His One-Night Mistress

by Sandra Field

  “Seth,” she said quietly, “I’ll never forget you.”

  Lines of frustration scoring his cheeks, he said, “But you won’t tell me who you are.”

  “You know more about me than anyone else in the world!” she said with explosive truth. “You’ve got to be content with that.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, and ran his hand down her hip. “Your skin’s so silky, so smooth…like the inside of a shell.” He took the tip of her breast between his fingers, gently tugging on it. “You like that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, seeking his mouth with hers, “I like that.”

  He carried her with him, caress by caress, and each one, she would have sworn, was imbued with tenderness and the simple wish to give her pleasure. With an answering tenderness she traced collarbone, rib and hipbone, kissed muscle and flank, then finally encircled his arousal, watching his eyes darken and hearing his breath quicken. “Not so fast,” he gasped, lifting her to straddle him, his hands spanning her waist as the light of a Parisian moon fell white on her skin.

  She slipped over him like a glove, her eyes closed as he entered her more and more fully, until she was filled with him. Then he drew her body down in a lissome curve until her breast was in his mouth. Sheer delight transfixing her, Lia buried her fingers in the tangle of blond hair on his chest and threw back her head. This time her climax came as slowly as the heat of a summer day rises with the dawn; her heart began to race against his palm. Not until then did Seth start moving deep within her, long, slow strokes that drove her closer and closer to the edge.

  With exquisite timing he waited for his own release until the sharp cries of completion were breaking from her lips. As she rode him, her own excitement like a goad, he rose to meet her and fell with her into that abyss that was both a presage of death and the joy of rebirth.

  This time it was Lia who fell on top of Seth, her mask digging into his chest. Part of her wanted to rip it off just because it was uncomfortable; part of her longed to rid herself of it so that he could see her eyes, stunned and slumberous with fulfillment.

  But she mustn’t. She couldn’t. She had a life outside this room. She’d lose any ability to focus on that life if she allowed Seth Talbot to become part of it; she wouldn’t even be able to pick up her violin, let alone tune it.

  She couldn’t toss away something that had been her sole purpose for seventeen years just because of one man. Just because his green eyes with their darts of gold fire had cast a spell over her.

  “Are you all right?” Seth said gently, his arm tightening around her in a way she could only interpret as possessive.

  She strove to find her voice. To move back from a place where she’d turned into a stranger, a woman whose existence she’d never suspected. “Yes. No. You sure ask complicated questions.”

  He chuckled, a deep reverberation in his chest. “You flatter me.”

  “Believe me, this has nothing to do with flattery.”

  “So you like making love with me.”

  “There’s no need to fish for compliments, Seth Talbot. Like nowhere near approximates how you make me feel. But do you know what?”

  “I couldn’t possibly guess.”

  “I didn’t have any supper, because I was going to eat at the ball. I’m hungry.”

  “For food? When you’ve got me?”

  “Yep,” she chuckled. “Sorry about that.”

  He sat up, pulling her with him. “There’s a wonderful invention called room service. What would you like?”

  His smile had warmed those remarkable green eyes. Was she mad to think tenderness was the emotion behind that warmth? A tenderness that curled gentle fingers around her heart. She said hastily, “Seafood crêpes and surprise me with dessert.”

  “Done,” he said. He reached for the phone, spoke rapidly into it in impeccable French, and replaced the receiver. Standing up, he stretched with lazy sensuality. “I feel great.”

  “You look better than great,” she said primly, “and shouldn’t you put something on before you answer the door?”

  “Wouldn’t want to shock the management.” He disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. Moments later he came back with two white robes, monogrammed in gold on the pockets with the insignia of the hotel. “One for you,” he said, tossing it in her lap. His voice deepened. “I don’t want anyone but me seeing your beauty.”

  I want to put my seal on you…wasn’t that what he’d said?

  She couldn’t handle such possessiveness; yet didn’t the mere thought of him with another woman spur her with a hot jab of jealousy?

  Explain that, Lia, she thought; and knew she couldn’t.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LIA lifted the soft white folds of the robe to her face so that her breasts—which she’d always thought were rather too full—were hidden from Seth. “Beauty?” she repeated. “My body’s okay. But it’s not—”

  “You’re exquisite,” he said shortly.

  “Oh,” said Lia, knowing she was blushing under her mask and makeup. “Not much point in arguing with that tone of voice.”

  “None whatsoever. I get the feeling you haven’t had many compliments in your life.”

  Her parents, wrapped up in their own careers, had each had extraordinarily high standards. They’d dispensed advice when they’d thought of it, but little in the way of praise. Lionel, with whom she’d had that short-lived affair, had been too self-absorbed to bother with compliments. As for her music, it was only lately that the critics had started noticing her. A few had doled out cautious doses of praise; and how she’d hungered for that, she thought with uncomfortable truth.

  “You’ve gone a long way away,” Seth said.

  With a tiny jolt Lia came back to the present. To a man who demanded the truth from her, just as the violin did. She said irritably, tracing the gold monogram with one finger, “You shake me up…and I don’t just mean sexually.”

  Because her head was downbent, she didn’t see how his eyes sharpened, nor how intently they were studying her. “Good,” he said. “Ah, there’s the door. I’ll be right back.”

  She heard the murmur of voices from the other room, then Seth wheeled a mahogany trolley covered with starched white linen into the bedroom. He whipped off the coverings with a flourish, and within moments she was sitting beside him in bed, balancing a Limoges plate on a tray. The crêpes looked and smelled delicious. “Bon appétit,” she said, and tucked in with gusto.

  Seth poured her a glass of chilled Chardonnay from one of the most famous of French châteaux; again she was unaware of how watchful his eyes were as she ate and drank, enjoying each mouthful. After she’d wiped the last drop of the luscious, velvety sauce from her plate with a piece of crunchy baguette, he removed the silver cover from a platter of French pastries.

  Lia’s eyes widened. “They’re works of art. Oh look, perfect little swans filled with whipped cream…I’ll have one of those.”

  She let her teeth sink into the delicately crunchy puff pastry; the cream was flavored with Grand Marnier. “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” she pronounced.

  “So I have a rival already.”

  She laughed, dabbed some cream on his chin and leaned over to lick it off with deliberate seductiveness. “Can’t I have the swans as well as you?”

  He passed her a glazed strawberry embedded in crème anglaise and the lightest of pastry. “You have an appetite for life, little butterfly.”

  Lia licked more cream from her fingers. “Life is meant to be lived,” she said grandly.

  “You’re what—twenty? Twenty-one? And only one bed partner until tonight? That’s not what I’d call living life to the full.”

  “I’m twenty-two years old and I’m interested in things other than sex,” she retorted. “Don’t let’s argue, Seth, I’m having too much fun.”

  “What things? What do you do with yourself when you’re not going to masked balls?”

  Subconsciously, hadn’t she been expecting his
curiosity to surface? Her chin defiantly tilted, she said, “I’m not asking you what you do for your living, and I don’t want you asking me—you promised you wouldn’t pry.”

  “I own and run Talbot Holdings. Ever heard of them?”

  Her hands had stilled. “Tal-Air?” she said. He nodded. “I often fly with your company. The planes are on time, the seats are comfortable and the staff friendly.”

  “We try,” Seth said, adding easily, “so you fly a lot?”

  She’d been stupid to have volunteered that scrap of personal information. “Not a lot,” Lia said coolly. “Do you own Tal-Oil as well?”

  He nodded. “Along with a line of tankers and cruise ships.”

  “This suite makes more sense,” she said, and took the last mouthful of her pastry. “As do the swans. You’re a very rich man.” On purpose she made this sound, subtly, like an insult.

  Seth bit into a chocolate éclair. “Belgian chocolate,” he said amiably. “Want some?”

  His change of subject threw her. As he’d probably intended. “Is Paris for lovers?” she rejoined, and rested her hand on his as she bit into the smooth, rich chocolate.

  “So are we making love or war?” he asked with deliberate provocation.

  “You tell me.”

  He lifted the tray from her lap, swung his feet down and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me—I want to show you the balcony.”

  His hand was tugging her along, the hand that had explored her body with such devastating intimacy. In her bare feet Lia padded across what felt like an acre of carpet. Seth swung open the doors and she stepped outside into massed potted flowers, the cool of night and the magic of this most magical of cities. Behind them sighed the unending traffic from Rue de Rivoli; past Jardin des Tuileries lay the river Seine; the lights of the Latin quarter and Les Invalides spangled the sky. Lia gave a sigh of pure happiness. “Glorious,” she whispered.

  “Glorious,” he agreed, turned her hard in his arms and jammed her against the wall. Her robe slipped from her shoulder as his own fell open. Then they were kissing each other as though they’d never mated so passionately in the bed indoors. Skin to skin, heat to heat, desire igniting desire, until Seth lifted her bodily as though she weighed no more than a butterfly. Lia wrapped her thighs tight around him, panting with need, pushing her hips into his first hard thrust. As her climax ripped through her, Seth groaned deep in his chest, throbbing deep within her, emptying himself.

  Slowly Lia returned to reality. The stone wall was digging into her back. Her feet were cold. “Even in Paris, we could be arrested for that,” she croaked.

  “Then we’d better go inside,” he said, and carried her through the doors into the green and silver luxury of the bedroom.

  “I need to lie down,” she mumbled, her face buried in his chest. Would she ever forget the scent of his skin? Her own skin was suffused with it. He had indeed put his seal on her, she thought in a flash of terror.

  When he reached the bed, he put her down with a gentleness that made her eyes sting with tears. If she’d been honest, she’d have told him it was love they’d been making all night, not war. But she didn’t want to go near the word love. Not with Seth. “Hold onto me,” she said raggedly, scarcely knowing what she was asking for.

  Swiftly he lay down beside her, gathering her into his arms and drawing her into the warmth of his long body. She melted into him, knowing with complete certainty that she wanted to make love to him again…in a minute, when she’d caught her breath.

  With the suddenness of a very small child, Lia fell asleep.

  She woke to night and the instant remembrance of where she was. Someone, Seth she could only presume, had drawn the heavy damask curtains over the windows; a soft glow from a nightlight in the bathroom was the room’s only illumination.

  Seth. Who’d ravished her, body and soul.

  He was curled into her back, his breath wafting her bare shoulder. He was, she could tell, deeply asleep. She twisted in his arms, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. His face, in sleep, was both full of strength and yet undeniably vulnerable in a way that touched her to the heart. She looked away and knew with every fiber of her being that she had to get out of here. Away from him.

  While there was still time.

  Moving as carefully as she could, she eased his arm off her ribs and shifted toward the edge of the bed. Her bodysuit was draped over a Louis XVII chair, her shoes neatly aligned on the carpet nearby. She’d dropped all three of them on the floor all those hours ago. So Seth hadn’t fallen asleep as quickly as she.

  Had perhaps watched her as she slept.

  Taking her clothes, Lia crept into the bathroom. Her makeup was smeared, her body a flow of pale curves in the long mirrors. She dragged on the bodysuit, struggling with the zipper, the wings drooping forlornly from the sleeves. The costume no longer looked outrageous: merely silly. Picking up her shoes, she tiptoed across the expanse of parquet toward the big double doors that led to safety.

  Seth’s cloak had been thrown carelessly over a delicate antique table by the door. She grabbed the cloak with deep relief and swathed herself in its dark folds. Then, her pulse racketing in her ears, Lia slid the door open, slipped through and closed it as quietly as she could.

  Quickly she traveled the length of the hallway toward the red Exit sign. After jamming her feet into her pretty sandals, she ran down several flights of stairs, emerging in the front lobby. The concierge had his back to her. The doorman opened the glass door with impeccable courtesy, asking if she’d like a taxi.

  “Non, merci,” she said with a distracted smile, and walked down the street as though she made a habit of leaving luxurious hotels in the dark hours before dawn.

  No coach, she thought wildly. No pumpkin, either.

  Cinderella had only danced with the prince. Not made impassioned love to him…how many times had it been?

  Early roses were blooming in the gardens, their fragrance languorously sweet. The half-moon had sunk in the sky. A taxi whipped past, and a scooter. Lia turned a corner, then doubled back on herself, knowing at some subliminal level that it was essential she cover her tracks.

  The cloak had a hood. She drew it over her head and hurried along the deserted streets, taking the most circuitous of routes to Mathieu’s flat in the 8th arrondissement. Mathieu had left for a concert tour. His key was in the tiny pocket in her bodysuit; its small metal outline felt immensely comforting against her thigh.

  Thirty minutes later Lia was inside the flat, her heart racing from climbing the five flights of wooden stairs. Once inside, she looked around with the air of a woman who wasn’t entirely sure where she was.

  Or whether she wanted to be here.

  Mathieu believed in minimalism. White walls, black leather chairs, three black and white photographs over his expensive stereo equipment: as different from Seth’s luxuriously decorated suite as a space could be.

  Seth. She mustn’t think about Seth. She couldn’t afford to. She had a rehearsal in Stockholm at four this afternoon, a concert tonight. Her flight left from Orly early this morning.

  In the bathroom, it took Lia several minutes to take off her mask, which she’d anchored with glue just over each ear. But finally she was free of it. She then scrubbed the last of her makeup from her face and unpinned her hair so it tumbled to her shoulders. Taking off her bodysuit, she packed it, along with the mask and shoes, in the box the rental shop had given her. In a move that she was now hugely grateful for, she’d affixed the correct postage yesterday evening before she’d left for the ball. She could mail the box on her way to the airport.

  Because she’d been so hungry for anonymity, she’d given a false name at the rental shop. They could keep the deposit, she thought. It was a cheap price to pay to preserve her privacy.

  To keep her safe from Seth, when he came after her? He would, wouldn’t he? He hadn’t become the head of a vast international network of planes, ships and oil companies by sitting back and letting the world c
ome to him.

  She was thinking about him again. She’d sworn she wasn’t going to do that. Knowing she should hurry, Lia walked, naked, back into the bathroom. The mirror was a sleek rectangle, edged with cold, unforgiving chrome. In it she saw a woman she no longer knew. Her features were the same, the lustrous black hair and dark brown eyes, legacy of her Italian father; her high cheekbones and winged brows, her long, slim body, all gifts of her Norwegian mother.

  It was everything else that had changed.

  As though she couldn’t help herself, Lia lifted her palm to her nostrils, and caught, elusively, the scent of Seth’s skin. As pain washed over her, she closed her eyes, conjuring him up, remembering with frightening clarity all the gifts of his body, the turbulence in his green eyes as he came to climax.

  He’d entered her. Physically, of course. But more than that, he’d invaded her soul.

  Biting her lip, she turned on the shower and stepped inside, grabbing the soap and lathering herself. Surely if she washed Seth from her skin, she could as easily wash him from her memory.

  He was a man. Just a man. She’d never see him again.

  Hadn’t she taken every precaution she could to ensure that was true?

  Not yet fully awake, Seth reached across the bed for his butterfly lover. He’d fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around her, knowing that what he wanted most in the world was to wake up with her beside him. In the daylight, he’d find out who she was. She’d understand as clearly as he did that they couldn’t simply go their separate ways…

  Where was she?

  His eyes flew open. Morning light gleamed through chinks in the curtains. Other than himself, the bed was empty.

  Her bodysuit was gone from the chair.

  Seth shoved himself up on one elbow, ears straining for the slightest sound; and heard only the distant roar of traffic far below. He surged out of bed. Her shoes were gone, too.