Sara Craven - One Man's Mistress - One Night with His Virgin Mistress / Public Mistress, Private Affair / Mistress Against Her Will

‘You were entitled to throw me out a week ago,’ she said, ‘but you didn’t. This makes us quits.’

Mark Benedict took a deep breath. ‘Then I can only say I’d be eternally grateful. Write down all the things you need and I’ll get them.’

Tallie raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean you can cope with supermarkets?’

The green eyes glinted at her. ‘Now who’s being patronising?’

He took the list she eventually handed him, reading it through in silence, then glancing at her, brows raised. ‘Anchovies? I don’t think Sonia likes them.’

‘Is that Miss Rest and Recreation?’ The words were out before she could stop them. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ she added, flushing as she saw his mouth harden. ‘It’s really none of my business.’

‘Hang on to that thought,’ he suggested unsmilingly.

‘Yes—yes, of course. And the anchovies dissolve in cooking.’ Embarrassment was making her gabble and she knew it. ‘Your—your friend won’t even know they’re there, I promise. Or me either, for that matter,’ she went on hastily.

‘You’re planning to dissolve too?’

She bit her lip. ‘No,’ she returned stonily. ‘Just maintain my usual low profile.’ She paused. ‘After all, you have to admit that I’ve hardly been obtrusive this week.’

‘That,’ said Mark Benedict, ‘is a matter of opinion. But we won’t debate it now because I have to go shopping.’

When he’d gone, Tallie went into the dining room. She found the elegant linen table mats and the napkins that matched them, gave the silver cutlery and the tall wineglasses with their impossibly slender stems a careful polish, and set places for six people.

There were three dinner services in the tall cupboards that flanked the fireplace and she chose the simplest one—plain white china delicately edged in silver. Because she couldn’t be sure how long it was since it had been used, she tied a tea towel round her waist in lieu of an apron and gave the plates, cups and dishes a swift but thorough wash.

She was just drying the last piece when Mark Benedict returned.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he commented, pausing at the dining room door before joining her in the kitchen.

‘You did say six people?’

He nodded. ‘My cousin Penny, with her current companion, Justin Brent, two pals of mine, Charlie and Diana Harris, plus Sonia, of course, and myself.’ He paused. ‘Although, you are naturally welcome to join us,’ he added courteously.

‘You’re very kind,’ she returned with equal politeness. ‘But I’ve eaten already.’ And even if I was starving, I’d still say no.

She began to unpack the heavy carriers, almost disappointed to discover that he hadn’t forgotten a thing.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ He was propped in the doorway, watching her, his presence making the kitchen seem oddly smaller and more cramped.

‘No, thanks. It’s all down to me now.’ She hesitated. ‘Although I wasn’t sure if you’d want to use those lovely candlesticks on the sideboard, and whether or not there were any candles for them.’

‘A romantic thought,’ he said. ‘But I think we’ll stick to the wall lighting.’

‘Just as you wish.’ Tallie began to chop onions, praying at the same time that his frankly disturbing scrutiny wouldn’t cause her to lose a finger. As she reached for the garlic press, she said with faint asperity, ‘There’s no need to stand over me. I didn’t include rat poison on my list, so don’t worry.’

‘Do I give that impression? Actually, I’m simply admiring your efficiency.’

‘And checking at the same time that I really know what I’m doing.’ She gave him a steady look. ‘However, I’m not accustomed to an audience, so if you’re sufficiently reassured, maybe you could go and see to … wine and things.’

The firm lips twitched. ‘Wine and things it is, then,’ he murmured. ‘May I bring you a drink, Miss Paget, to assist in your labours?’

It occurred to her that she felt slightly drunk already and that she had the way he’d been watching her to thank for it.

She said rather primly, ‘I think I need all my concentration, thank you. But I do need some white wine for the sauce. Nothing too fancy,’ she added hastily.

Mark Benedict gave an easy shrug. ‘I was thinking of continuing the Mediterranean theme with some rather nice Orvieto. Will a slightly cheaper version do for cooking?’

She nodded, staring rather fiercely at the chicken joints she was extracting from their packaging.

‘And please try to relax, sweetheart,’ he added quietly. ‘You’re doing me a big favour, remember, not passing some crucial examination.’

Easy for him to say, thought Tallie. He hasn’t got, Don’t mess up—don’t mess up unrolling through his mind like a banner as I have. And I lied when I said I wasn’t used to an audience. At home, there were always people in the kitchen and it never bothered me. So why is it different with him?

But she couldn’t answer that, any more than she could explain to herself why she’d volunteered to cook this meal. It had been an absurd thing to do, especially when she owed him less than nothing. She could so easily have left him to sort out his own dilemma—and been perfectly justified in doing so.

Yet, maybe, in some weird way, she’d wanted to prove to Mark Benedict that she wasn’t simply a freeloader with grandiose ideas about her own talent and an aversion to working for a living. That she was, in fact, as practical as the next person.

Maybe she also wanted to show him that she was large-minded enough to overlook his past behaviour. Heaping coals of fire on his head, as the saying went, instead of pouring petrol over him and chucking a lighted match.

And now all she had to do was prove her point, she told herself, determinedly turning her attention back to the task in hand.

Within the hour, her Mediterranean chicken was flawlessly assembled and already sending out a mouth-watering aroma of tomatoes, garlic and wine as it simmered slowly in the oven.

The smoked salmon would be served with a simple lemon wedge, a watercress garnish and little rolls of paper-thin brown bread and butter. She’d already whipped up the Chantilly cream to go with the tarte tatin that Mark had bought, arranged a platter of cheese flanked by a bunch of green grapes at one end and some celery sticks at the other, and spooned a rich Colombian blend of coffee into the cafetière.

All that was left was the saffron rice, which she’d cook at the last minute.

She looked down at her plain top and boring trousers, wondering if she should change into a skirt, make herself rather more presentable for the arrival of Mark Benedict’s guests.

Don’t be silly, she adjured herself crisply. You’re the skivvy. You belong in the kitchen and no one’s going to give a second glance at what you’re wearing. Least of all the host.

Promptly, at eight o clock, the door buzzer sounded and she heard voices and laughter in the hallway. Then, a minute later, she was joined by a tall, dark girl with an engaging grin. ‘Hi, I’m Penny Marshall, Mark’s cousin. I gather you’re Natalie Paget, otherwise known as our saviour—rescuing us from the queue at the local pizza parlour.’

Tallie smiled back. ‘I don’t think it would have come to that.’

‘But I’d like to have seen Sonia’s face if it had.’ Penny lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘It might almost have been worth it.’ She glanced round. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Thanks, but I think everything’s under control.’

‘In that case, why not come along to the sitting room and have a drink with us?’

Tallie moved restively. Picked up a spoon and put it down again. ‘That’s … kind, but I’d really rather not.’