Mistress for a Month

When Amy opened her car door, the wind tore it from her grasp and whipped her long, brown hair back from her face. Her sandals sank deeply into the shell road, making each step so difficult she was almost happy to step into the high grass of Fletcher’s yard. With less annoyance than usual, she picked her way through scratchy weeds, beer cans, fluttering fast-food wrappers and plastic sacks. Usually she hated the flotsam and jetsam of Fletcher’s front lawn.

Lawn. If ever there was a euphemism.

Today she was too anxious to throw herself into his arms, inhale his salty male scent and cling to him forever, to obsess over her issues with his bachelor lifestyle.

He hadn’t known Aunt Tate personally, but he’d scribbled Amy a postcard or two when she’d spent those months in France. One-liners, yes, but for Fletcher, that was a lot.

When Amy reached the rickety wooden stairs that climbed the fifteen feet to his deck, she noticed four triangular bits of red cloth flapping from the railing. She picked them up, fingering the damp strings and then the triangles of what appeared to be the tops of two miniscule bikinis. When she heard music, she frowned. Was Fletcher having a party without her?

A singer cried, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then the sound of a steel-string guitar accompanied by the heavy thudding of drums.

Her throat tightened, and she flung the bits of fabric savagely into the grass. Avoiding the front door, which stood ajar, Amy put her hands on her hips and marched around to the back of the house by way of the deck. Rounding a corner too fast, she almost stumbled over a bloated male body. His beer gut moved up and down, so he had to be alive. But his shaggy hair was filthy, and his sunburned arms sported several tattoos. She didn’t recognize the spider tattoos, so maybe he wasn’t one of Fletcher’s regular roommates.

No sooner had she scooted around him when she saw six or seven more bodies sprawled on the deck, over the hoods of cars in the backyard and across the lawn furniture. A boom of deep male laughter accompanied by wild squeals in the Jacuzzi made her heart speed up.

Fletcher.

She turned slowly. Sunlight glinted in his tousled curls as he squirmed on the edge of the tub while balancing two topless blondes on his lap.

Amy dug her fingers into the railing so hard a splinter bit into her thumb.

When she cried his name, Fletcher bolted to his feet. He wasn’t wearing a suit. To his credit his handsome face turned red. “Aw, baby, you should’ve called.”

The girls toppled into the Jacuzzi with a splash. Squealing, they grabbed at Fletcher’s bronzed legs.

Horrified, Amy began to back toward the front of his house.

“Baby!” Fletcher yanked a wet towel off the floor of the deck. Whipping it around his waist, he stomped toward her, leaving big, drippy footprints on the deck.

She ran, leaping over unconscious surfer bodies, plates of half-eaten pie and overturned beer bottles, her feet flying down the steps into the chaos of cars in his front yard. But he was faster. Springing down the stairs with the agility of an orangutan, he grabbed her arm.

“Baby, I know you think you’ve got a right to be mad, and you do, you do, but I can explain.”

His voice was slurred, and he reeked of beer. A smear of lipstick marred one prominent cheekbone.

She jerked free and stomped past the cars to her Toyota.

“Look, I know I should have invited you to the party!” he yelled. “But you hate my parties. You refused to move in with me. You never want to do anything fun anymore. Ever since you got the store, you act as old and boring as those old clothes you buy and sell. And when it comes to sex, forget it! You never want to try anything new.”

“Maybe because I’m tired after working all day.”

“Which you throw at me constantly.”

“Maybe because I want you to grow up.”

“Maybe I’m as grown-up as I’ll ever be. I have money. I bought this house. I run it. So what if I don’t have a real job?”

She looked at him, at the plastic sacks fluttering like ghosts in the over-long grass, at his unpainted house and then down at the beautiful beach. “Is this all you’ll ever want?”

“What’s wrong with this? My old man worked himself into an early grave. Luckily he left me enough so I can get by. I wake up to paradise every day.”

The blondes, wrapped in towels now, were standing on the deck watching Fletcher.

Would Fletcher’s girlfriends get younger every year?

Amy fumbled in her purse for her keys. When had everything changed? Grabbing her keys, she punched a button and got her door unlocked. Then she climbed in and slammed it. As she started the engine, she rolled down her window. He ambled over and smiled at her.

Oh, God, his eyes were so startlingly blue, so warm and friendly and sexy even now, but dammit, her mother was right. She couldn’t live with him.

But could she live without him?

“You know what, Fletcher? I’m tired of having to feel lucky to be dating the good-looking, popular guy that all the other girls want. I want to be wanted.”

“Baby—”

“You’re not the only one who needs to grow up.” She hit the accelerator so hard her tires slung bits of shell against his bare shins.

“Sorry!” she whispered when he let out a yelp. And she was. She was sorry for so many things. Sorry she’d disappointed her mother. Sorry about her dad…. Sorry about all sorts of dreams that hadn’t panned out.

A mile down the road, she began to shake so hard she didn’t feel she could drive without endangering innocent strangers, so she pulled over.

She had always loved Fletcher. To her, he was still as gorgeous as he’d been in high school. But this wasn’t high school.

She flipped her visor down and stared at herself in its mirror much too critically. Normally when she wasn’t comparing herself to naked teenagers with Barbie Doll hair and pole-dancer bodies, she didn’t feel that old.

Today she’d been too busy because of her sale to bother with her makeup and hair. The wind and humidity hadn’t helped. Her brown hair hung in strings. Grief hadn’t helped, either. Her hazel eyes were red, and her mascara was running.

Images from the past swept her. She’d gotten a crush on Fletcher in kindergarten. By the sixth grade, maybe because he’d failed a year, he’d been almost as tall and cute and golden as he was now. Back then he’d been reckless and daring and the most popular boy in school, while she, Nan and Liz had been bookworms. Only, one day he’d run up to them at recess and painted a mock tattoo of a heart on Amy’s left arm. Then he’d kissed her cheek and stolen her book.

Amy had felt like Cinderella at the ball with her prince. Her cheek was still burning when he’d returned her book three hours later and kissed her again. He’d teased her like that for a few more years. Then they’d become serious in high school. Or, at least, she had. She’d told herself she could wait.

She was still waiting.

But not anymore!

London

Three days later

Promise me you won’t sleep with her.

When a man is thirty-five and famous—make that infamous, especially with women—he is likely to resent such a command, especially from his mother. Even if she is a countess.

Without warning the slim young woman his mother wanted him to keep in his sights—for business reasons only—sprinted across the street.

Not wanting to alarm her, Remy waited a few seconds before loping after her.

He frowned. His mother had nothing to worry about. The wholesome Miss Weatherbee wasn’t his type.