Sara Craven - To Claim His Mistress

‘And why shouldn’t they be?’ Cat slipped her arms into the jacket of her dark work suit. ‘Sounds good to me. What are we celebrating?’

Dorita shrugged. ‘The start of another working week. The fact that Megs has met a fella and thinks he’s the one. Just pick a number.’ She fluttered her fingers and vanished.

Cat didn’t feel like a heavy after-work session, but the prospect of going home to an empty flat to brood had no great appeal either.

I need, she thought, a suitable distraction. And this could be it. Besides, as one of the firm’s directors, it was a good thing for her to stay in touch with her junior colleagues. They were a talented and hard-working bunch, and immensely loyal in a marketplace where every contract had to be fought for.

With the shadow of recession never far away, people were reluctant to invest enormous sums in upgrading their working environments, and ImageMakers were maintaining their position by offering sensible, workable designs, using quality sub-contractors, and keeping each project strictly within budget.

Their reputation was high, but it was still a struggle, and it was impossible to relax, even for a moment—except, of course, when work was over for the day.

Or over for some, Cat amended ruefully, looking at the bulging briefcase that was accompanying her home.

The wine bar was already filling up when they arrived, but they managed to grab one of the last tables and Cat bought the first bottle of champagne. Penance, she thought as she handed over her credit card, for being ratty with her father.

At first most of the chatter was work-related, but as they began to unwind it started to get more personal.

During a sudden lull, Megs leaned forward. ‘So, how was your cousin’s wedding? You did go, I suppose? Any tasty men there?’

Cat drank some wine as she considered her response. ‘Loads of them,’ she drawled at last. ‘All of them, alas, with equally tasty women.’

She hoped that would be an end to it, but soon found she was out of luck. Cindy was getting married the following year, and wanted exhaustive details about the hotel and what it had to offer. Megs, who seemed to be on the verge of having stars in her eyes, demanded a full description of Belinda’s bridal gown. So she had little choice but to comply with their demands for information.

Maybe I can use it as a kind of exorcism, she thought wryly.

By the time she’d finished the bottle was empty, and Dorita was at the bar buying further supplies.

This would be the perfect opportunity to slip away, Cat thought, reaching for her bag, which hung from a hook under the table. As she straightened, she saw that Dorita was on her way back, and that her place at the counter had been taken by a tall man with dark, curling hair, wearing an elegant charcoal suit.

His back was turned to them all, but Cat felt herself freeze, her gaze fixed on him with painful incredulity.

Oh God, she thought. It can’t be him—it can’t…

‘Did you spot him, girls? The new guy at the bar?’ Dorita rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve never seen him in here before, but seriously fanciable, I’d say.’

‘And already fancied, by the look of it.’ Cindy nodded significantly at the petite blonde who was threading her way towards him through the crowd.

Cat felt as if she’d been turned to stone as the girl joined him, sliding her arm through his with possessive familiarity. She wanted to look away. She longed to get up and run, but doubted whether she was capable of making it to the door. Her legs felt weak, and hurt seemed to be punching holes in her stomach.

Then he turned slightly, smiling as he bent to kiss his companion, and she realised that he was a complete stranger.

She swallowed, her body sagging in relief. What on earth had she been thinking of? she berated herself silently. This guy didn’t bear even a passing resemblance to Liam. He was shorter, for one thing, and his shoulders weren’t as broad. How could she not have realised?

If every glimpse of a tall, dark man is going to reduce me to bug-eyed paralysis, I’m in real trouble, she told herself impatiently. I need to get a grip. Claw my life back from this limbo.

‘Are you all right, Cat?’ Megs was studying her. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

Cat forced a laugh. ‘Nothing so romantic. I’ve just remembered I’m nearly out of milk and everything else, and I need to fit in a trip to the supermarket on my way home. So I’d better get going.’

She firmly refused any more champagne, and headed for the door. On the way, she stole a glance at the bar, wondering how she could have been such a fool. The pretty blonde was chatting animatedly to some people beside her, showing off the sparkling ring on her left hand, but he was leaning against the counter, looking round him.

As his glance met Cat’s it sharpened with unconcealed interest, stripping her naked as it swept her from head to foot. He gave her an ingratiating grin, and lifted his glass in a furtive toast.

My God, Cat thought in revulsion. Someone attractive and apparently sane has staked her future on this piece of human debris.

And who was to say that Liam wasn’t standing in another bar, looking into some other girl’s eyes, telling her what a lousy weekend he’d had and how lonely he’d been without her?

The thought nearly made her gag. She half stumbled into the street, drawing deep breaths of stale air as she tried to recover her equilibrium.

She had to put the events of the weekend behind her, before they drove her crazy, and she knew it. But if only someone would tell her how.

She couldn’t face the struggle with the Underground, she thought, hailing a cab. She got out at her neighbourhood supermarket and wandered the aisles with her trolley, trying to summon up some interest in feeding herself over the coming week. In the end she settled for the usual staples, adding a cold roast chicken, pâté and salad, as well as dried pasta.

Spaghetti carbonara would be quick and easy tonight, she thought as she turned the corner towards her block of flats.

She was just fitting her key into the door when her neighbour emerged from the flat opposite, smiling over a dozen cellophane-wrapped red roses.

‘For you, dear. You’ve got an admirer,’ she added roguishly. And not before time was clearly the silent coda to that.

At any other time Cat would have found it amusing, but she was too stunned to do anything other than mutter a word of thanks through dry lips, and carry the flowers into the flat.

‘Have dinner with me,’ begged the message on the card in a florist’s rounded script. ‘Thursday 8 p.m. at Mignonette.’

There was no signature, but they had to be from Liam, she thought, her heart thudding wildly. Somehow, once his anger had cooled, he’d found out where she lived and was making contact—and far sooner than she could ever have dreamed. Her throat was constricted with excitement mixed with incredulity as she put her shopping in the kitchen and took a tall vase from a cupboard with hands that shook a little.

At the same time she had to suppress a tiny pang of disappointment that he’d fallen into the red rose cliché trap. And he was also assuming that she’d automatically be free on Thursday.

Which I am, she thought, but that’s not the point.

Because he’d not offered her any way to communicate with him in turn, she realised. So she would have to choose whether to arrive meekly at the rendezvous—and she didn’t do meek—or to stand him up, which she guessed would sever any connection between them for ever.

Well, I don’t have to decide at once, she told herself as she arranged her flowers, and carried them back into the living room.

But in her heart she already knew what her decision would be, and she threw her head back and laughed with jubilant anticipation.