Nights of Passion: Mendez's Mistress / Bedded for the Italian's Pleasure / The Pregnancy Affair

Now he pulled the Lexus into Eaton Court Mews and drew up outside the house he’d bought on one of his frequent trips to London. He’d liked it because of its character and antiquity, its wisteria-clad walls a far cry from the busy thoroughfare that passed just a few feet beyond the arched entrance to the mews.

He entered via an oak-studded door to one side of the ground-floor garage and took the stairs to the next floor, where the first level of living rooms was situated. It had taken him some time to get used to not calling this the ‘second floor', as they did back home, but Charles Barry, his English housekeeper, was gradually educating him.

Charles himself appeared as Joe walked into a comfortably furnished sitting room. Furniture, which Charles had helped him choose, gave the room an attractive authenticity, with lots

of polished wood and distressed-leather sofas beneath the narrow-paned dormer windows.

‘Mission accomplished?’ he asked, referring to his employer’s undertaking to deliver Daisy back to her mother, and Joe pulled an amused face.

‘I guess so,’ he said, without conviction. He shook his head. ‘I just wish I didn’t have the feeling that I’m the bad guy here.’

Charles, a slim, prematurely grey-haired man in his fifties, arched an enquiring brow. ‘Mrs Carlyle doesn’t appreciate your consideration, I gather?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Something of a harridan, is she?’

‘Hell, no.’ The words were out before Joe could stop them. But they were true. No way could Rachel Carlyle be described as a harridan. And that was possibly one of the reasons why he was feeling so frustrated now.

Charles frowned. ‘I detect a note of ambiguity here,’ he said. ‘Do I take it you’re having second thoughts about delivering the girl to her father?’

Joe’s jaw compressed. ‘Steve didn’t bother to tell his exwife that Daisy would be travelling with me,’ he explained flatly. ‘On the Jetstream, I mean. She assumed we’d be using public transport.’

‘I see.’ Charles considered this. ‘And that’s created a problem?’

Joe gave a curt nod. ‘You got it.’

‘Ah.’ Charles was thoughtful. ‘But surely, now that she’s met you for herself, Mrs Carlyle must be reassured?’

‘You think?’

‘She’s not?’ Charles looked taken aback. ‘So what kind of woman is she? Didn’t Mr Carlyle say that she’s a writer?’ He cupped his chin in one hand. ‘I’m imagining a rather … overweight lady, all flowing scarves and Birkenstocks. Am I right?’

Joe couldn’t prevent the laugh that erupted from him then. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong!’ he exclaimed, picturing Rachel as he’d first seen her in her cotton vest and shorts. ‘No, she’s not overweight, Charles. She’s not skinny, you understand? She’s got some shape. But she’s not fat.’

Charles regarded him intently. ‘But not young? Not like the second Mrs Carlyle?’

‘No.’ Joe conceded the point. Steve had definitely gone for looks over intelligence the second time around. It had also helped that Lauren’s old man was one of the directors of the company, he reflected, before adding, ‘But Rachel’s okay. Quite attractive, actually.’

Charles’ brows ascended again. ‘Well …’ He didn’t appear to know how to answer that so, changing the subject, he asked if his employer would like something to drink before he left for his meeting. ‘You did say you had a luncheon appointment,’ he reminded him politely, and Joe glanced somewhat impatiently at his watch.

‘Oh, yeah,’ He blew out a breath. Then, ‘No, that’s okay.’ He nodded towards the built-in bar hidden behind a wall of bookshelves. ‘I’ll get myself a soda, if I want one.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Charles withdrew and Joe moved across to the windows, staring out unseeingly onto the mews below. He found himself wondering what exactly had gone wrong with the Carlyles’ marriage. Sure, he’d heard Steve’s—and Johansen’s—interpretation of events. But having met Rachel personally, he found it harder to believe that she would neglect her home and family in favour of her career. A woman like that would hardly put up any opposition to exactly how her daughter was to travel to Florida. Indeed, she’d probably be glad of the break from teenage angst, however it was going to be achieved.

Still, he had to factor in the probable resistance she had to Daisy spending any time with her father and stepmother. If Steve was to be believed—and until the last couple of days he’d had no reason to doubt that he was—she’d done her best to turn Daisy against him and Lauren.

His scowl returned. He could so do without this, he thought irritably. Do without this damned lunch with the company’s British executives, too. If he hadn’t promised his father to follow in his footsteps, and keep all branches of Macrosystems in the frame, he’d have scrubbed any and all business meetings and spent the rest of the day at the nearest race track.

Still, this evening he had his date with Shelley Adair to look forward to. She’d been most put out when he’d cried off the party she’d been giving the evening before. But after his altercation with Rachel Carlyle, he hadn’t been in the mood for the kind of noisy reception Shelley favoured. Besides, if he was perfectly honest, he’d expected Rachel to have second thoughts and ring him to apologise and, when she hadn’t, he’d gone to bed feeling decidedly aggrieved.

So why was he wasting more time thinking about her? He’d been downright astounded when Daisy had turned up at his door this morning. It had been the last thing he’d expected, and at first he’d thought she’d come because her mother had asked her to. Finding out Rachel hadn’t even known she’d left the house had soon disabused him of that notion, and he’d been half inclined to blame Daisy’s behaviour on her mother. But bringing up a teenager like Daisy on her own couldn’t be easy. That was why he’d reined in his own irritation when Rachel had reacted as she had.

He sighed. Were Steve’s complaints about her justified? The way Rachel was acting made him inclined to think again. He just wished he wasn’t involved in the situation, wished he didn’t have these suspicions that she was the victim here.

CHAPTER FOUR

ON SATURDAY morning Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking her third cup of coffee of the day and trying to make sense of the pages she’d written the night before, when Daisy came clattering down the stairs.

It was barely seven, and on any normal weekend morning it would have been virtually impossible to get her daughter out of bed before nine o’clock. But clearly Daisy’s mind was fixated on the same issue that had kept Rachel awake half the night.

‘Did he ring?’

Daisy didn’t waste time on polite preamble, and Rachel put down her coffee cup and shuffled her pages into a single pile. ‘No.’

‘He didn’t?’ Daisy stared at her aghast. ‘I thought that must be why you were up so early.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no one’s rung. Either last night, or this morning.’

Daisy looked dismayed. ‘But he said he would ring,’ she protested, and Rachel thought that, despite all her efforts to appear grown up, her daughter was still very much a child with a child’s simplistic view of the world.

Getting to her feet, she gave Daisy a hug and said, ‘I shouldn’t worry about it, sweetheart. I expect his meeting went on longer than he’d anticipated, and perhaps he had other plans for the evening.’

Plans that had no doubt included the company of some ravishing female, Rachel reflected drily. A man like Mendez was hardly likely to spend his nights alone. He was far too attractive; far too sexy. He didn’t wear a wedding ring—not that that meant a lot, if Steve was anything to go by—but there was bound to be some glamorous socialite who found his slightly cruel good looks and sensual appeal absolutely fascinating. As she did, Rachel admitted reluctantly. Though in her case, she assured herself, it was a purely professional assessment.

‘How long does a phone call take?’ Daisy pulled away from her mother and went to take a carton of milk out of the fridge. Pouring herself a glass, she added sulkily, ‘I wish Dad had arranged for me to fly with British Airways. Then we wouldn’t have to rely on anyone else.’

Rachel was tempted to second that, but she was sensible enough to know that, however tardy he might be, they hadn’t heard the last of Joe Mendez. ‘Give it until lunchtime,’ she said. ‘Then, if we still haven’t heard anything, I’ll ring him.’ She felt a hollowing in her stomach at the thought but she ignored it. ‘Okay?’

‘Oh, cool!’ Daisy’s upper lip was still coated with milk as she came and gave her mother a wet kiss on her cheek. Her delight was unmistakeable. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Refusing to consider what she was going to say if she had to contact Mendez, Rachel scrubbed the place Daisy’s lips had touched with a rueful hand. Then, wrapping her cotton dressing-gown closer about her, she picked up the manuscript and started for the door. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long. Then I’ll get breakfast.’

‘I can do that.’ Daisy finished her milk and popped the glass into the dishwasher. ‘What would you like? I can make French toast.’

‘Just toast will do,’ said Rachel, guessing the girl was only trying to be helpful. But as she started up the stairs she hoped that, by offering to ring Mendez, she hadn’t given Daisy the idea that she wouldn’t object if her daughter rang him herself.

Knowing she had to go out sometime today to do some food shopping, Rachel dressed in jeans and a black V-necked tee shirt. She dried her hair and then caught it up in a loose knot on top of her head. She didn’t bother with any make-up, and a pair of strappy leather sandals completed her outfit. She looked what she was, she thought, surveying her appearance without conceit: a single mother approaching middle age, with no particular claim to either youth or beauty.

Daisy had the toast ready when she re-entered the kitchen, and there was fresh coffee simmering on the hob. Daisy had taken the time to dress too, though her baggy cut-offs and cropped tank top looked as if they’d spent the night on her bedroom floor.

‘There you go,’ she said, setting the toast on the table where ajar of marmalade and the butter dish already resided; if her cheeks looked a little pink, Rachel put it down to the heat of the grill.

‘This looks good.’ Although she wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, Rachel buttered a slice of toast and spooned on a little of the marmalade. Then, taking a bite, she looked expectantly up at her daughter. ‘Aren’t you having any?’

‘I had some cornflakes,’ said Daisy quickly. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind.’