Kate Hardy - His Permanent Mistress - Mistress Under Contract

‘Good for you.’

She hung up, buoyed by the brief conversation. She walked back into the bar and stood in the middle—surveying her new domain. The club was up one flight of stairs, darkened windows overlooking the busy downtown street. A large pool table stood in one corner. Cosy nooks and comfy seating scattered around the edges, a small dance floor on one side of the bar with the DJ stand on the far wall. The space was small, intimate. It was made for selected entrants. It should be exclusive. Hip. She’d target the young, urban, wealthy—fashion designers, media lovies, movie technicians—and mingle them with the up-and-coming darlings of the political and judicial worlds. Wellington—New Zealand’s city of power and privilege, flavoured with a touch of Hollywood.

And cool. Undeniably cool. Lucy understood the power of cool. Not that she was, but she could fake it as well as the rest of them. She could spot a trend. She’d suggested themes and altered décor a little in many of the bars and hotel restaurants she’d worked at over the years—and been successful.

Back in the little office she rooted amongst the chaotic paperwork for a list of staff details and started dialling. An hour later and she’d contacted all but one of them. A couple had already found other work, thinking the club was to be closed for a while, but the others were keen to get back to it. It meant she was short, though—and missing a doorman. But she could work long hours to cover the gap and she knew of the perfect bouncer. She might have been out of town for a year but she had some old friends she knew she could call on. She’d do all the calling necessary to make this work.

Her new employer provided premium incentive. For whatever reason—probably desperation—he’d offered her the chance. More to the point he’d laid down a challenge. Now it was up to her. And her appreciation of his stud factor was going to have to take a back seat to her proving him wrong.

You find putting things in order satisfying

‘PULL together the files on the Simmons case, will you?’ Daniel watched as Sarah, his junior, jerked up from contemplating her computer screen.

‘I’m going to work off site for a few hours. Maybe a few days.’ He could keep an eye on what was happening down at the club—just to be sure Lucy was going to be able to do the job she said she could.

‘Off site?’Sarah echoed in disbelief. ‘As in not in your office?’

He grimaced, her incredulity hitting a nerve. So he spent long hours in his office. Month after month he racked up the most billable hours in the firm. On top of that he did his pro bono work. Then he tutored and guest lectured at the university—they were nagging him to join the faculty full-time. He achieved—at a cost. The price was long days, every weekend. But he’d made the decision years ago to dedicate his energy to his career.

Sarah gathered the relevant documents while he ensured his laptop had the data necessary. He could always download more remotely if he had to.

‘Are you needing me to come with you?’ Sarah looked right into his face. He had the suspicion those brown eyes of hers were offering a little more than her legal services. He grimaced again. No. Daniel never needed a woman. He might want one, in which case he’d have her, and then he’d move on, certainly never stopping to develop anything resembling a relationship. His parents had pointedly proved there was no such thing as for ever. No such thing as dependability or reliability. So Daniel had chosen career. He was focused and loving it.

He shook his head at Sarah. ‘I can email you with any requests I may have.’

Early evening he climbed the stairs to the club, with an increasing sense of trepidation. She appeared at the top before he’d hit halfway. The hint of anxiety tightening her face faded as she saw it was him.

He raised his brows. ‘Everything OK?’

She nodded. ‘Staff are all organised and I’m just starting the clean-up.’

‘You want a hand with that?’

She looked amazed.

He clarified. ‘You could call in one of the bartenders to help you.’

‘No. It’s not that big a job and if I do it myself then I know it’s done and I know exactly what’s there and where it is.’

He heaved his bag onto the corner of the bar. It landed with a thud. ‘A good manager delegates.’

‘A good manager leads by example and is capable of doing everything herself that she asks her staff to do.’

She was in position behind the bar and he had to admit it looked as if she were made for it. Her hair hung almost to her waist. Long brown locks streaked with sun-kissed honey strands. Neither straight nor curly, it seemed in imminent danger of turning into DIY dreadlocks. It looked as if she’d been swimming for hours and then let it dry in the sun without bothering to brush it through. He had the crazy urge to reach out and grab it, wanting to see if it did smell of sea and salt and holiday. Behind the bar she was as relaxed as if she’d been parked on a beach all her life. Given her tan she probably had.

She picked up a cleaning cloth. He leaned over the bar and he saw the bucket of soapy water on the floor. Steam rose from it together with the smell of lemon-scented cleaning product. She looked at the bag he’d put on the bar, the files spilling from it.

‘So you’re a lawyer.’

He nodded.

‘Commercial or criminal?’

‘Criminal.’

‘Prosecution or defence?’

He started to wonder if she’d had up-close experience with either. ‘Defence.’

‘So you’re out to fight the cause for the wrongly accused. Justice for the underdog—’

‘No.’ He stopped her mid-flight. ‘Actually, sometimes my clients are guilty. But they’re still entitled to decent representation.’

‘You’re an idealist—the Atticus Finch of Wellington.’ She caught his flash of surprise before he masked it. ‘What, you think I can’t read?’

‘Why would I think that? You have a university degree. I know you can read. Whether you can think and apply is another matter.’

She gave him an evil stare. ‘I’ll have you know To Kill a Mockingbird was one of my favourite books in school.’

‘So underneath all the mouth you’re the idealist.’

She looked put out.

‘What were your other favourite books?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’

She turned to the glass shelves behind the bar and reached up on tiptoe to empty the top one of its bottles. Her body showed off to perfection as she stretched it out, only just getting her fingers round the base of the bottles. He couldn’t stand to watch it.

‘I’ll get those for you.’

Her eyes flashed surprise but she said nothing.

It took him only a minute to get the bottles down for her.

Every cell in his body aware of how close she was as she worked to clear the next shelf down. He stood back and rested against the bar behind him, unashamedly appreciating her tanned figure. Broad shoulders framed a generous bust, tapering to a trim waist before flaring out again to round hips and a bottom that begged to be used as a cushion. Shapely thighs closely clad in faded denim—also perfect for cushioning a lover. She’d be soft, and hot and…he really shouldn’t be thinking this way.

He couldn’t stop.

He looked back down to her feet again. The cowboy boots amused him. Then he amused himself further by slowly looking back up her body with appreciation. While she wasn’t plump, she certainly wasn’t a stick figure—soft in all the right places. Smooth curves. Daniel liked curves.

The speed with which she spun round caught him by surprise. The move brought her closer and he found himself staring right at her breasts.