(Ebook - English) - Carrie Alexander - His Mistress

by His Mistress [Lit]

  Carrie Alexander

  His Mistress

  Chapter 1

  William Justice was about to propose marriage.

  A shudder of sheer delight took hold of Calla Quinn at the very thought. How interesting, she noted. Love gives you the shivers!

  There were times she wondered if this was too good to be true. She'd never imagined falling in love with a man like William, who was so securely set in his niche among Denver's rich and powerful that she'd questioned her suitability as his future wife. Her usual outlandish artists and scruffy musicians were comfortably undemanding, arousing neither insecurities nor shivers. But then, she hadn't been in love with any of them, not really. She knew now she'd found the real thing. And her every instinct told her this was it. Their courtship had finally reached the moment of truth. William Justice was about to propose marriage.

  Calla shivered again, her skin going all goose bumpy under the high neckline and long sleeves of her classic navy blue dress. She forked up a bit of the delicious sole Parisienne, savoring the tang of Dijon mustard as it cut through her light-headed excitement. She must try to think clearly and concisely. William, such a proper gentleman, would expect decorous behavior even on this, the most thrilling night of her life.

  Sipping Chardonnay, Calla distracted herself by peering into the dim, candlelit interior of L'Etoile. Some might have called the sedate, Gallic-toned restaurant a conventional setting for a marriage proposal. She preferred "traditional." William could always be relied upon to follow tradition.

  Calla daintily patted her lips with a linen napkin and settled back against the plush banquette, wriggling her shoulders contentedly. Unaware of the obvious adoration shining in her eyes, she gazed across the table at her soon-to-be fiancé. Under the circumstances, she was as poised and prepared as possible. Wasn't it time he got on with it?

  "We've known each other for — what? Almost two months?" William leaned forward from the deepest curve of the banquette so that the harshly hewn angles and planes of his face suddenly loomed from the shadows. Although the severe lines of his profile would never qualify him as conventionally handsome, Calla found William's looks extremely compelling. Something in his knowing dark brown eyes provoked an elemental response in her, one that was both deeply exciting and quite impossible to define.

  As usual, she caught her breath as she absorbed William's marvelously masculine aura. It took a moment to subdue the quaver in her stomach before she could answer in an outwardly unaffected tone. "To be precise, it's been exactly seven weeks and three days, dear heart."

  He smiled faintly at the quaint turn of phrase. It didn't seem to fit the Calla Quinn he was positive lurked beneath the sleek veneer she'd assumed, the woman he hoped to uncover tonight in more ways than one. "Shall we make the fifty-second evening the most memorable?"

  So tonight was the night! Calla felt a tingling in her veins, as if her blood had been infused with champagne. William, traditional man that he was, would no doubt signal the waiter for Dom Pérignon once he'd popped the question. While champagne was all well and good, Calla had discovered the effervescent elixir of love and romance.

  She murmured an assent, again fixing her starry gaze upon William. Fifty-two days before, they'd met at a classy little cocktail party Frogg, Underwood had thrown for some of their toniest clients. Vivien Willowbrook-Grey, the sharp-eyed copywriter of the creative team who'd produced the Justice Bank and Trust campaign, had instantly picked William out of the crowd. A generous friend and, not coincidentally, a recent bride, Vivien had steered Calla in his direction and then discreetly disappeared. For his part, William had needed no prompting. Once he'd spotted Calla's wild tumble of red hair and lively emerald eyes, the crush of guests had obediently parted before him as he made his way toward her.

  As he'd approached, his intense, dark-eyed stare seemed to freeze Calla in place. Her fingers slowly curled into a fist so tight her long, enameled nails incised half-moon marks into the soft flesh of her palm. William halted before her, and the air between them was charged with an electric anticipation. Calla found she couldn't speak, and William didn't seem inclined to. Fortunately, a hefty woman in a chartreuse caftan, chugging like a barge on her way to the buffet, had pushed between them and broken the spell. Calla averted her eyes, laughing nervously as her shaky fingers toyed with the fruit-shaped buttons and asymmetrical neon lapels of her avant-garde suit.

  William had been wearing a somewhat dull but subtly expensive Brooks Brothers suit with a red power tie and gleaming Italian shoes. A man of substance, an urbane and thoroughly civilized male, Calla had thought, evaluating him from beneath lowered lashes. Certainly no reason to send her pulse speeding to the Indy 500, she'd chided herself, while carefully avoiding his magnetic eyes. Then again, without the tailored suit he'd have looked little like the conservative banker she knew him to be. His body was solid and substantial, yes, but too muscular and powerful to belong behind a desk.

  After introducing himself, William had suavely complimented Calla on her design of the new Justice Bank logo and illustrations for their print ads. Flustered and flattered by the praise, she blurted something about being surprised that he knew who she was. Lowly illustrators didn't usually garner the attention of bank vice presidents.

  Arching his heavy black brows as he'd noted the banana, strawberry, and pineapple buttons parading down her curvy front, William had eyed her from head to toe. Blatantly. Like an aspen leaf in the wind, she trembled slightly inside the multicolored suit, wondering why she'd dressed so outrageously. But he just tipped up one corner of his mouth in an amused grin and said, "I make it my business to know every detail of any subject vital to my interests." A flummoxed Calla was unclear on whether he was speaking professionally or personally.

  She'd found out when the next day brought a sheath of calla lilies wrapped in jewel-toned foil and an invitation to dinner. From there, she and William had eased into a leisurely but steady series of dates that had included a concert, art galleries, movies, a Nuggets playoff game, and the Rockies' opening day. Justice Bank and Trust retained both courtside tickets and field-level box seats. They saw a Remington show at the Denver Art Museum and even tried fishing, a not entirely successful outing for Calla, who preferred to enjoy nature from afar and fish in restaurants. Since there were Justice banks scattered throughout the West and Northwest, William was also maintaining a full schedule that included several business trips; even at his busiest, he made an effort to suggest a quick lunch or a shared cocktail hour before his next meeting. Their relationship had progressed quite nicely, albeit more decorously than Calla had anticipated.

  "And in that span of time, we've become very well acquainted," William was continuing in his suede-smooth voice. "Have we not?"

  Calla almost purred with pleasure as his words slid over her like a warm cloak. "We have," she agreed.

  "I like what I've learned about you, Calla."

  Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she didn't reply. While it was true they'd gotten to know each other in many ways, there were still aspects of her personality and her past that she hadn't revealed. She'd answered his questions honestly, but she hadn't volunteered any disturbing information. Vivien claimed everybody toned down or tuned out their less-desirable traits during the early phases of courtship. William didn't have to know every single little detail of her past, did he? She was just cultivating an air of mystery, wasn't she? So why did she have a vaguely guilty conscience?

  "Can you say the same about me?" William asked at her continued silence.

  How startling — and sort of endearing — that he might harbor doubts
! "Oh, of course, William. Of course," she hastily affirmed. Did she sound too eager? "I believe we're quite — compatible," she added with a touch more restraint.

  Certainly they'd talked. Over cozy brandies after a late movie, between bites of relish-smothered hot dogs at the ball game, on the phone in the middle of a business day with calls waiting on their other lines. She'd discovered that William was, predictably, a Republican, but one with a social conscience. Calla was a firm Democrat, rabid on the gender inequity in Congress. She'd even persuaded William to contribute a wad of Justice money to a Littleton woman gearing up for a run at a seat.

  They'd exchanged childhood stories, too. William's favorite birthday party had been an extravaganza of clowns, jugglers, and ponies, topped off with the best cake any seven-year-old had ever had — three-tiered chocolate fudge. In a slightly tipsy moment, Calla had confessed the story of acquiring her first bra: a polyester lace-and-elastic affair called a Beauty-gro. She'd even exhibited her laughably horrible eighth-grade class photo, baby fat, braces, limp shag cut, and all. They'd compared first-date disasters, blind-date revelations, prom-night fiascos.

  On a dare, William had shown her what he carried in his wallet and pockets. Fascinated, Calla had cataloged the items: a gizmo the size of a thick charge card that contained all his vital stats — agenda, addresses, phone numbers; tickets from the dry cleaner's; an elegant silver-tipped fountain pen; his personalized Justice Bank and Trust card; two gold (of course) charge cards. There was also a tiny tin of extra-strength aspirin, a small plastic comb, and photos of his family and Yale rowing team. Crisp bills neatly filed in descending order of denomination. An immaculate silk handkerchief and a beeper.

  Red with embarrassment, she'd revealed the contents of her purse — except for the lone condom she'd been carrying for the past five weeks; a lady had to keep some secrets.

  They'd included a bulging makeup case that held everything from an eyelash curler to a full-size can of hair spray. A tube of mauve lipstick that had looked super on the salesgirl but funereal on herself. Charcoal pencils and sketch pad, her mini-address book and week-at-a-glance calendar. Phone card, credit card, and the department-store card she kept swearing to cut up. Photos of friends she hadn't seen in aeons. Three unmatched earrings, one pair of sandalwood panty hose for emergencies, and 12 dollars and 62 cents. A fat, glitzy paperback with a creased take-out menu for a bookmark. Her Pikes Peak key ring jangling with nine keys and a tiny round tin of lip balm. William had gaped in amazement at the pile before she'd hastily scooped it helter-skelter back into her bag (a big one), afraid she'd revealed too much of her messy, not-so-sophisticated life.

  They'd talked religion, art, the glass ceiling, their preference in Sunday comics. Wood stoves versus fireplaces. Letterman versus Leno. Travel destinations — they'd agreed the best getaway-from-stress vacation was lying on a beach anywhere, the best cultural trip museum-hopping in Paris. William wanted to raft the Salmon; Calla said no way would she risk a trip down the "river of no return." William had already hiked New Zealand's Milford Track; Calla hiked to the library on Saturday mornings. She admitted to a secret Miss America fantasy, he to a cowboy dream, claiming it was something about their weatherbeaten toughness and tin platefuls of beans. Then he'd started talking about the Justice Ranch in Castle Rock, a spread homesteaded by one of his ancestors who'd come to Colorado to make a killing in gold and stayed to start a bank.

  William had asked her about the worst mistake she didn't make, and she related the tale of how she'd narrowly avoided dropping out of college to live in a Paris garret with Tristan Truckey, her crystal-caressing, pyramid-preaching, New Age artist boyfriend. What had ultimately decided her were Tristan's awful artworks, which involved much chanting, proselytizing, and endless trips to the junkyard.

  Naturally, she'd quizzed him about the worst mistake he had made, but he'd gone all quiet and remote, especially noticeable after their chuckles over the lamentable Mr. Truckey. She'd come to the conclusion that he didn't want to answer, but then he'd shrugged as if it didn't matter and told her about his short-lived marriage.

  Calla could tell that what really bothered William was the way the marriage vows had so quickly become meaningless. Her heart ached as he'd hid this past hurt with a nonchalant macho air, and later she'd wondered if that had been the moment she'd fallen in love. A man to whom marriage was a serious undertaking had seemed a rare and wonderful thing.

  Calla had been further touched to learn he sponsored two Guatemalan children through one of those back-of-a-magazine organizations. She was impressed by his easy command of everyone from ushers to waiters to business rivals; disconcerted by his background of Eastern prep school and Western oil-rich ranch land.

  William had been taken with the way she got huffy and hot under the collar in her defense of the spotted owl and baby seal; admiring of the prodigious artistic talent that was wasted while she toiled over Munchee Krunchee cereal ads; confused by her attempts to suppress her naturally passionate responses to life.

  "Compatible?" mused William now. "Let's see — intellectually, gastronomically, spiritually — What am I forgetting?"

  Calla thought the evening was losing its romantic overtones and on its way to becoming a stodgy progress report. "Financially," she suggested caustically.

  "So you're no heiress. Not that it will ultimately matter, but your job at Frogg, Underwood pays reasonably well, doesn't it?"

  "Oh, sure." But not in his league, and it did matter to her. Calla sat up straighter, her eyes flaring. "I pay my own way."

  "Well, then." William shrugged. "Where were we?"

  He'd retreated into the shadows again. A wary Calla could just make out the gleam — indulgent? teasing? — in his eyes as he stretched one arm out along the back of the banquette. Was he toying with her? His white teeth flashed like a wolf's when he smiled. "Hmm. Yes, of course. We shouldn't forget to consider our physical compatibility."

  Calla's stomach clenched. "Physical?" So they were finally getting down to the nitty-gritty.

  The waiter arrived to whisk away their dinner plates. "Mademoiselle did not care for zee sole?" he asked solicitously.

  Calla caught a glimpse of her swiftly vanishing half-full plate. She looked up owlishly and blinked several times. The looming waiter was some odd sort of Francophile; he'd tried for the debonair Frenchman but wound up as Pepe LePew. "It was delicious," she said. Perhaps she might yet become one of those wilting maidens who dined only on the satisfying richness of love, a pleasing enough prospect, since her figure — which Calla preferred to think of as voluptuous — could not exactly be described as willowy.

  "Monsieur would lack to see zee day-zert menu?" Pepe's mouth pursed as he attempted to fit a French accent around an American drawl.

  William dealt with dessert with such eager dispatch Calla had to wonder just how interested he was in discussing their physical compatibility. Especially since up till now there hadn't been much of a physical relationship to speak of.

  When he'd so politely kissed her cheek as they stood before her apartment door after their first date, she'd basked in his gentlemanly decorum. A brief kiss had followed the second date, and she'd been pleased to have discovered a man who wouldn't rush things. But when nothing more developed by the third and fourth, she'd spent a few lunches dissecting the problem with Vivien. She'd been afraid he didn't find her attractive. Viv had pointed out that Calla's beaux were usually overenamored of the full curves her Beauty-gro had helped develop, and William was obviously not blind.

  "Maybe he's gay," Vivien had suggested. But the memory of those fleetingly intense moments at their first meeting and her rather earthy, instinctive response every time he was near had long ago convinced Calla otherwise. "Could he be, uh, you know, physically defective?" Viv suggested next, trying to be delicate.

  "No way," was Calla's immediate answer. She'd intercepted too many hot and hungry looks in between their maddeningly proper good-night kisses to take such an idea seriou
sly.

  Still, when they'd progressed very little after two more dates, she buffered her frustration with William's confounding inaction by ordering garlic shrimp at Salvatore's, Vivien's treat. "Why not?" Calla had moaned. "There's nobody to mind if my breath reeks. Maybe I'll breathe on Betsy Bonner in the elevator." The thought of annoying Frogg, Underwood's senior copywriter cheered her briefly, but Sal's shrimp had never tasted so bland.

  Sipping cheap Chianti, Viv had succinctly narrowed the problem down to one last probability. "What if he's the old-fashioned type?" she asked. "Maybe he's chosen you to become Mrs. William Justice. The 100-percent pure, veddy-veddy proper Mrs. Justice. The girl he won't take to bed unless it's a marriage bed."

  "That's the most sexist thing I ever heard," Calla had protested. But she'd dropped her fork and forgotten all about the linguine still on her plate. Vivien could — just possibly — be right.

  For what other reason had she moderated her usual style of dress and tempered her natural exuberance to appear as calm and cool, and as dowdily dressed, as Queen Elizabeth? She'd known from the start, when he'd raised his eyebrows at her banana buttons, that William Justice was the sort of man who expected the woman in his life to be what Calla thought of as a real lady. So she'd pushed everything sequined, low cut, and clinging to the back of the closet and stacked her bedside table with books on art history, finance, and etiquette. She'd trimmed and attempted to tame her hair. Practiced the art of social chitchat so she could converse with his crowd at their charity luncheons and cocktail parties. Given 20 bucks to the Red Cross and gone door-to-door for famine relief so she could honestly say she was involved in good causes if William should ask. Why, she'd even submitted without a murmur of protest to his politely bland kisses when she'd really wanted to wrassle him to the ground like a cowboy with a steer. What was it all for if not to demonstrate what a suitable Mrs. Justice she would be? Viv was right.