Mistress for a Night

by Diana Hamilton

  But he couldn’t tell her why there was no future for them. Not if he wanted to keep his sanity. He couldn’t spell his reasons out; he couldn’t humiliate her that much.

  She was verbalising her plans for a swift getaway, and he cut across the breathless words, explaining gently, ‘Georgia—I’m a senior partner now; I don’t have to get back if I don’t want to. In my position, it’s easy to delegate. But it’s time I went.’ High time, if he didn’t want to become totally, irretrievably addicted. ‘And I think it’s best if you stay on, finish your holiday.’

  He watched her eyes widen, some of the animation leave her face, and had to force himself not to retract those words, take her in his arms and tell her he wanted her with him always. Needed her.

  He had to make himself say, ‘We both needed these last few days. Needed to close the circle, give each other back the peace that the last seven years of misunderstanding deprived us of.’

  And for him that was the truth. The whole truth. He had been able to put what she had become out of his mind, concentrate solely and completely on his instinctive need to make her happy and, yes, to make love to her, possess her utterly and wholly.

  ‘And now it’s time to draw a line under the past, close the book and go our separate ways.’ The words stuck in his throat, he had to push them out, and in doing so probably sounded harsher, colder, than he’d had any intention of doing.

  He regretted that, hated the look of shock in her eyes, the way her colour fell away beneath her golden tan, hated himself for being the cause of it. He had to remind himself that Georgia could look after herself now; she didn’t need him.

  She was more than financially secure, she was an extremely wealthy woman, and if she needed physical consolation—and it was his guess she would, and soon, because she was one hell of a sexy lady—then she had her live-in lover to fall back on.

  He had actually forgotten the guy’s existence, but reminding himself of it had stopped him doing what he’d been tempted to do—taking her hands, telling her he’d always be there for her, thus opening the way for future meetings, prolonging the agony.

  ‘If that’s what you really want.’ It had taken a few moments, but she was now back in control. Drawing on the harsh lessons she’d learned over the past seven years, she pushed the racking pain, the overwhelming feeling of loss and emptiness, right to the back of her mind. ‘Then it’s absolutely fine by me.’

  She plucked her sunglasses from the top of the table and put them back on, hiding her eyes, unwilling to have him know how shattered she was inside, how near she had come to breaking apart, going down on her knees and begging him not to cut her out of his life. ‘Shouldn’t you make those phone calls? You don’t want to cut it too fine.’ She got to her feet, willing her legs to hold her upright. ‘I’ll wait for you at the harbour.’

  ‘Georgia—’ He had got to his feet, towering over her. Again she had to summon all her inner strength to fight the humiliating desire to burst into tears, cling to him, beg him not to leave her, not ever, to tell him how much she loved him. In a turmoil of emotion she heard him say, his voice soft, ‘Don’t think I won’t remember these last few days—’

  ‘Oh—please!’ She had to stop him. She just had to! If he tried to be kind then she would go to pieces; no amount of will-power could stop that happening. ‘Spare us both. It was fun while it lasted. Let’s just take that as read.’ And she turned her back and walked away, and felt the scalding heat of tears on her face.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FOR once traffic on the motorway was relatively light, and although the winter morning was overcast it was at least dry. Georgia glanced in her mirrors, indicated, pulled over into the fast lane and put her booted foot down and listened to the engine sing. Her hands were feather-light on the steering wheel, and she felt herself begin to relax for the first time since her happiness had been so cruelly shattered on San Antonio.

  She’d left Blue Rock twenty-four hours after Jason, and had spent the two days she’d been back in England adjusting to the change in temperature, readjusting to the prospect of a loveless future and trying to decide what to do with the rest of her life.

  One thing was certain: she wouldn’t be looking back.

  So work would fill her future, of course; there wasn’t anything else. No plans now for marriage and children. That cosy scenario was right out of the frame. And she only had herself to blame for the misery and heartache. She’d forgotten all she’d learned and let her emotions rule her head.

  She’d been seriously considering giving the bulk of her inheritance away to charity, because she had no real use for it; she could support herself. She needed her work, needed it to fill her mind. She’d just keep enough back to buy herself a small home in the country, within reasonable travelling distance of the agency, because since her return from the Caribbean Ben had made her flat untenable, forever hovering, hanging around, leaving when she told him to but always, always coming back.

  Yes, she had been planning to spend the day trawling round the local estate agents when the phone call had come from Harold’s solicitor.

  She throttled back, brake-lights flashing, when she saw the advance warning signs for roadworks ahead, automatically glancing in her rearview mirror, noting the silver Jaguar.

  Keeping her speed down, she filtered into the contraflow system. She hadn’t meant to be returning to Lytham Court so soon, if ever. But Harold’s solicitor had said, making it sound like a mystery, ‘A letter has turned up, addressed to you, with the instruction that you read it only in the event of your stepfather’s death. Mrs Moody, quite rightly, handed it to me. Now…’ She had heard the rustle of papers and wondered what on earth Harold had wanted to say to her that couldn’t have been said while he was still alive, and then the solicitor had gone on, ‘I’ve also got papers here that need your signature—pertaining to the provisions you wish to make for Mrs Moody and Albert Baines out of your late stepfather’s estate. As I would like them both to be present, I suggest I meet you all at Lytham—three this afternoon would suit me, if you can make it. Otherwise, perhaps you could suggest some other day.’

  She’d told him that today would be fine. Might as well get it over with. She wasn’t due back at work until the beginning of next week. House-hunting would have to wait until tomorrow.

  The sign for rejoining the main carriageway was in front of her; the silver Jaguar was still hugging her tail. Nice car, she thought idly, with elegant, classic lines.

  Past the last of the cones, the traffic sped up, and the Jaguar kept close company; she would almost miss it when she left the motorway. But it was right behind her as she cut back her speed on the exit road, and she wondered if she could lose him on the trunk road ahead.

  Of course she could! The prospect filled her with the first feeling of being alive she’d experienced since Jason had effectively told her, Wham-bam, thank you, ma’am, and walked right out of her life.

  As she depressed the accelerator she felt the eager, thrusting response of the powerful engine in every cell of her body, and this was the type of road she enjoyed—plenty of straights spiced with fast, open curves, and just enough traffic to challenge her driving skills.

  She overtook an articulated lorry and slipped back on to her side of the road in a single, neat manoeuvre. A brief glance in her mirror told her that her silver shadow was still with her, and its headlights flared—in challenge or in warning?

  The needle hovered around ninety miles per hour. She reined in the engine until it dropped to a sober eighty. Let him pass, if he wanted to. The driver was either the macho type, who couldn’t bear to see a woman in front of him, or, horror of horrors, a policeman in an unmarked police car!

  He didn’t pass, just stayed in her slipstream. She was beginning to feel distinctly annoyed, the exhilaration of driving to the best of her considerable ability ebbing away because she couldn’t shake him off her tail.

  They were approaching a largish village, and she slowed, sticki
ng strictly to the speed limit, ignoring the silver Jaguar behind. Once past the traffic lights, a couple of miles on, she would be turning off into a tangle of country lanes, heading for Lytham. It would be too much of a coincidence if he was also heading that way.

  She braked gently at some traffic lights, and although she’d told herself to ignore the irritating driver behind curiosity got the better of her, and she lifted her eyes to her rear-view mirror and took a long, hard look.

  Jason! She felt herself go white, every ounce of strength draining from her body until her limbs were shaking.

  As far as she was concerned, he was nothing but bad news.

  His first betrayal she could now understand and forgive, because it had been the result of a massive misconception. The second she could understand—he’d wanted sex and she’d been willing—but she would never forgive. The hurt had been too much.

  The lights changed, and, half stupefied, she eventually found the right gear and eased across the junction.

  He was still following her, and that she would not tolerate. Unless, the thought flickered, he too had been summoned to Lytham. But why should he have been?

  She would find out soon enough. She indicated well ahead of the turn-off to the narrow minor roads, and, yes, he was turning, too.

  Tense, her jaw clamped tightly, she drove slowly, looking for the right place, then found it, braking, pulling the car into a passing place that had been carved out of the verge.

  She pressed the switch that let down the window at her side and cold air filled the car. She waited, her mouth grim, her eyes shadowed with the pain she could do nothing about.

  The silver car swerved to a halt in front of her, and in moments he was striding back to her, long legs encased in mole-grey cords, wide shoulders rigid beneath a soft leather jacket, his face furious.

  Almost as if she had known what he would do, she glued herself to the leather bucket seat and waited for the onslaught as he dragged open the door and bit out, ‘You could have killed yourself!’

  She didn’t want to see him, to see his hauntingly handsome face. She didn’t want to talk to him either, but she had to because she wasn’t taking that!

  She turned her face to his, her expression stony, and said, very precisely, her anger precariously contained, ‘No. I drive a fast car well. I don’t take risks. I know what I’m doing. If there was any danger it was because you were tail-gating.’

  He ignored her words completely. ‘Get out!’ And before she could react he leant over her, taking the keys from the ignition, his hands clamping on her shoulders as she sat immobilised by an anger so intense she thought she might explode with it.

  Impatiently, he slid his hands under her arms and hauled her out, and only when her booted feet met the grass of the verge did she find her tongue. She lashed him with it. ‘If you don’t get your hands off me and give me my keys I’ll have you prosecuted for assault. The police take road rage very seriously.’

  ‘Shut up!’ he snapped through his teeth, and wound an arm around her narrow waist, lifting her off her feet and carrying her, kicking and wriggling. He pushed her into the back seat of his car and slid in beside her.

  Slithering round, she felt all the emotion she’d suppressed since he’d ended their brief island affair boil over as she slapped his face. Through a red mist of rage she saw his mouth tuck in at the corners, heard him do what she’d least expected—apologise.

  ‘I’m sorry. This wasn’t meant to happen.’ He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, rumpling it, and said, his voice rough, ‘When she knew her relationship with Harold was over your mother came back to Lytham and collected her car—with tragic results. I thought you—’

  Before he could offer the final insult to her character she stopped him with an oath worthy of a building site worker in a temper, then offered scathingly, ‘I am not my mother. I don’t go to pieces behind the wheel of my car—or anywhere else, for that matter—just because a man turns out to be a bastard. I expect a man to be a bastard!’ She held out a hand. ‘Now give me my keys.’

  Jason’s heart lurched as he looked into the burnished, glittering gold of the eyes that dominated the frozen features of her gorgeous face.

  All the hard edges were back in place; she’d rebuilt that fortress. She was sexy, tough, had attitude. And he loved her. Despite her muddy relationship with Harold. He couldn’t blame her for that, not if he viewed the subject rationally, put his possessiveness where she was concerned aside.

  She’d felt betrayed, rejected by her lover and her parent, barred from her home. Ignored. Harold had been the only one who had had anything to do with her, shown her any affection.

  It didn’t matter that she’d turned to the only one of them who hadn’t treated her like a pariah. He could understand it, shut it away in the past where it belonged, along with all the other emotional baggage—sleepless nights since he’d left her on the island had shown him that. He prayed to God it wasn’t too late.

  ‘No.’ He denied her demand for the keys. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I can’t think why.’ She didn’t avoid his eyes, didn’t so much as blink. She would show him she could outface him. ‘You already thanked me for giving you a few days of good sex.’ She made a leisurely production of looking at her wristwatch. Loads of time, but he didn’t know that. ‘I’ve an appointment with Harold’s solicitor at Lytham. I don’t intend to keep him waiting.’

  ‘Georgia—just shut up.’ His voice had dropped, was soft as honey now, and the expression in his eyes reminded her of the way he had looked at her when everything had been so briefly wonderful. She couldn’t bear it. She lowered her eyes, swiftly veiling her own expression as she brushed an imaginary fleck from the knee of the tailored mulberry-coloured trousers she was wearing.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, and there was a strange catch in his voice. ‘But that’s nothing new. The only problem is, I can’t imagine life without you. And I’m a big enough fool to have overlooked that glaringly obvious fact.’ He took one of her hands in both of his and added carefully, as if he were mentally walking on eggshells, ‘Could a bright lady like you possibly marry a fool?’

  Paralysed by the unexpected, Georgia let her hand stay in his, feeling his thumb slide back and forth over her clenched knuckles. She lifted her eyes, not looking at him, not daring to—hardly daring to breathe even—and fixed them on the winter-bare trees and fields she could see through the windscreen.

  Was this a cruel trick? Or was she dreaming, putting words into his mouth that he hadn’t said? Or had his final betrayal of her love for him pushed her right over the edge? Was she going crazy?

  ‘If you say no, I’ll understand. I’ll hate it, but will understand. I had to find you and ask. I was cursing myself for being such an idiot, cutting myself off from the only woman I’ve ever loved, long before the plane to Heathrow touched down. I’ve been sleepless at night, thinking of you, wanting you. Desperate. So afraid I’d lost you again through my own stupidity.’ Briefly the pressure of his fingers tightened, and then relaxed. ‘I drove up to Birmingham to tell you all this, saw your car leave the street as I turned into it, and came after you.’

  His heart thumped, constricting his breathing. If she didn’t respond soon he’d take her in his arms and kiss her until she was forced to, kiss her until the frozen features glowed with the vibrancy that was so much a part of her. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

  Following her car, he’d admired the way she drove, entranced by the flirty, sexy package of sports car and driver. Then he’d remembered Vivienne’s fate, and couldn’t recall ever having been so terrified.

  ‘Marry me, Georgia,’ he said with thick urgency.

  The landscape in her vision blurred and tilted because her brain was going haywire. If he’d asked her a few days ago, instead of saying, Thanks, it was nice knowing you, and catching the first flight out of her life, she’d have accepted like a shot and known she was in heaven.

  But that wa
s then. This was now, and she’d spent much time and energy transforming herself back into the hard-nosed tough career woman she’d been before. The woman who didn’t need anyone. The woman who didn’t get hurt because she never let anyone close enough.

  ‘Georgia. Tell me you don’t love me and you get more than your keys; you get your life back. But if you do love me, and after our time together on the island I believe you do, then I get the rest of your life to cherish and hold dearer than my own. And you get mine, to do with as you will.’ One of his hands cupped the delicate line of her jaw, tilted her head. ‘Look at me.’

  She met his smoky, smouldering eyes and lost herself. Lost the dedicated career lady and found the woman who’d been born to love this one man.

  Her mouth softened, trembled. Tears rushed to her eyes and clogged her throat, and she couldn’t have spoken if her life had depended on it.

  His hand slid to the back of her head as he shifted closer, kissing away the crystal drops, working down to her mouth and taking that, tasting her tears, her lips, deepening the kiss to accommodate her electrifying wild response.

  ‘I take it that’s a yes?’ he murmured huskily as she broke away at last, pulling breath into her starved lungs, her soft lips tingling.

  She nodded, her eyes sparkling with tears of almost unbearable happiness. ‘Yes,’ she whispered unsteadily. ‘If you’re sure? I couldn’t bear it if—if you just went away again—’

  ‘Sweetheart…’ He groaned, pulling her close, holding her against his heart. ‘I’ll never do anything to hurt you again, and that’s a promise.’ He felt her small hands flutter beneath his jacket, felt the warmth of her through his light sweater, and felt his flesh shake with the power of his need for her, loving her more than he’d ever loved anything or anyone. ‘I knew I loved you, wanted you and needed you, but there were reasons—stupid ones—why I thought we couldn’t make a future together.’