Sandra Marton - Mistresses - Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds

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Susan Napieris a former journalist and scriptwriter who turned to writing romantic fiction after her two sons were born. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her journalist husband, who generously provides the on-going inspiration for her fictional heroes, and two temperamental cats whose curious paws contribute the occasional typographical error when they join her at the keyboard. Born on St Valentine’s Day, Susan feels that it was her destiny to write romances and, having written over thirty books for Mills & Boon, still loves the challenges of working within the genre. She likes writing traditional tales with a twist and believes that to keep romance alive you have to keep the faith – to believe in love. Not just in the romantic kind of love that pervades her books, but in the everyday, caring-and-sharing kind of love that builds enduring relationships. Susan’s extended family is scattered over the globe, which is fortunate as she enjoys travelling and seeking out new experiences to fuel her flights of imagination.

Susan loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at PO Box 18-240, Glen Innes, Auckland 1130, New Zealand.

AS THE lift doors opened Regan smoothed her sweaty palms down the side-seams of her classic black sheath and took a deep breath, beating back the niggle of doubt which had invaded her rebellious confidence during the swooping upward journey.

She had come this far—she couldn’t chicken out now!

She stepped jerkily out of the padded lift into the stark luxury of a marble foyer, her slim body taut with tension. The rarefied air was unnaturally still and quiet, as if the ragged end of the evening rush-hour funnelling through Auckland’s inner-city streets far below didn’t exist.

Regan looked around, her straight black brows arching in faint disapproval. There was nothing warm or welcoming about the formal entranceway to the three apartments sharing the fourteenth floor. The lush tropical foliage growing out of huge glazed pots only partially offset the chilly atmosphere of intimidating elegance. The glossy, impervious surfaces and pale biscuit-coloured matt paint on the upper walls created a neutral environment which bordered on the boring. The only jarring note was the glaring red eye of a state-of-the-art security camera placed high up against the ceiling.

The lift doors hissed shut behind Regan’s back with unexpected swiftness, the discreet thunk and faint whine of the descending mechanism making her nerves jump as she realised that she was temporarily cut off from her quickest avenue of escape.

It seemed somehow symbolic, as if Fate was making the choice for her—urging her to proceed with her audacious plans for the evening, chiding her for her cowardly hesitation.

Regan’s fingers bunched into unconscious fists, her plum-dark nails digging into her clammy palms as she studied the gold numbering etched into the marble wall opposite the lift.

A discreet arrow directed her to the left, where a short corridor framed a dark wooden door recessed deep into the pale wall.

As she moved towards her destination she was uncomfortably aware of the video camera on the wall behind her. The notion that some faceless security man might be watching her even now, and speculating on the reasons for her visit, made her want to break into a guilty dash, but she forced herself to maintain a graceful stroll as she moved out of sight around the corner.

It had never occurred to her that her presence might be recorded on video. She had naively imagined that, for the protection of both sides in this arrangement, everything would remain conveniently off the record.

In the unnatural hush the delicate, gold-chased heels of her black evening sandals sounded out tiny exclamation marks against the veined marble floor, punctuating her nervous progress.

Just think of it as a date, Regan repeated to herself, trying to emulate the brash attitude displayed by her nineteen-year-old flatmate and her trendy clique of friends. Unfortunately the thought wasn’t very liberating for a woman who hadn’t had a casual date in over five years!

Oh, it was all very well for Lisa and her cynical cousin Cleo, whose modelling careers had taught them to regard males as interchangeable accessories, but such casual insouciance was alien to Regan’s experience of men. In the five months since she had answered the ad to share a flat with the scatterbrained Lisa and cheerfully laid-back Saleena she had come to realise how sheltered she had been in her previous existence. She had always naively believed that mutual respect and shared interests were the essence of any relationship between a man and a woman. Her strict upbringing had precluded the startling idea that one might choose a man purely according to one’s mood, rather than because he appeared to be a sound, long-term emotional investment.

Tonight promised to be a revelation in more ways than one!

Regan moistened her dry lips. Oh, she had plenty of confidence in her social skills when it came to playing hostess, or circulating amongst groups of friends or business acquaintances, but she knew little of the modern protocols governing the intimate entertaining of a man one-on-one, so to speak.

One-on-one…

A shiver of delicious apprehension sizzled down her spine at the wanton image that sprang immediately to mind. Her pale skin warmed to a delicate blush as she pictured the searingly intimate circumstances in which this evening would probably end.

Of course, that was only if she wanted the evening to end that way, she reassured herself. It was purely ladies’ choice—or so she had been told—but she wasn’t so naive as to believe that the man she had come here to meet wouldn’t have intimate expectations of his own.

Erotic expectations that she was supposed to fulfil to the max…

Regan’s courage hit another serious speed wobble. Oh, God, she must have been mad to think that she could carry this off! She was an utter fraud. How did a woman who couldn’t even inspire passion in the man she loved expect to be believable in the role of sexy, sultry playmate to a total stranger?

The moral teachings of a lifetime rose up to haunt her. This was the first step down the slippery slope to complete depravity. To what depths had she sunk to even consider such wickedness? Wasn’t she disgusted with herself for betraying her cherished ideals?

No! A hot thrust of bitter remembrance stiffened her wavering resolve. She tossed her midnight-dark head in a gesture of angry defiance, fanning the blunt ends of her silkystraight bob across creamy shoulders laid bare by her sleeveless dress. Below the scooped neckline the snug black fabric tightened across her small breasts as she sucked in another steadying breath, struggling to control the acid rage which had been brewing and bubbling inside her for weeks, blistering her with shame, and self-contempt for her own weakness.