His One-Night Mistress

by Sandra Field

  Her whole body felt liquid; she swayed toward him. But Seth was in no hurry. He took off his own shirt and jeans, tossing them on the rattan rocker. Then he drew her down on the bed beside him. Only then did he kiss her, a lingering kiss with none of the frantic hunger of their other couplings.

  Catching his mood, Lia edged one thigh over his, linked her arms around his neck and surrendered. Slowly and surely he drew her deeper and deeper into a place lit with golden sunlight rather than with the whip of fire. Heat, yes, that melted her bones and bathed her in intimacy. A warm light that dazzled her. But instead of being caught up in a desperate drive to completion, she was surrounded by caring and sensitivity. By gentleness, she thought in wonderment.

  Engulfed in the slow, sure currents of yearning, she sighed his name, her lips buried in his shoulder, then moving to caress the hard curve of his ribs. She twisted gracefully in his arms, her breasts to the tautness of his belly, and felt him slip inside her, silky and hard.

  As she made a small sound of delight, Seth began to move with long, slow strokes. She moaned softly, her hips moving with him. His eyes were trained on her, molten with what she could only call tenderness. Like the green leaves of spring, she thought. Tender, vulnerable, opening to a new life.

  Her heart opened in response even as her body gathered to its crescendo. Her breath was rapid in her throat, her hips pumping to bring him closer and closer; yet still her gaze held his. His own eyes had darkened to a forest-green; the thud of his heartbeat was like a primitive drumming. Caught in its rhythm, she rushed toward him, her tiny cries like the echoes of faraway music. He groaned deep in his chest. Together they fell, entwined as one.

  Lia lay very still. Her cheek was pressed to his breastbone, his arms wrapped around her as though he never wanted to let her go. Like the slow unfolding of a leaf, emotion filled her heart. I’m falling in love with you, she thought. Oh, Seth, I’m falling in love…

  She closed her eyes, and knew her own words for the truth. For now they were enough; and too new to be shared. Feeling utterly peaceful, she let herself drift off to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SETH had to leave right after lunch on Sunday, to prepare for a business trip to Venezuela. Marise unaffectedly hugged him goodbye, then skipped off to play in the shrubbery. Lia, tongue-tied, watched him put his leather overnight bag into the back seat of his red Porsche.

  She hadn’t told him she loved him; the thought terrified her. But when would she see him again? “That’s a very jazzy car,” she said.

  He straightened and grinned at her. “You can drive it. Anytime.”

  “Flat out?”

  “It’s the only way. I’ve got a suggestion, Lia. Why don’t you stay at my place this week while you’re doing the recording? I’m away until Saturday, you’d have free run of the place.”

  She could see where he lived: perhaps learn more about the guarded man she’d fallen in love with. “I’d like that.”

  He hadn’t expected her to agree so readily. Giving her the extra key, he said, “Make yourself at home. Perhaps Marise could come up next weekend?”

  “Sure.”

  He might as well push his advantage. “My father would really like to meet her.”

  Lia’s eyes clouded. “Your father lives with your mother. I don’t want your mother anywhere near Marise.”

  “I’m not suggesting you invite my mother.”

  “I’ll see,” Lia said, her lips set mutinously.

  Seth scribbled Allan’s personal number on his card. “My father wants to mend, not to destroy,” he said, lifting his hand and tracing the smooth hollow under her cheekbone. “If Marise weren’t cavorting in the forsythia bushes, I’d be kissing you blind. See you Saturday—late afternoon.”

  He put the car in gear, beat a tattoo on the horn for his daughter’s benefit, and drove away.

  Six days passed, four of which Seth spent in the Venezuelan oilfields, with a side trip to Peru to check on a project his foundation had started in Lima two years ago. He was glad to get home, he thought, as he climbed the steps of his brownstone near Central Park. Everything looked the same: the polished brass door handle, the elegantly proportioned windows and the dark oak door. But inside, he knew, Lia and Marise were waiting for him.

  He hadn’t talked to Lia since he’d left Meadowland; since a lovemaking so different in quality that it had both disarmed and dismayed him.

  Too emotional. That was the catch. The e-word, he thought with a rueful smile, unlocked the door and stepped inside. But the first person he saw wasn’t Lia or Marise. It was Allan, his father, who came around the corner, his shirt rumpled and far from clean. “Seth!” he exclaimed. “We weren’t expecting you for another hour.”

  So Lia had invited his father, Seth thought in a rush of gratitude mingled with another, deeper emotion he didn’t want to name.

  “Plane was early,” he said prosaically. “How are you, Father?”

  Allan gave him an atypically boyish grin. “Wonderful,” he said. “I’ve spent the day with Lia and my totally charming granddaughter—took her on a tour of my favorite bookstore. She talked the ears off me.”

  Seth blinked. “What’s that on your shirt?”

  Allan glanced down. “Fingerpaint,” he said. “We’re in the kitchen, why don’t you join us?”

  “Lia’s there, too?”

  “She’s a lovely woman, Seth.”

  Seth grunted something indecipherable and followed his father into the ultramodern kitchen. The granite counters were covered with sheets of paper that had been smeared in every shade from pink to bilious green. The warm odor of chocolate chip cookies filled the air. Marise looked up. “Hi!” she crowed. “Come see my painting, can you guess what it is?”

  “Mmm…an orchid?” Seth hazarded.

  She giggled. “It’s a flamingo—look, here are its wings.”

  “Ah,” he said, “I see. Hello, Lia.”

  She was standing by the counter, wearing a T-shirt that under a riot of musical notes announced that Musicians Score. As always, he was struck first by her beauty. The shiny fall of her hair, the luscious curves of her cheekbones, now delicately flushed…had he forgotten anything about her?

  “Can I have a cookie?” he asked.

  Laughing, she passed the plate. “You sure can.”

  Effortlessly he was incorporated into the chatter and warmth. If Allan looked different, so too did his own house, Seth realized. Cluttered. Lived in. In a way that he’d never managed on his own.

  A family kind of clutter.

  He kept this thought to himself.

  An hour later, they walked three or four blocks to a trattoria Seth frequented; on the way, to his annoyance, they ran into a media crew conducting a survey. Although Marise was entranced by the cameras and questions, Seth hurried her past them. “I’m starving,” he said. “The last time I ate was in Miami. Did I tell you about the dog at the airport?”

  Deflected, Marise skipped along beside him. “Was it a Dalmatian?”

  “It was a Scottie with very short legs,” he said, and took her by the hand to cross the street.

  “Is it another story?” she asked hopefully.

  “I believe it might be.”

  “I like the way you tell stories,” Marise said. “What am I s’posed to call you?”

  Seth stopped dead in the middle of the street. “You could try Dad. If you felt like it. Or Seth is fine with me.”

  “Dad’s best. What happened to the Scottie?”

  He tried to gather his wits; her small hand curled in his, her astonishing acceptance of him as her father, had thrown him for a loop. “We’re nearly at the restaurant,” he said. “Why don’t I save it until we’re sitting down?”

  Allan went ahead with her; Seth turned to Lia, realizing how quiet she’d been. He said softly, his hand at the small of her back, “How are you?”

  “I missed you,” Lia said. It was true. She had missed him, unrelentingly, day and night. She’d al
so, when she’d seen Marise hold his hand a few minutes ago, fallen a little more deeply in love with him.

  “I’d like to be making love with you right now,” Seth said.

  “That, too,” she said, tossing her head.

  “So why else did you miss me?” he rapped, his smile fading.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she said and walked across the charming patio of the trattoria to one of the brightly painted tables.

  Yes, he thought, you will, and sat down at the table. But that evening, once Marise was settled in bed, Allan said edgily, “Seth, can I have a word with you? In private.”

  Lia stood up, stretching lazily. “I’m going to have a leisurely bath and go to bed early,” she said. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”

  She was avoiding him, Seth thought. Had been ever since he’d arrived home. What was going on? Not that he was likely to find out with all these people around.

  Trying to tamp down his frustration, he watched her leave the room. He needed to touch her. Hold her in his arms. That way he’d find out what the matter was.

  Meanwhile Allan was pacing up and down the faded antique carpet. As soon as Lia shut the door behind her, he said jerkily, “I’ve left your mother.”

  “What?”

  “She was furious that I was planning to come to Manhattan to see Marise. Absolutely furious. Forbade me to even think of it. One thing led to another…and for the first time in years I didn’t back down, Seth. I held my ground.”

  “Good for you,” Seth said warmly.

  “She told me if I came to Manhattan today, she’d never speak to me again. So I said she was right, she wouldn’t, because I wouldn’t be living with her anymore…I’ve moved into a suite at the Ritz-Carlton.” His smile was wry. “To say she was taken aback is putting it mildly.”

  “I’m proud of you, Dad,” Seth said, noticing absently how easily the diminutive slipped off his tongue.

  “Thanks, son,” Allan said huskily. “She’s not an easy woman, your mother. But I’ve never told you about her background—she didn’t want anyone to know, least of all you, so she swore me to secrecy years ago. Now that I’ve left her, I don’t feel bound by that promise any longer…she had a terrible childhood, Seth. Unrelenting poverty coupled with violence. Her father was a migrant worker, and when he hit the bottle, which was frequently, he also took out the belt and hit whichever kid was nearest—she ran away from home when she was fourteen, got herself a menial job and never saw him again. Never trusted anyone again, as far as I can tell. Even me, who loves her. But for the sake of that skinny little girl picking grapes when she should have been in school, I’ve forgiven her a great deal.”

  Shaken, Seth said, “I didn’t know any of that.”

  “Maybe I should have told you long ago, despite Eleonore’s wishes to the contrary. But somehow the occasion never arose.”

  Seth asked several questions, learning more about his parents’ difficult marriage in half an hour than he had in all his thirty-seven years. Allan finished by saying heavily, “Not even for Eleonore will I shut myself off from my granddaughter. Not for anyone.”

  “Marise is a sweetheart.”

  “As is her mother.”

  Seth didn’t want to talk about Lia. “You look tired, Dad, and I know I’m wiped. Worked my guts out all last week. Shall we hit the pit?”

  “I’m glad we had this talk, son. Long overdue.”

  “I’m glad, too.” Seth gave his father a rough hug and watched him leave the room. His head was whirling, from a combination of jet lag, information overload and too much emotion.

  He craved sleep. But more than that, he craved Lia. Who was sleeping in the guest wing next to her daughter.

  She might as well be in Venezuela.

  Seth was up before anyone else in the morning. He went downstairs and settled himself with his coffee in the breakfast nook that overlooked the garden. As was his habit, he skimmed through the newspapers first, to get an overview of what was going on in the world.

  On the seventh page of the second section was a large colored photo of himself, Lia, Marise and Allan. “Family Outing,” the caption read, giving his and Allan’s names. Lia d’Angeli was listed as Seth’s companion, Marise as her daughter. His eyes and his daughter’s had been printed an identical, startling green.

  Companion, thought Seth, feeling his temper rise. What kind of word was that? The caption hadn’t needed to say anything else. The point was made. Lia as mistress, Marise as illegitimate child.

  Himself as the father who didn’t care enough to put things right.

  Goddammit, he wasn’t going to put up with it. Vienna had been bad enough. But Vienna was on the other side of the Atlantic. New York was where he lived, the headquarters of his company. They’d hit too close to home this time.

  No more.

  It wasn’t an opportune moment for Lia to wander into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing a long silk robe streaked with blues and reds, belted around her waist; her hair was a loose tangle down her back. She sniffed the air. “Coffee,” she said. “You’re an angel.”

  He said flatly, “Are the others still in bed?”

  Her eyes snapped wide. “What’s the matter?”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  He thrust the paper at her, jabbing at the picture with his finger. “I won’t have this, Lia. I won’t have Marise subjected to any more gossip and innuendo. We’re going to get married and put an end to it.”

  She took the paper from him, reading the caption. Frowning, she said, “Marise has already told everyone at school that you’re her father. So this doesn’t really matter.”

  He surged to his feet. “It matters to me. And it should damn well matter to you.”

  “I’ve lived with the fact of my daughter’s illegitimacy for seven years,” she said steadily, reaching up in the cupboard for a mug. “And don’t you dare tell me how I should feel.”

  He snatched the mug from her and banged it on the counter. Pulling her against the length of his body, he plummeted to find her mouth. Shock made her, momentarily, rigid. Then she opened to him, digging her nails into his shoulders and kissing him back with searing passion. Flame tore through him; he cupped her breast and jammed his hips to hers.

  Then, as roughly, he pushed her away. “How soon can you get married?”

  “Are you asking me to marry you or telling me I’m going to marry you?”

  She looked magnificent, her cheeks the same bright red as the pattern in her robe. “It’s not up for negotiation,” he said.

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Yes, Lia, that’s what I think.”

  Her back to the counter, her hands clasping the smooth edge, she said, “Do you love me, Seth?”

  “No.”

  “So how can you say we’re getting married?”

  “I like you, I admire and respect you, and I sure as hell lust after you. That’s not a bad start.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Then you’re a starry-eyed romantic.”

  “Don’t make fun of my feelings!”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’ve fallen in love with you,” she said evenly.

  He opened his mouth to argue with her. But something in her stance and her clear gaze made the words die on his lips. “When did that happen?”

  “I realized it the last time we made love…at Meadowland. Maybe it happened a long time ago in Paris, who knows. It doesn’t really matter. The fact remains that I won’t marry you if you don’t love me.”

  “Love’s the most abused word in the language.”

  “That’s your opinion—it doesn’t happen to be mine. I deserve a husband who loves me, and Marise deserves parents who love each other. End of discussion.”

  “My father loved my mother,” Seth snarled. “Much good it’s done him.”

  “My parents loved music, their careers, each other and me. Not ne
cessarily in that order. We can do it all, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “You’re a deluded optimist.”

  “I’m a realist. After all, we both love Marise. That’s a start—a wonderful start.”

  He did indeed love his daughter. “It is wonderful. But it’s not the start of anything. For me it’s all there is.”

  “I won’t compromise, Seth—I want the whole nine yards,” she said, her chin tilted. “A husband who loves me and who loves our child.”

  She wasn’t playing hard to get: he knew her too well for that. So it was up to him to change her mind. Short of throwing her over his shoulder and lugging her to the nearest registry office, Seth had no idea how to begin. “Corporate mergers are a piece of cake compared to you,” he said caustically.

  “I should hope so,” she said, her dark eyes full of defiance.

  “You look as though you could chew me up for breakfast and spit me out before lunch.”

  “I have to have my coffee first,” she answered with a glint of amusement.

  Seth stepped closer, slipping his arms around her waist. Her body felt deliciously warm and soft, all voluptuous curves under thin silk. “If only we could go to bed together,” he muttered.

  “Sex is no substitute for love. Not in my books.”

  Surprising them both, he laughed. “When it’s sex with you, it comes darn close.”

  Swiftly she reached up, fisting her hand in his hair and dragging his head down, then hungrily sealing his lips with her own. The kiss slammed through him. Feasting on all the sweetness of her mouth, he pulled her closer.

  Footsteps clattered on the stairs. Lia shoved Seth away and hurriedly straightened her robe. “It’s Marise,” she gasped.

  Seth was in no shape to face his daughter. He turned to the counter and busied himself pouring Lia a mug of coffee. Unfinished business, he thought savagely. Welcome to fatherhood, Seth. The trouble was, Lia was going home to Meadowland tonight, then to Prague later in the week; while he was leaving for London and Malaysia first thing in the morning.