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

‘I’m certain he has.’ Mark shrugged. ‘But Natalie’s currently using it as an office. Besides, I thought you always stayed at The Ritz.’

‘I do, but Charles is being very difficult at the moment. Says we have to cut back on our spending.’ The pout reappeared and the blue eyes rested smilingly on Mark. ‘I didn’t think you’d begrudge me just one night.’

‘Except,’ Mark said gently, ‘that Natalie and I are enjoying our privacy, and really don’t wish it to be interrupted, not even by the most understanding guest.’

‘My dear Mark—such unwonted concentration on one woman. I can hardly believe my ears. I think the best thing I can do is go, and leave you in peace.’ At the door, she turned. ‘And please don’t worry. There’ll be other nights, I’m sure.’

When Mark returned from showing her out, Tallie was still seated on the sofa, staring into space.

She said, ‘That was awful.’

‘It’s also over.’

‘Is it?’ She looked up at him. ‘Your stepmother doesn’t seem to think so. If I was genuinely involved with you, I’d be starting to wonder.’

‘But as you’re not,’ he said coldly, ‘you need not concern yourself.’ He picked up the coffee tray and carried it to the kitchen. After a moment or two, she followed.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice faltered a little. ‘That was wrong of me. I don’t really believe that … you … that you and Veronica …’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ His tone was dry. ‘It’s slightly gutting to find someone thinks you can be that much of a bastard.’

‘Yes.’ The word had a hollow ring, the image of Hugo Cantrell large in her mind.

‘Well, don’t look so stricken.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Because I’m no saint, and at times it’s been a damned close-run thing. Veronica can pack quite a punch, especially when you’re sixteen and not nearly as sexually experienced as you like to think.’

Tallie gasped. ‘She came on to you—at that age?’

‘She’d correctly figured I wasn’t a virgin. Also, she was only nineteen when she married my father, and he was already in his mid-forties. Maybe that side of their relationship was on the wane, or perhaps she was simply feeling the seven year itch.’

He paused. ‘I’ve wondered since if she also saw it as a way of establishing a hold over me—insurance for the future, perhaps.’

He added lightly, ‘On the other hand, she may simply have found the idea amusing. All those raging adolescent hormones at her disposal—if I’d proved amenable.’

‘But surely she can’t still think …’

‘No?’ he asked. ‘When you admitted you began to wonder.’ He shook his head. ‘Veronica is not a woman to allow her marriage vows to stand in her way.’

‘She’s vile.’

‘She’s also sad.’ He paused. ‘But thank you for saving me from a potentially awkward situation. I owe you big time, and I won’t forget it.’

‘I wish I could say it was a pleasure.’ She got to her feet. ‘And now I have some awkward situations of my own to deal with, so I’d better get back to work.’

‘You won’t allow me to express my gratitude by taking you for an expensive lunch? It seems a pity to waste the new gear.’ His voice followed her to the door.

She didn’t look back at him. ‘No, thanks.’ She sounded faintly brittle. ‘Veronica seems to have killed my appetite stone dead.’

Back in her room, she found she was leaning back against the panels of the door, panting as if she’d been running, angry with herself and bewildered at the same time. After all, she was undeniably hungry, so where would have been the harm?

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—a girl she hardly recognised in the smart, unfamiliar clothes, her eyes unnaturally bright and her cheeks flushed.

And knew exactly why she wouldn’t take the risk.

She wrote steadily for the rest of the day, her unaccustomed finery restored to its carrier bags and stowed at the back of the wardrobe. Out of sight, out of mind, she told herself.

And when eventually she ventured out to heat a tin of soup and make a sandwich, the flat was deserted.

She’d just cleared away her makeshift meal when the buzzer sounded. What now? she wondered, groaning silently as she obeyed its summons. Don’t tell me Veronica’s come back to say all the hotels are full.

But when she opened the door, she found Justin smiling at her.

‘Hi,’ he said, too casually. ‘Is Mark around?’

‘No,’ she said, her own lips twitching reluctantly. ‘But I suspect you knew that already.’

‘So, are you going to let me in? I promise I’m safe and house-trained.’

‘Also difficult to keep away.’ Tallie stood aside to admit him and led the way to the sitting room. ‘The choice is tea or coffee. The alcohol belongs to Mark.’

Justin opened the briefcase he was carrying and produced a bottle. ‘Cloudy Bay,’ he said. ‘Taste it and fall in love. But only with the wine, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ Tallie agreed dryly, and went to fetch the corkscrew.

Although unexpected, it was a relaxed and convivial interlude, taking away the sour taste of Veronica Melrose’s visit. They talked about books, comparing favourite authors, found they had broadly similar tastes in music, but differed widely on films. And the wine was wonderful.

By the time he left an hour later, she found she’d agreed to accompany him to the theatre the following week, and when he paused at the front door, cupping her chin gently in his hand and bending towards her, she allowed his kiss, which was brief, undemanding, yet undeniably pleasant.

Alone, Tallie smiled as she re-corked what was left of the wine, preparatory to putting it in the fridge, and began to wash the glasses.

There was no denying that Justin was an extremely attractive man. And, with his fair hair and blue eyes, exactly her type, as well as being practically a template for William in her book.

I based him originally on Gareth, she thought. And when Gareth turned out to be not the person I’d hoped, I think I may have stopped believing in William too, and that’s why I’m having all these problems in bringing him to life. But maybe it will be easier to put him centre stage from now on.

As for Hugo Cantrell, who was becoming almost too real, and who might have to be killed off in some unpleasant way …

‘You look very fierce,’ Mark commented from the doorway. ‘Is something wrong?’

She almost dropped the glass she was drying. ‘I—I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘Evidently. You were lost in thought.’ He looked at the wine bottle on the counter top. ‘Been entertaining?’

‘Yes, as it happens.’ Her tone was defensive.

‘May I guess the identity of your visitor?’ The note of amusement in his voice was not lost on her.

She stared at him. ‘Did you tell him to come?’

‘As if.’ He leaned a shoulder against the door frame. ‘So where’s he taking you?’

‘To the new Leigh Hanford play,’ she admitted unwillingly.

‘It’s had good reviews,’ he said casually. ‘He’s lucky to get tickets.’

She frowned. ‘Did you have anything to do with that?’

‘Why, Miss Paget,’ he drawled, ‘what a suspicious mind you have. I suppose it comes from working out plots.’

‘Probably,’ she said. ‘And now I must go and work out some more of them. Goodnight, Mr Benedict.’

‘Goodnight to you, Miss Paget.’ He added softly, ‘I hope your dreams are sweet.’

Tallie hoped so too as she headed towards her room, but they would have to be delayed. First she would have to find some way of dealing with Hugo Cantrell. After all, the wretched man seemed to be taking over the book, and that was the last thing she wanted. So he would have to go. Painfully and permanently.