Mistress for a Month

He cocked his head and stared at her so intensely she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

Continuing to gaze at her in that steady, assessing way, his big, tanned hand lifted his wafer-thin teacup to his sensual mouth. She was too conscious of his stern lips, of his chiseled cheekbones, of those amber sparks flashing in his eyes, of his long, tapered fingers caressing the side of the tiny cup.

A beat passed. His eyes scanned the other women in the tea shop before returning to her. She swallowed.

When he grinned, she blushed.

“I—I’m not usually this nervous,” she whispered.

“You don’t seem nervous.” His low tone was smooth. Everything about him was smooth.

When she touched her teacup to lift it, it rattled, sloshing tea. “Oh, God! See? My hand is shaking.”

“Did you skip lunch?”

“How did you…? Why, yes, yes I did! There were so many things to look at in the markets. Sometimes I forget to eat when I shop.”

“I skipped lunch, as well. Maybe we’ll both feel better if we have a scone. They’re very good here.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Never. Until now. With you.”

“Then how do you know they’re good?”

“Reputation. I have a friend who comes here.”

Amy imagined a woman as beautiful as Carol. His friend would be delicate—slim and golden and well-dressed, the type who wouldn’t be caught dead shopping at the Camden Market. His type.

Ignorant of her thoughts and comparison, her companion was slathering clotted cream and jam on his scone. When he finished, he handed the dripping morsel to her. Then he made one for himself. When she gobbled hers much too greedily, he signaled the waitress and ordered chilled finger sandwiches and crisps.

Licking jam and cream off the tips of her fingers, she willed herself to calm down. He was right; she was shaking because she was starving, not because he was gorgeous and sexy and maybe dangerous.

She was perfectly safe. They were in a sedate tea shop with a table and a tablecloth, pink-and-gold china teacups and saucers between them. They were surrounded by lots of other customers, too. So, there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

“So, you haven’t been to Hawaii,” she mused aloud, staring at his hard, too-handsome face with that lock of black hair tumbling over his brow. “Are you famous?”

He started.

She bit into a second scone, and the rich concoction seemed to melt on her tongue. “A movie star?” she pressed, sensing a strange, new tension in him as she licked at a sticky fingertip. “Is that why you look so familiar?”

“I’m an investor.” He was watching her lick her finger with such excessive interest, she stopped.

“You don’t look like an investor,” she said.

“What did you have me pegged for?”

“You have a look, an edge. You certainly don’t seem like the kind of man who goes to the office every day.”

Did she only imagine that his mouth tightened? He lowered his eyes and dabbed jam on his second scone. “Sorry to disappoint you. I have a very dull office and a very dull secretary in Paris.”

“So what do you invest in?”

“Lots of dull things—stocks, mutual funds, real estate. My family has interests all over Europe, in the States…Asia, too. Emerging markets, they call them. Believe me, I stay busy with my, er, dull career. I have to, or I’d go mad.” His voice sounded bleak. “And what do you do?”

“I just have a little shop. I sell old clothes that I buy at estate sales and markets.”

“And do you enjoy it?”

“Very much. But it would probably seem dull and boring to someone like you.”

“The question is—is it dull and boring to you?”

“No! Of course, not! I love what I do. I live to find some darling item at a bargain price, so that I can sell it to a customer with a limited budget. Every woman longs to be beautiful, you know.”

“Then I envy you.” Again she heard a weariness in his voice. Only this time she sensed the deeper pain that lay beneath it.

“And you don’t think I’m boring…because I sell old clothes?”

He laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“No, really, you must tell me.” She leaned forward, holding her cup in two hands for fear of spilling. “Since we’re strangers, we can speak freely. Was your first impression of me…Did you think I looked boring and old?”

He set his scone down. “Who the hell’s been telling you a stupid thing like that?”

“My boyfriend.” Why had she admitted that?

“Then dump him.”

“I sort of did, but I’ve always loved him. Or, at least, I thought I did. Maybe he’s just been in my life forever.”

“So you’re the loyal, committed type?”

“Well, anyway, I can’t stop thinking about him. All day I thought about him. And the things he said.”

His black brows shot together so alarmingly her hands, which still held her teacup, began to shake. “Stick with your decision.”

“But I’ve loved him since I was five, I think,” she whispered a bit defensively. “My mother disapproves of him, though.”

“No wonder you cling to him.”

“No, it’s not like that.” She smiled. “It’s just that I’m not sure I did the right thing to break up with him. I did it so fast, I mean. That’s not like me. I spent several years planning before I opened my store.”

“Maybe the decision had been coming on for a while.”

“But Fletcher—”

“Fletcher?” His handsome features hardened. “Well, you’re not boring or old. So, you want to know my first thoughts about you. I thought you were lovely. Fresh. Nice. Different. Too nice for me probably, but a woman I definitely would want to know better if I were a different sort of man—one capable of commitment. Sexy.” He bit off that last rather grumpily. “Sexy in a nice way. You’re the kind of woman a nice guy, who has a good job and wants to settle down, marries so he can have a houseful of kids to play soccer with on the weekends.”