Sara Craven - To Claim His Mistress

Number 53 turned out to be a tall house, part of a terrace, with a flight of stone steps leading up to a pillared portico, and narrower stairs going down to a basement.

There was an entry system by the front door, but there was no name beside the buzzer for Flat 2.

I’ll try one key, Cat thought. And if it doesn’t fit I’ll walk away. Wait until tonight.

But the key did fit, and she stepped forward into a tiled hallway. The entrance to the ground floor flat was on her left, and there was another door straight ahead bearing a brass number two on its gleaming surface.

Once inside, a flight of carpeted stairs led up to yet another door.

I’m beginning to feel like Bluebeard’s wife, Cat mocked herself, fitting the third key into the lock. Beyond lay a passage with pastel walls and seagrass flooring.

Cat hesitated momentarily, then turned right, opening the door at the end. She found herself in a large sunlit room, with long windows and a balcony overlooking the communal gardens below.

The floorboards had been stripped and waxed, and the walls were painted a pale cream. Two deeply cushioned sofas upholstered in dark green flanked a marble fireplace, and a dining area with a table, four chairs and a small sideboard had been created in an alcove at the far end of the room.

The whole place had that pristine just-decorated look. It was also curiously vacant. Apart from a tray of bottles with some crystal tumblers on the sideboard, there was nothing there. Not a picture on any of the walls, or an ornament on one of the surfaces. Not even a clock on the mantelpiece. Even the furniture looked brand-new, as if no one had ever sat on one of those cushions or eaten a meal at the polished table.

It was undeniably a beautiful room, Cat thought, yet the effect was almost soulless.

The main bedroom opened out of the living room. The wide bed had already been made up, Cat realised, her heart missing a beat, and the tailored blue coverlet was turned back to reveal crisp white linen.

Well, at least the priorities had been dealt with, she thought, her mouth twisting as she noted that soap and towels had been laid out in the gleaming bathroom next door.

Cat found herself backing out again, almost on tiptoe, as if she’d entered a church in the middle of some service. Absurd, she told herself as she crossed the living room again, deliberately letting her shoes clatter noisily on the wooden floor.

She found the kitchen at the other end of the passage. It had a full range of fitted units and appliances above and below the granite work surface, but all the drawers and cupboards were unused, and the refrigerator was empty.

It’s just a very elegant shell, Cat thought bleakly, with no clue about who it might belong to. In fact, it doesn’t look as if anyone’s ever lived here at all, least of all Liam.

Perhaps he had flats like this across London, she thought, biting her lip. Blank, transitory boxes where he entertained his women.

No, she told herself abruptly. That’s nonsense. After all, this was all my idea, not his. And I was the one who specified it had to be neutral territory too.

Well, he’s done me proud. This is about as utilitarian and neutral as it’s possible to get.

What did I expect, anyway? A heart-shaped bed with black silk sheets and mirrors on the ceiling? A fur rug in front of a blazing fire?

She sighed. So, it was hardly a love nest, but at least she could make it rather less of an echoing void.

She took the car up to Notting Hill Gate. In the supermarket she bought staples, like bread, milk and eggs, then added bacon, smoked salmon, fresh raspberries, cream, coffee and a couple of bottles of champagne. She also bought an armful of lilies and carnations, and a tall dark green vase to put them in.

Back at the flat, she stocked the fridge neatly, then arranged her flowers, which she set in the centre of the dining table. By the time she left their scent was already beginning to permeate through the warm air, making the place a little less bleak.

But it’s still nothing like home, she thought as she got back in the car—and stopped herself right there with a gasp. Because that was the whole point—wasn’t it?

And now she simply had to make the best of it, she told herself. And shivered.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE car Liam sent for her was long, dark and powerful, and punctual to the second. Which was just as well, Cat thought as she handed her overnight case to the driver, because her nerves by this time were stretched to screaming point.

Her chauffeur was a polite, taciturn man, in a neat grey suit with a peaked cap. Cat longed to ask him if he regularly delivered Liam’s women to him, but didn’t dare. In any case, the glass partition between him and the back of the car, where she sat almost on the edge of her seat, remained firmly closed.

What I really want is someone to take my hand and tell me everything’s going to be all right, she thought, a bubble of near-hysteria rising in her throat. And I’ve never been that naïve. I’m still the Cat that Walks by Herself. I have to be.

She hadn’t realised how much she was hoping that Liam would be there ahead of her, waiting to take her in his arms, until she unlocked the doors and found the flat still empty.

She drew the heavy cream curtains across the windows, and after a brief hesitation lit the gas fire in the marble hearth, telling herself it felt chilly now that darkness was here. Or was she just nervous?

Stagefright, she thought with a grimace, sitting back on her haunches and watching the flames flicker blue.

She took her case into the bedroom and extracted the new housecoat. It moulded her slenderness like a second skin, the skirts flaring into soft folds at her hips and falling open, mid-thigh, to reveal her slim legs. The unrelieved black emphasised the creaminess of her skin against the dipping neckline.

She studied her reflection in the long mirror, trying to see herself with his eyes.

It was undoubtedly seductive, she acknowledged restively, but was it rather too obvious—especially against this minimalist background? Well, only time would tell.

And it was time that Liam was here. She needed his reassurance—the flare of passion in his eyes—the hunger of his mouth.

There was no television, no stereo or radio in the living room. Nothing, not even a magazine, to alleviate the tension of this endless waiting.

She was beginning to wonder if he’d changed his mind—or even if he’d planned all this as a cruel joke to punish her for daring to damage his male pride—when she heard the outer door open and slam shut, and his footsteps on the stairs.

She’d intended to be stretched on the sofa, cool and casual, her smile offering a welcome that was his alone. Instead, she found herself jumping to her feet, her clenched fists buried in the folds of her gown to conceal the fact that they were trembling.

He came slowly into the room, moving almost wearily, the smoky eyes guarded as they surveyed her.

‘Good evening.’ His voice was quiet, courteous, but it did not sing with desire, and he didn’t come across to her as she’d hoped. ‘I apologise for my lateness.’

She swallowed. ‘It—it doesn’t matter. You’re here now,’ she returned uncertainly. She paused. ‘You look tired.’

‘I am,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But not too exhausted to pay you the attention you deserve in bed, if that’s what concerns you.’

‘It isn’t,’ she denied swiftly. ‘I simply thought you might like some coffee—or something to eat. I—I brought food.’ She tried a smile. ‘I make good scrambled eggs.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Liam drawled, his expression suddenly cynical. ‘But I didn’t come here for your domestic abilities, my sweet, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m not hungry.’ He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it over the arm of the sofa. ‘Frankly, I’ve had a bitch of a day, but a hot bath should improve my mood considerably.’