(Ebook - English) - Carrie Alexander - His Mistress

by His Mistress [Lit]

  "Tell Branford to put his money where his mouth is," William said into the telephone with a stern tone, but his eyes were glued to Calla. They widened as she seductively drew off the prim white gloves she'd worn with her pink, ersatz-Chanel suit. Her lips pouted and puffed a breath at the delicate veiled netting that swooped over one eye from its anchor atop her very proper pillbox.

  "Uh — that mutual fund is top-heavy in —" William forgot what he'd been about to say because Calla had slipped out of her tailored jacket. Underneath she wore nothing but a white satin bustier, a dainty frill of lace and pink ribbon edging the cups from which spilled the lush fullness of her breasts. "Talk to you later," he said, not realizing he'd already hung up. "What are you up to?" he asked Calla in awe.

  "That depends on what you're up to." She dropped her skirt to the floor and stepped slinkily around his desk to seat herself on his lap, hips wiggling experimentally. "Mmm, I sense you'll soon be up to much naughtiness," she purred, leaning forward to kiss him. The angle didn't work and William found his nose buried in her powdered cleavage.

  He breathed deeply, savoring the flowery scent that only enhanced her own womanly fragrance, blinking at the tempting display under his eyes. "I hate to tell you this, but I've got a meeting with somebody named Honeywell in about two seconds." Maybe he could have his secretary claim an emergency and cancel. This certainly felt like an emergency.

  "I'm Honeywell," Calla said, smiling flirtatiously. "I came here to discuss sinking my assets into a Justice Bank venture. I'd hoped to find a better bang for my buck."

  "You're asking for it," he warned, his hands finding the silky skin between the tops of her stockings and the lacy edge of her garter.

  "Exactly." She slithered down his legs and his palms became filled to overflowing with her satin-encased breasts. He caressed them, watching Calla's eyelids lower as she moaned with satisfaction. Her bare shoulders shimmied seductively.

  "Did you lock the door?" he asked, all senses aflame.

  "Maybe I did," Calla whispered, "and maybe I didn't." Her hands slowly traveled up his trousered legs until they reached the zipper. Smiling up at him, she lowered it and reached inside. "Live dangerously."

  A tumultuous 20 minutes later they were out of breath and recovering on the red leather sofa. William lay flat on his back, watching Calla adjust the satin bustier. "Rather interesting," he commented lazily, "The construction of such a garment. How does that tiny scrap of pure seduction manage to contain so much lovely flesh?"

  Calla contemplated her cleavage as she did up the last hook. "Good question," she said wryly. "I believe the point of a bustier is to make a little look like a lot. In my case —"

  "A lot looks like more."

  Calla giggled and shrugged into her pink jacket. She circled the huge slab of buffed and polished granite that was William's desk and opened the horizontal blinds with a flourish. When the bright sunlight washed into the room, William started scrambling about, hiking up his slacks and reaching for the zipper. "Where's my shirt?"

  She retrieved it from under the desk, along with his tie, trying futilely to smooth out the creases. "You have the most unique way of wrinkling me up," William observed thoughtfully. "Why don't you get back over here so I can return the favor?"

  She plucked her pink hat from its perch atop the tall cactus in the corner, waving a finger at him. "I believe Honeywell's scheduled time is about up." Patting her hair to see how much of it had escaped from its well-pinned French twist, she dropped into the chair by the desk. With the pillbox back in position, she pulled the wisp of veil down over one eye and winked the other.

  William groaned. She was making him crazy again, even though it was physically impossible to recover quite that fast. "When is Honeywell's next appointment? And how did you come up with such a suggestive name?"

  She beamed innocently, once again all gussied up in her ladies-who-lunch outfit. "Honeywell was the name of my high school chemistry teacher."

  "Calla Quinn, what am I going to do with you?"

  She stood and slapped the white gloves into her hand the way she'd seen all those smart, sassy, broad-shouldered dames do in the movies. "No worries, there," she said archly. "You know exactly what to do with me."

  He chuckled and leaned back against the creaking sofa, his arms crossed behind his head. His bare chest expanded with male pride at the memory of her gasping out her climax beneath him. "Now that we've satisfied those appetites, why don't we dig into the picnic basket?"

  She laughed as she picked it up and turned it upside down, shaking it for good measure. It was quite obviously empty. "A ruse," Calla explained with dancing eyes. "I didn't want to scandalize Mrs. Pennyworth."

  "Wait a minute, Calla," William called when she started to leave. "I wanted to ask you. You did lock the door, didn't you?"

  The glance she threw over her shoulder carried a mischievous glint. Her lips curled upward like the Mona Lisa's. "You'll never know."

  She waved her gloves at him and slipped out the door without another word, grinning to herself. He'd been zapped. Thoroughly zapped. But had she left quite the right impression?

  William looked up in apparent surprise when she reentered the room. "By the way," she said, struggling for a casual air, "I love you, William Justice. Just thought you should know."

  She was gone before he could blink, let alone reply. Perhaps that was just as well, he realized, for what would he have said? He was as startled as he'd been when she'd pushed him into the lake.

  He took a deep breath and replayed the last minute in his mind's eye. There he'd been — slumped on the couch, satiated and self-congratulatory, extremely pleased with the way this affair was working out. Then — Calla's declaration. Enough to knock the smug stuffing out of any man.

  Gradually William began to smile. She loved him. She loved him, not his bank account, not his family connections, not his Jag or his diplomas or his status. Calla loved him, but did he —

  The door suddenly opened again and William sat forward, half hoping, half afraid, that Calla had returned. But Mrs. Pennyworth stuck her nose past the jamb and wiggled it like a rabbit, beady little eyes swiftly cataloging the disarray inside. William saw that his socks were draped over the desk lamp. A shoe poked out of the wastepaper basket. A stack of files had fanned halfway across the room when they'd been pushed off the desk. And he was only partially dressed. Thank God he'd at least zipped up.

  Mrs. Pennyworth's gaze worked around the room. When it lighted upon William, she emitted a squeak of surprise, string-bean body flinching as if she'd never before seen a half-nude man. After reflecting on the prissy bow-tied Mr. Pennyworth, William decided it was possible she hadn't. No doubt they did the deed under the blankets with the lights off.

  "Mr. Justice!" she gasped.

  His eyebrow arched. Nothing for it but act as though a midafternoon interlude wasn't at all untoward and hope she wouldn't report the incident to the board of directors. "Yes, Mrs. Pennyworth?"

  She twitched at the sight of the overturned, completely empty wicker basket. "I'm glad you enjoyed the picnic," she said dryly. So, Mrs. Pennyworth was not quite the prude William had assumed — but neither was she overly indulgent. She fixed William with a hard stare. "Ms. Quinn is a nice lady. I know you will do right by her, Mr. Justice."

  She pulled back and firmly shut the door, leaving William with an uneasy recollection of Miss Blatty, his draconian kindergarten nightmare. His bamboozled brain slowly began to work its way out of the dazed state to which Calla had banished it with her hit-and-run.

  He'd always considered himself a fair man. Of course he would do right by Calla. The only problem was that since he'd met her his idea of "right" had been shoved, drowned, wrung-out, blissed-out, stripped, and taken on a loop-the-loop.

  "Sticky buns?"

  * * *

  She'd thrown him out of bed. Again.

  He didn't like it one bit. William's fingers brushed the stubble sandpapering his chin as he tried to
figure it out. By his estimation the evening had been a smashing success: an invitation-only opening at an art gallery (women adore exclusive culture), hearty bowls of cioppino at Salvatore's (Calla insisted on treating), a brisk walk (they needed to work off the calories and it was kind of nice to have an excuse to hold hands), and a split of rose champagne and slow dancing at a soothingly dark and subdued nightclub (women also adore sophistication and romance). Back in Calla's flowery chintz-and-brass bedroom, she'd been willing to allow him to do anything he pleased — except stay until morning.

  His punishment for not yet answering her pronouncement?

  "Sir, did you want the sticky buns?"

  William came out of his funk. "Uh, yeah. I'll take a dozen," he said to the hair-netted bakery clerk behind the counter. He'd spotted the early-opening bakery on his way into the city and impulsively decided to stop. Maybe 12 gooey rolls would help excuse him for what he was soon to do — crash Calla's cozy brunch with Vivien and Alex.

  He wasn't about to let her keep shunting him off to the sidelines of her everyday life. It was time they became an official and public couple.

  William handed the clerk some money and took the warm paper bag. "Keep the change," he said expansively. It felt good to be back in control of his future — even if he wasn't quite sure what that future was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Calla viewed the elegant ballroom of the Columbine Hotel with a jaundiced eye. Normally she would've been awed by the high, vaulted ceiling with its carved, gold-leaf arches that met the shining marble floor. She would've been slightly intimidated by the odor of money and power that clung to the tuxedoed men, the glossy sheen of the bejeweled, high-maintenance ladies.

  Normally, but not tonight. She'd had a bad day.

  Five minutes late to a meeting with Kate Todhunter, the lean and severe creative director, Betsy Bonner had jostled Calla's elbow as she took her place at the conference table. The full coffee mug in Calla's hand had tilted just enough to spill onto her ivory silk blouse.

  Pacing the room like a nervous greyhound, Kate had decreed the Zippity-Zap campaign a dunghill. Betsy had the gall to blame it on the artwork, when anyone with half a brain could see Betsy's copy was the weakest of the weak links.

  Back at her drawing board, Calla had ripped up the discarded illustration boards, pinned a brooch over the coffee stain, chewed a Tums, and forged on with the miserable day.

  She'd raced home to change for the event William had invited her to last Saturday morning when he'd barged into brunch with a bagful of sticky buns and a declaration that he was now a permanent fixture in her life. She'd felt a warm glow developing in her heart — Was he saying what she hoped? — but had rattled off something about equal time. William retaliated by inviting her to what he promised would be an extremely boring fete for the retiring Judge Herman Brock. He'd even called at noon to remind Calla the guests were a dull, conservative lot and she should dress appropriately.

  Viv had promised Calla the loan of the staid dress her great-aunt Chessy had given her one Christmas, so Calla let herself into Viv's apartment and caught Alex sitting in front of his word processor in an unbuttoned flannel shirt and black Jockey shorts. Finally clued in to why Vivien chuckled every time she heard the word "endowment," Calla stepped in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door to assess the doubtful tent dress.

  Barnum and Bailey could have made a big top out of the stiff taupe fabric, but the color was probably too drab for them. Alex confirmed her horror by asking why she'd put on his army-surplus tent. Her mood turning perverse, Calla decided on the spot that it was time William took her as she was.

  "Calla?" William asked, appearing out of a cluster of bank regulators in penguin suits. "Look at you," he added in wonder, eyes bulging slightly. "What happened to your Miss Prim and Proper outfit of last Monday?"

  She licked her scarlet-painted lips. "That was a costume. This is the real me."

  "Well." William was nonplussed. On the one hand, Calla was gorgeous, sumptuous, bountifully sexy in her tight sheath of emerald sequins. With her wild tumble of defiantly red hair and a necklace of chunky gold links, she looked like a gaudy Christmas ornament. This room would turn into bifocal heaven when the male guests saw such a glittering apparition heading their way. On the other hand, it would not be the discreet introduction he'd envisioned.

  "Is your tie too tight?" Calla inquired disingenuously. "You seem to be choking." The tailored outfits she'd worn for most of their previous dates might have been socially proper, but they sure didn't pack the wallop this sequined mini did. William looked like a poleaxed steer.

  "It's not as tight as your dress," he said in a strangled voice. Calla's figure winked and glimmered with her every breath, and he wasn't sure the dress was capable of containing all parts of her anatomy if she should need to make a sudden move. No dancing, he vowed silently.

  "Justice! Long time, no see!"

  William's eyes swiveled toward the stocky man who'd sidled up next to Calla like a snake on a warm rock. "Pyle," he said unenthusiastically. "Been keeping yourself out of jail?"

  "Heh-heh. Always pays to know a judge or two and have a politician in your pocket. What else are campaign contributions for?" Pyle gulped greedily at his scotch. "Who's your lovely lady — heh-heh — friend?"

  William performed the introduction through gritted teeth. "I know your name, Mr. Pyle," Calla said warily. "You're the man behind the Savings and Loan disaster that's costing the taxpayers millions." She took a step away from him.

  Pyle put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed, not disguising that he was only interested in staring down her cleavage. "Not to mention what it's going to cost me," he replied heartily. "Why's a curvy li'l gal like you talking business? You were made for better things, heh-heh."

  William clamped his hand on Pyle's wrist like a manacle and lifted his arm away so Calla could free herself. "Heh-heh-heh," Pyle blustered, still leering. "Now don't go telling me you don't know what I mean, Justice. My momma didn't raise no fools!"

  William was about to inform the oily man exactly what his momma had raised, but Calla clutched his hand and towed him into the crowd. "He's not worth making a scene over," she said, shuddering to shake the creepy feeling. Pyle might as well have plucked his eyeballs from his head and rolled them across her skin. She shouldn't have been so quick in rejecting Great-Aunt Chessy's tent dress. "I hope that disgusting man is not typical of your acquaintances," she said. "Or the real reason I was to dress conservatively."

  "Pyle is a vile lecher, but perhaps he wouldn't have reacted quite so crudely if your dress wasn't so — so blatantly sexy."

  "Thanks for the fashion tip. I'll have to remember it next time I'm going to wear a see-through blouse to work or a bikini to your bank."

  William steered her to a quiet place against the wall, unsure of what she might do if she became any more ornery. There was a devil-may-care edge to Calla's manner tonight. "How about a drink?" he asked, craning his neck to spot one of the circulating waiters. Apparently the drinks had all been sucked up by the eddying crowd. "Will you be all right alone for a minute?" he asked, the wicked glint in her emerald eyes causing him some concern.

  "Certainly." But she'd bet 50 bucks she wouldn't be alone long. She'd already intercepted too many curious glances. William nodded gravely and made his way to the bar, around which guests were clustered four deep.

  Calla turned to study the crowd, wondering if her dress did go too far. A majority of the group were past the five-decade mark, the women garbed head to toe in matronly lace overdresses and swaths of organza and taffeta. A waiter passed before her line of vision and she snagged him, downing a glass of champagne in a few gulps and lifting another off the tray.

  "Why, hello," a reedy voice chirped in her ear. A tall, skinny woman in pale blue had glided up beside her, thin lips forming an icy smile. "Suzanne —" a tip of one manicured fingernail indicated her companion "— saw you with Willy Justice, and I
just couldn't resist coming over to introduce myself. I'm Mavis Tallyhope."

  Bully for you, Calla wanted to say. Instead, she offered her name and took another quick sip of champagne.

  "Quinn? Quinn?" Mavis pursed her lips and glanced at Suzanne, a lively looking blonde in plain gray velvet too heavy for the season. "Do we know any Quinns, Suzy?"

  "Don't think so." Suzanne was studying Calla with friendly but intensely curious blue eyes.

  "Well, you do now," Calla said flatly.

  "Too right." Mavis steepled her hands beneath her chin, tapping it with a bony index finger as her gaze slid up and down Calla's glittering form. "That's quite a dress, Calla."

  "Why, thank you, Mavis," Calla replied with false bonhomie. "One just like it in hot pink would be fabulous on you. Would you like to know where I bought it?" Mavis would look like a dyspeptic flamingo if she ever got wild and crazy enough to slip into something pink.

  Mavis's jaw clamped so tightly her lips disappeared. An oblivious Suzanne brayed, "Wish it'd work on me."

  "You'd look great in a bolder color," Calla replied sincerely. Suzanne had a pear-shaped figure, something the draped velvet did nothing to camouflage. "Try a bright blue to match your eyes. Or deep red."

  "Are you a salesgirl?" Mavis sniped. "I'm afraid we only shop in the more exclusive stores. I'm sure you understand."

  "Yes, of course. No doubt you patronize the exact same stores as your grandmother. It shows." Calla smiled through gritted teeth.

  Mavis smiled back venomously. "Do Willy's parents know he's dating a shop girl?"

  The smile dropped from Calla's lips like a bowling ball from a broken thumb. "Before you run off to spread false rumors, perhaps I should inform you that you're wrong on both counts."

  "Do tell," Mavis said with an arch coziness. "I just can't understand Willy appearing at such an important party with someone so very different from his first wife. It couldn't possibly be serious."

  "Divorced her," the terse Suzanne muttered. "Why not someone new?"