, like a child. “I’d love to! What a welcoming room, Reece.”

  He’d always loved its crowded bookshelves and old-fashioned chintz-covered furniture. “The windows overlook the garden. The Christmas roses are in bloom,” he said. “Here, let me take your cape and hang it up. And I’d better find some water for those lilacs, they’re dropping blossom all over the carpet.”

  She said suddenly, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”

  She’d hit altogether too close to home. “I’ll put some soup on, too,” he said. “What is it, ten-thirty at night to you?”

  Lauren lifted her chin. “I don’t want any soup. Let’s put the lilacs in water and go to bed.”

  For all her brave talk, her hands were clasped
so tightly around the woody stems that her knuckles were white. Flooded by an emotion he couldn’t have named, an emotion totally new to him, Reece said huskily, “You’re a beautiful woman in all senses of the word. And I agree, bed is where we need to be. Here, give me the lilacs.”

  But she held on to them. “I’ll come with you.”

  In the kitchen, Reece shoved the flowers in a silver bucket, added water and dumped them on the counter. Lauren said stubbornly, “I want them in the bedroom, they’re such a lovely present.”

  So he lugged the bucket up the narrow staircase and across the hall. The master bedroom also overlooked the garden and the magnificent oaks that sheltered the lodge from the main house. The fireplace was a Victorian addition with a charming metal grate; the bed, canopied, seemed to his overactive imagination to dominate the room. He put the lilacs in the corner. “Would you like me to light the fire?”

  “Yes, please…and I’d like a hot bath. Travel always makes me feel scruffy.”

  “The bathroom’s through that door,” he said, kneeling to touch a match to the twisted papers in the grate.

  By the time flames were leaping up the chimney and he’d lit some candles, he could hear water running in the bathroom. He hung up his coat and suit jacket. Lauren was here, he thought. Here with him for at least a week, just the two of them. No CEOs, no partygoers in purple sarongs, no kidnappers. And, despite his raging hunger for her, no need to rush.

  He sat down on the bed, unlacing his shoes and pulling off his socks. “Want me to scrub your back?” he called, tossing his tie over the nearest chair.

  Above the splash of water, he heard her laugh. “Sure,” she said, “just as long as you’re wearing the same amount of clothing as I am.”

  Grinning to himself, Reece stripped off the rest of his clothes and walked into the bathroom, a room he had insisted be thoroughly modernized. Lauren smiled up at him; although she’d been generous with the water, her breasts were fully exposed, gleaming wetly in the flickering light. His response was instant and unmistakable. She said wickedly, “Guess I shouldn’t linger.”

  He knelt by the tub. She’d piled her hair on her head, exposing the fragile line of her nape. Taking her face in his hands, Reece kissed her with all the pent-up hunger of the weeks they’d been apart. As she kissed him back with an abandon that set his pulses racing, he ran his hands over her body, rediscovering the gentle jut of her bones, rejoicing in her slippery skin. “Come to bed with me, Lauren—now,” he said, grasping her wrists and pulling her upright.

  She stepped, dripping, onto the mat. He took a towel from the heated rack and wrapped it around her, smoothing it over her curves. Had he ever felt so alive, so certain he was exactly where he needed to be? Then Lauren lifted her face to his, a face blind with hunger. He kissed her, thrusting with his tongue. The towel dropped to the floor.

  He was never quite sure how they got from the bathroom to the bedroom, where flames danced on the ceiling and the bed was waiting for them. But somehow she was lying under him, the softness of her breasts and her fierce kisses inflaming his senses until he wondered how his heart could be confined in his chest, so loudly was it pounding. Her hands were everywhere, her breathing as rapid as a bird’s, her small, broken cries of rapture like music to his ears. He did his best to hold back, to give her all the pleasure he was capable of, tangling his hands in her hair, laving her nipples, stroking the wet petals between her thighs as she writhed beneath him, her every movement driving him closer and closer to the brink.

  And then she toppled, crying out his name in a climactic blend of pain and pleasure that carried him with her. He fell on top of her, throbbing deep inside her, his breath rasping her skin. He was both drained and filled, he thought dazedly, both prisoner and freed. Burying his face in her hair, Reece closed his eyes.

  Her arms were wrapped around him, her heart rate gradually slowing. She smelled delicious. He said huskily, “Happy Christmas, Lauren.”

  She chuckled. “So was that my present?”

  “Nope. You don’t get that until the twenty-fifth.”

  “It felt like a present.” She stretched luxuriously, her eyes like deep pools of light. “A wonderful present. Not sure you can surpass it.”

  “Wait ten minutes,” he said, lazily drawing one finger along the rise of her breast.

  Her nipple hardened. Trying to look severe, she said, “Ten minutes is a very long time.”

  “We can always improvise in the meantime,” he drawled, leaning over to lick her creamy skin.

  “Oh, Reece, I’m so happy to be with you!”

  She looked happy. She also looked fulfilled, sensuous, and so beautiful that he had difficulty getting the words out. “I’m happy to be with you, too,” he muttered, and knew he’d had enough of words. He began kissing her, taking his time, exploring the planes of her face and the long column of her throat before moving lower, always giving her time for her own responses, which were, he realized with a catch in his throat, growing bolder and more confident every time they made love.

  Perhaps that was the real gift he’d given her, Reece thought with a humility new to him. And then stopped thinking altogether as he was caught up in a storm of passion, its rhythms as old as time. Losing himself, drowning in her heat and urgency, he let go of the last vestige of his control and heard his own hoarse cry of satiation echo in his ears.

  Panting, he lowered his body to lie beside her, holding her close, never wanting to let her go. Because how would he ever have enough of her? How could he? She completed him as he’d never before been completed.

  Was that love?

  How would he know? As an adult, he’d never been in love.

  Finding he didn’t want to follow these thoughts, Reece murmured, “In New York, it’s well past your bedtime.”

  “Even in Surrey,” she whispered. “Reece, how can I thank you? Do you see what you’ve done? You’ve healed me. Made me whole again. I want you so much, my body adores you, I feel so free with you…so wanton.”

  Emotion slammed through his chest like an ambush; she’d always had this knack of slicing through his defenses as though they were nothing but thin air. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he said gruffly; and knew that at some deep level he was evading her. “Maybe we should try and get some sleep—you’ve got a tree to decorate tomorrow.”

  “So I have,” she said contentedly. “Are we having turkey on Christmas Day?”

  “It’s thawing in the refrigerator and Hazel’s left at least ten pages of instructions.”

  “I cook a mean turkey,” Lauren murmured. “Good night, Reece.”

  Her gaze was clear and guileless. She’d said nothing about love, he thought. He’d freed her body. But her soul was still in her own keeping. And wasn’t that the way he wanted it? “I’ll blow out the candles,” he said, and climbed out of bed. One by one the soft points of light vanished, leaving only the dull glow of coals in the grate. Then, in the velvet darkness of a country night, Reece climbed into bed beside Lauren, put his arms around her and fell asleep.

  On Christmas morning, Lauren woke late. She lay still for a few moments, hearing the small sounds of Reece moving around downstairs. They’d made love in the middle of the night in total silence, each anticipating the other’s needs in a way that might not have been possible a couple of days ago. He was a wonderful lover, she thought, generous, ardent and sensitive. And wasn’t that enough? Of course it was.

  There was no reason whatsoever for her to feel this tiny edge of anxiety, this ripple of uneasiness.

  Yesterday, they’d decorated the tree with ornaments that had been in Reece’s family since he was a child; they’d made mince pies and a delicious curry. At midnight, they’d walked to a carol service in the nearby Norman church whose walls were over a foot thick and whose air breathed of all the men and women who’d found solace within those walls.

  Reece was climbing the stairs; the fourth step always creaked. Then he came in, wearing jeans and nothing else, ca
rrying a tray. “Breakfast,” he said, laughter lines crinkling around his eyes. “Not sure it’d pass Hazel’s eagle eye.”

  Mugs of coffee topped with whipped cream, fresh strawberries and peaches, and croissants hot from the oven. “Hey,” Lauren said, “a man who can cook. I’d better hold on to you.”

  The words replayed themselves in her head. Hoping Reece wouldn’t read anything into them, she sat upright, adjusting the pillows. Hold on to him? Her return flight was booked for just after New Year, and beyond that she had no idea what would happen. Reece wasn’t saying. And she wasn’t asking.

  “I took the croissants out of the freezer and put them in the oven,” Reece said. “Not rocket science.”

  They ate a leisurely breakfast. Then Lauren dressed in a cream silk shirt and wool skirt, and they went downstairs to put the turkey in the oven. Afterward, Reece plugged in the lights on the tree in the living room, lit the fire and turned on some music. Passing her a flat, rectangular package, he said, “Merry Christmas, Lauren.”

  She’d put her own package on the antique milking bench that served as a coffee table. Fumbling with the ribbon and paper, she drew out a wooden-framed photograph of a rocky beach edged with graceful cedars. The woman standing above the tideline beside a tumble of bleached driftwood looked lost in contemplation.

  “But that’s me,” Lauren said.

  “I took it after I left you there when we were kayaking, remember?”

  “It’s a lovely photo…is the frame homemade?”

  “I took woodwork way back in public school. That’s a piece of oak from an old shipwreck off the coast of Maine. I thought you might like it.”

  “I love it,” she said and kissed him. “Thank you for not buying me something terribly expensive, somehow that wouldn’t have felt right.” Then she added eagerly, “You must open mine, you’ll see why.”

  Hers was in a box, carefully wedged with tissue. He drew it out, removing the paper, to reveal a small wooden sculpture, a curve of driftwood shaped like a wave of the sea, from which emerged the sleek bodies of three killer whales. Gazing at it for a long minute, he said huskily, “We were thinking alike.”