by Неизвестный
Sara Woods Expectant Mistress
CHAPTER ONE
ADAM was shockingly late for his own engagement party. But worse than that was the reason for his lateness. He was thinking of another woman.
In the middle of dressing, checking the fax and answering the ever-ringing phone, he’d knocked a photograph from his desk. It was in his hand and he was staring at it. His late wife. Stepdaughter Petra.. .and Trish. Slowly his tense, irritated expression evaporated. Their last moment together was one he’d never forget. His hand shook a little. The photo was replaced. Heavy gold cufflinks inserted. Then he was still. The phone and the fax demanded his attention but he was oblivious to them. In the middle of the room, he stood staring into space——and the past.
He saw her turning to him, her face beautiful in its compassion, her lips treacherously parting over pure white teeth. A feeling of profound emotion had swept over him, and an awe that he should know such a woman, speak to her, be near her...
He had no idea what had happened, only that her soft cheek lay against his, the perfume of her hair overwhelming him till he had to bury his face in it, kiss her warm scalp and nuzzle his way down to the long, pure column of her neck. And, once he’d touched her, he’d been unable to hold back.
He could feel the peachy texture of her skin even now. The pliancy of her young and supple body. Breasts high and generous, pressing against his chest. The way she’d responded like an innocent, with the unleashed passion of a gypsy.
And then he’d come to his senses.
Suddenly his usual dynamic self again, he dealt rapidly with two calls then scanned the faxes and made notes in the margins for his secretary. He strode like a whirlwind through the foyer of the exclusive apartment building, and no one would have guessed from his decisive, assertive manner that he could still feel Trish’s body, warm and yielding against his hands.
In a specially reserved suite in a London hotel, Trish was getting ready for the party. The invitation had been stuffed in her bag, out of sight.
Adam and Louise.
Four outfits were strewn on the bed and her damp palms bore witness to her nerves. How did you greet a man who’d kissed you suddenly, without warning, fiercely claiming possession, his kisses bruising and burning and shocking you with their passion?
Weak at the knees, she sank to the bed. She could see him when she closed her eyes. Feel his harsh breath heating her throat, and his mouth, his teeth and his tongue savaging every sensual inch.
She lay back, her arms stretched above her head in glorious remembrance. There had been no preliminaries. No courtship. They hadn’t held hands, exchanged a goodnight kiss or progressed to cuddling on a second date. There hadn’t been any dates. It didn’t matter. That coming together had been instant, primal and inescapable. Her heart lurched with a sweet, hurting affection as she recalled how frantic and fumbling his normally capable and careful hands had been as they’d attempted to unpick the buttons of her shirt. He’d wanted her to distraction. She’d felt giddy with power, thrilled to be the kind of woman who could create such havoc.
Her whole body had been screaming for him, every part of her hot and molten and dominating her mind, a mind hopelessly incapable of any sane thought. Her eyes had pleaded with him to tear the clothes from her body and his so that she could feel his skin against hers, gently fasten her teeth on him, taste him, know what it was like to smell and lick that male flesh, to be totally and utterly abandoned for the iirst time in her life. .
‘Trish,’ he’d groaned, barely audible.
She’d known then that something was wrong. He had tensed throughout his body, every inch of him suddenly rigid. Pain had slashed silver paths across his dark eyes. Her hands had clutched at him. . .and he’d pushed her away. Before she’d even been able to speak, croak, plead, he’d been stumbling from the room.
‘You look very nice.’
Trish sat up guiltily as her friend appeared suddenly in the hotel room and shattered all her sinful memories. ‘You might have knocked? she complained, coming out of her reverie with reluctance.
‘I did, duckie.’
Trish frowned. ‘I didn’t hear a thing!’
‘You were miles away,’ Petra said. ‘And you ought to lock your door.’
‘I keep forgetting,’ Trish admitted. ‘I’m not used to locking up. We never do, at home. Now you’re here, help me!
Do I wear this, or my jeans, or fling myself down the lift shaft?’ she asked earnestly, turning to more immediate dramas. Petra put an arm around her friend. ‘Wear what you’ve got on. Honest, Trish, you do look nice.’
Nice. What kind of compliment was that? Unfortunately, the mirror told her what Petra must be seeing: a decent, dull, unsophisticated woman. Someone who’d have diffuculty even exciting a lecher who’d been marooned alone on a desert island for ten years! She felt a surge of intense anger.
'I don’t want nice! I want sensational!’ Trish stopped scowling at her offensively nice and deeply boring dress and eyed Petra balefully instead.
‘Oh, yeah? Why? Thought you never cared about your appearance? Petra asked, with a sly grin.
Did Petra know her guilty secret? Trish picked up a pair of nail scissors and tried to even up her zigzag fringe while she dealt with her fears. Then she came to her senses. Petra would never have invited her to her stepfather’s engagement party if she did.
‘I’m having the jitters at the thought of all the stunning women at this party!’ Trish replied, since that was half the truth. Muttering crossly, she put down the scissors in defeat.
‘Women without jagged holes in their fringes!’
‘And one woman in particular.' Her friend put her head on one side and critically surveyed Trish’s pitch—dark hair, which had been cut by her grandmother into something only vaguely resembling a bob. ‘Adam’s fiancée is perfection itself,’ she offered irritatingly. Trish resisted the temptation to stamp her foot like a petulant child and wondered instead why she felt so badtempered all of a sudden. It dawned on her that she’d hoped Louise would be all teeth, acne and glasses! She laughed at her idiocy. Of course Adam would marry someone stunmng.
‘Exactly!’ Experimentally, she puffed out her chest and sucked in her stomach. She just looked stupid so she let it all go again. ‘Look at me! I need loads of praise, if you please. What’s the use of having a best friend if she’s not going to lie through her teeth and swear I’m knockout gorgeous?’ she demanded with a grin.
‘OK.’ Petra assumed the air of a pop fan who had just seen her idol walk in. ‘Wow!’ she gushed, clasping her hands in wonder. ‘I really, really wanna dress like that too!
You’ll slay Adam! He’ll-call his engagement off pronto!’
‘If you’re that thrilled with the sight of searing emerald polyester, I’ll send you the catalogue it came from!’ muttered Trish, turning away from the sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Suddenly this wasn’t funny at all. Here she was in a mail-order frock, hedge-backwards hairstyle and borrowed stilt—walker shoes——why did Petra’s feet have to be a size smaller than hers?—feeling hugely inadequate, nervous, about to meet Petra’s unfairly young stepfather for the first time since...
Trish blanked out the past and haphazardly stuffed things into her handbag. Which didn’t match her dress or the wretchedly crippling shoes. Everything was wrong! Feeling a total mess, she sank dispiritedly onto the bed. Petra accurately read her friend’s body language. ‘If you want sensational, we could sneak off to Adam’s flat, pinch a pair of his shocking pink boxer shorts and twist two silk hankies into the shape of a bra for you to wear,’ she suggested helpfully. The thought of wearing Adam’s boxer shorts made Tris
h feel quite peculiar. ‘Adam isn’t the pink sort,’ she said flatly.
‘Purple—spotted? Fluorescent?’ goaded Petra, going too far as usual.
‘No!’ Trish saw Petra’s eyebrows rocket skywards. ‘I mean I don’t know what he wears beneath his pinstripes!’
she cried. And never would! She put on a prim look. ‘Any—
way, where’s your respect for your stepfather? she asked grumpily.
‘Well...’ Petra was idly trying Trish’s Pale Sunrise lipstick over her own gaudy gash of scarlet. ‘Granted he’s been my dad since I was a three-year-old brat, but he’s sort of grown younger while I’ve grown older. I see him as being more my age. And yours.’ Her eyes slanted to Trish’s, gauging her reaction. ‘Adam’s not exactly an old wrinkly, is he? Bags of energy, lean and toned as a teenager, thanks to his personal trainer,’ she said complacently.
‘Sounds like you’re trying to sell him on a slave market,’
Trish said wryly. As if she didn’t know he was a hunk!
‘Well, he’d get a rattling good price,’ said the irrepressible Petra. ‘Active mind, active body. My girlfriends always get jelly-leg syndrome when they see him.’
Trish grinned. She knew the feeling. ‘Sugar—daddy syndrome, you mean.'
But the image of Adam’s fierce vigour made a mockery of her attempt to think of him as approaching middle age. Despite his Jermyn Street handmade suits and wellgroomed appearance, he’d always projected a dangerous, tough—guy look. Perhaps, she mused, because he enjoyed hair—raising pursuits. Speedboat racing. Off—piste skiing. Risky investments. Sugar—daddy didn’t come anywhere near it. Robber baron more like.
Tall. Jet—black hair. . .tousled by her hands . .. She jammed her teeth together, determined not to start that again. But he stayed in her mind, his near-Roman nose and dark good looks conjuring up an air of menace. This was more than reinforced by the unnerving breadth of his shoulders and the sublime air of authority which swept him through a restaurant to the best table in a matter of seconds. Her eyes softened to a warm misty blue. His hard, angular jawline had felt as smooth as a baby’s when she’d touched it. Dreamily she recalled the way his mouth didn’t entirely fit his hard, macho look, because it was too soft and curved for ready laughter. Or kissing. And that devastating combination of total masculinity and sensual promise had been her downfall. Trish drew in a quick, sharp breath, physically disturbed by her thoughts. Drat him! Would he never go away?
‘Dear old Adam! lt’s nice he’s found someone, at his age,’ she said patronisingly, trying hard to convince herself of that fact.
Petra looked at her curiously. ‘His age? Are you mad?
Adam married Mother when he was eighteen. She was ten years older. He’s only fifteen years older than I am. Sixteen more’n you.’
‘Wow! That old!’ Trish exclaimed in assumed horror. Thirty—eight, to her twenty-two. In his prime. Trish began emptying her handbag for no reason at all other than aimless occupation. He was too old—and yet too young. She thought crossly that if Adam had been the same age as Petra’s late mother, or even years older, she wouldn’t be in this stupid state of nervous anticipation and semihysteria. It wouldn’t matter a damn what she looked like. Because they would never have near1y...nearly...
‘What are you doing?’ asked Petra mildly.
‘I’m...I’m removing biscuit crumbs irom the bottom of my bag,’ she jerked out, hoping her friend wouldn’t notice she was having trouble with her breathing.
‘Uh-uh.’
That was the most significant-sounding ‘uh-uh’ that Trish had ever heard. But what was the big deal about a tidy handbag? Her gaze fell on the invitation. She folded it in half and jammed it into her purse, then resorted to a search for inner calm while she studied her appearance critically.
‘Petra...tell me something. Have I become a total peasant from living like a swineherd?’ she asked, trying to make that sound more like a joke than a desperate bid for reassurance. Her sea-blue gaze lifted to Petra’s amused and affectionate face. Petra looked wonderful. Expertly made—up and flawless. The natural look had been perfected. Trish had tried some of Petra’s foundation but she’d felt strange with it on her skin so she’d washed it off. Her brows and lashes were dark enough not to need mascara and her lips and cheeks had their own rosy tint, but she did feel that she lacked glamour without artificial aids.
In the elegant surroundings of her hotel room she looked totally out of place. No wonder people had stared at her as she’d crossed London and headed for South Kensington!
They must have thought she’d fallen from a tractor and lost her way! She vowed to buy moisturiser and slap it on every night.
‘I look terrible, don’t I?’ she said in despair.
‘Stop fishing for compliments! You’re so lovely, I’m tempted to stick a paper bag over your head. You positively glow with inner health, have a fab tan and legs up to your armpits. You’re a breath of fresh air, you vile woman,’ said Petra warmly, hugging her. ‘Every artificially enhanced female at the party will queue up to scratch your eyes out.’
Trish wasn’t flattered to be called a breath of fresh air. Right now, she’d swap the goose-girl look for a classy outfit, an alabaster skin, false eyelashes and long nails. She tucked her work-worn hands beneath her bottom. Too much washing up, hauling boats up slipways and building stone walls! Hand cream was hastily added to her shopping list.
‘Enough lies, I know my place,’ she said ruefully, casting vanity and her dreams into oblivion.
Having given up any hope of looking wonderful, she let her entire face relax. Petra was treated to one of Trish’s dazzling grins, her teeth gleaming white in the darkness of her bronze-gold complexion.
‘I’ll be the one who makes everyone else look elegant and sophisticatedf Trish decided. ‘I’ll do my bumpkin act and Adam’s intended will adore me because I’m such a cute, folksy character.’
Petra gave her an odd look. ‘Don’t think so, oh, wizened old peasant. It’s my guess that Louise is cheesed off with hearing about the sainted Trish. I bet she’s tried on a million outfits and is, at this moment, agonising over her appearance, just like you. Ready‘?’
Stunned into silence by that remark, Trish let Petra lead her to the lift. Adam couldn’t have been talking about her...could he? A smirk of pleasure tilted the corners of her wish-softened mouth before she ruthlessly subdued it. Too late. He’d made his choice. A beautiful, talented and witty partner who knew how to eat and pronounce taglia—
telle without hurling it into her lap while she did so. Someone close to his age and on his wavelength, who could program computers, like him, and organise a dinner pany for seventy Japanese businessmen while checking the stock market and painting her perfect toenails. Trish groaned at the paragon she was inventing and wished she hadn’t let Petra browbeat her into coming.
After her friend’s tireless and unrelenting bombardment of letters and phone calls, she had reluctantly agreed to travel up to London and join the family celebration. She was, so her friend had said, virtually family, after lodging with them for two years. And so she had to wish Adam and his fiancée, Louise, all the happiness in the world. Gloom descended on Trish as she mentally practised her opening remarks. Hi, Adam! Wonderful party. Congrats. Is this Louise? Mwa, mwa. Love your dress. ’Scuse me, prom- ised two panting tigers over there I ’d hurry back before they-
No. Stupid. Too chirpy and revealing—Adam would see through her pretence of throwaway confidence immediately. He’d look her deep in the eyes with that intense, melted-toffee gaze".
She found herself trembling, and hurriedly put her mind to the problem in hand. Hell, what was she going to say?
Petra chattered engagingly as they walked along the damask-walled corridor towards a pair of imposing mahogany doors and the Garden Suite beyond. It was a luxurious hotel with ankle-wrecking carpets, impressive oil paintings and antique furniture. All far too beautiful for Trish to dare sit on or risk touching with
her sticky fingers. And the silver cutlery looked so heavy that she feared she’
dget repetitive strain injury if she tried to wade through the entire five courses for dinner.
As they swept past vast urns and baroque marble hall tables groaning under the weight of stiff floral displays, Trish barely heard a word her friend was saying. She was too busy keeping her nerves under control and rattling around the pathetically sparse contents of her brain, searching for something casual and witty for her opening lines. Increasingly she longed to turn tail and run like a frightened rabbit back to her burrow.
Apart from worrying about the effort of keeping a bright, see-how—I’ve-forgotten expression on her face the whole evening, she felt stranded, like a fish out of water. London had reduced her to wide-eyed silence. It was horribly noisy and unfriendly-—terrifying, even. She’d made a hash of using the underground, and hadn’t a clue about tipping taxi drivers or doormen. Judging by their open-mouthed amazement, she’d funded their children’s private education for life.
City life was all about speed. People spoke faster, their movements were quick and frantic, as if there wasn’t enough time in the day to get things done. After just two days, she felt edgy and stressed.
But this was Adam Foster’s preferred enviromnent. He’d relocated his computer software business from Truro to London four years ago and become a powerful mover and shaker in this alien world. He must love the hectic pace. Perhaps he was hooked on exhaust fumes. A diesel junkie. Trish bit her lip, encountering the unfamiliar taste of lipstick. She and Adam were from two different planets. Chalk and cheese. Right now, she wanted to be back home where she belonged.
Yet stubborn curiosity kept her heading for the party. She wanted to see him gazing adoringly at Louise. Needed to, for her own peace of mind. Then she’d be able to shrug off the lurking feeling of something unfinished and lifechanging. Once this party was over, she’d feel capable of making a commitment to her ever—patient boyfriend. Time would have changed Adam and she’d probably find that he wasn’t a patch on the man she’d once idolised. He might be more Cardigan Man than Danger Man. More socks than sex. She’d changed too. After all, she’d been an impressionable eighteen when she’d last seen him. Seen! Touched, scoured with her tongue, felt her body dissolve during that long, heart-stopping moment when he’d looked at her and murmured her name". Every detail of their coming together was still fresh and hot in her mind, etched like acid on silver.