Mistress for a Night

‘You know, or should do by now, that I don’t want to be a mother to you.’ His arm tightened around her shoulder again, and this time he wasn’t offering comfort. ‘Why don’t you give me the chance to show you just what I do want to be? You never know, you might surprise yourself and like it!’

Georgia stiffened. Hadn’t she told him, at least a dozen times, that she had no intention of starting a sexual relationship with him, or any other man? Ever.

Sex ruined relationships. It had made Jason treat her like a mistress for one night only and then despise her. It had made her mother resent her from practically the moment of her conception, because the man she’d been engaged to had taken to his heels when he’d learned there was a baby on the way. Vivienne had always regarded her as an unwanted encumbrance, a blight on her life.

And sex had been the only thing on Harold’s mind that last fateful day at Lytham, which had ruined everything for her at the time. Yes—she had long decided she could live without sex.

She pulled briskly away from Ben. If he hadn’t got the message by now he never would. She refused to waste any more breath on the subject.

‘I have to pack. Close the door behind you.’

Georgia drove fast, but safely, with flair and confidence, perfectly attuned to the powerful engine beneath the long, sleek bonnet of the low-slung sports coupé.

It was like a part of herself, and when she was behind the wheel inner tension was released, the distinctive growl of the engine, as the black, aerodynamic, bullet-shaped car ate up the miles, speaking to her of freedom, taking her away from herself. Driving was the only release she allowed herself. And speed was addictive.

Headlights cut through the night, raking the wet black tarmac. She kept her foot down, stayed in the fast lane and only reluctantly eased off the accelerator slightly as she left the M5 at Brockworth and headed for deep country. And Lytham Court. And Jason.

Jason. Was he spitting tacks because he hadn’t been remembered in Harold’s will, full of resentment because she, the despised one, had?

And what was he expecting of her? Her mouth curled with slight, cynical amusement as she allowed herself to think about it.

A soppy sort he could push around? Someone he could lay down the law to concerning that legacy and then walk away from, arrogantly satisfied that she would do as she was told?

And physically? If he gave that aspect a glancing thought would he expect to encounter an older version of that besotted eighteen-year-old? The billowy curves—the plague of her young life—already solidified into premature middle-age spread? Mousy hair still cropped boyishly short because she didn’t know what else to do with it? Dog-like devotion swimming in her eyes, ill-fitting chainstore clothes?

Boy, was he in for a surprise!

The muted yet full-throated growl of an unfamiliar engine broke the deep silence of Lytham’s isolation. Jason gathered the sheaf of papers together and pushed them back into the wall safe, locked it and pocketed the key, then walked to the open study door.

A couple of hours, she’d said. A glance at his watch confirmed she’d made it in ten minutes under. He waited. Made a conscious effort to relax coiled shoulder muscles. Waited and wondered.

Wondered if he’d manage to discuss tomorrow’s funeral arrangements, and how she could best handle the huge fortune that would come into her possession after probate, without displaying the bitter contempt he felt for her.

Wondered if she would still have the nerve to look at him with big, limpid eyes. Wondered yet again how he could ever have been fooled by such a seemingly malleable sweet innocence.

Waited and wondered if she’d walk right in—this house was hers, or as good as, after all. Or would she ring the bell, as timid and self-effacing as ever, on the surface at least, yet self-seeking underneath, doing what suited her and hang the consequences?

She walked right in. She stood in the open doorway and stared at him.

He stared right back through narrowed grey eyes, unable to release the almost arrogance of her glittering golden gaze, unable to believe what he was actually seeing.

CHAPTER TWO

MEETING his eyes, Georgia sucked in her breath. Seven years had stamped authority on those harshly handsome features, on the wide-shouldered, lithe male body. And although she never looked back, not ever, there was nothing she could do now to stop her mind flying to the hollow echoes of the past. Just seeing him again made it happen…

She was eighteen years old and besottedly in love. Had loved him ever since she’d first set eyes on him at her mother’s marriage to his adoptive father, Harold Harcourt, three years before.

He liked her; she knew that. On his occasional visits to Lytham Court, the luxurious family home, he made a point of spending time with her, unfailingly interested in her, always kind. And what gave her hope that liking her might develop into something more was the snippet of information that Mrs Moody, the battleaxe housekeeper, had let slip: Jason never visited Lytham while she was away at the boarding school her mother had packed her off to as soon as she’d married money.

So here she was, a naive, plump eighteen-year-old, sitting up in bed long after her mother and Harold had retired for the night, screwing up her courage to go to Jason’s room and talk to him, tell him about the job offer in New York, ask him if he’d miss her—because if he said he would, she wouldn’t go.

Since she’d been back at Lytham, after finishing her A levels in the early summer, Harold had been making her feel horribly uncomfortable, asking her about her boyfriends, his hot blue eyes undressing her—especially when Vivienne, her mother, wasn’t around. And her mother didn’t want her around; she never had. If it hadn’t been for Jason’s occasional visits Georgia wouldn’t have spent any time here this summer, would have accepted the standing invitation to stay with her friend Sue, would have been making plans to go to New York with the family in November, making a firm decision to accept the exciting offer of a job in the new advertising agency Sue’s father was setting up over there.

But how could she leave Jason? How could she go if there was even the smallest hope that he could come to love her as she loved him?

Sue’s phone calls, begging her to make up her mind to go with them, were becoming more frantic. She had to reach a decision, and the only person who could help her do that was Jason.

But sitting up in bed in the thick darkness, chewing it over, wasn’t going to achieve a thing! She threw back the light counterpane and slid her legs out of bed. When he’d arrived for his eagerly awaited weekend visit he’d declined the evening meal and gone to his room.

‘I think I’m coming down with flu,’ he’d told them. ‘The symptoms started on the way here. So I’ll dose myself with aspirin and whisky and keep out of everyone’s way.’

‘You do that.’ Vivienne had taken herself to the far side of the room, flapping her hands in front of her as if to get rid of some unspeakable contamination. ‘I don’t want your nasty virus! And neither does Harold!’

Harold had merely shrugged, and Georgia could have smacked the pair of them. Couldn’t they see that Jason looked far from well? Didn’t they care?

‘I’ll make a hot drink and bring it up for you, shall I?’ Georgia had volunteered, determined to let him know that she, at least, cared about his state of health. ‘Some soup, perhaps?’

‘Thanks, poppet.’ He’d smiled for the first time, his eyes brightening momentarily as they rested on her. ‘But I really couldn’t face it. See you in the morning.’ He’d taken the whisky bottle from the drinks tray and walked out of the room, so she hadn’t been able to talk to him then. But she could now.

She wouldn’t disturb him for long, just explain about the job offer and tell him how she felt about him. She couldn’t put the width of the Atlantic between them if there was the slightest chance he could one day return her feelings.

If he couldn’t, if friendship was all he could ever offer her, then she’d make a new life for herself in America. The thought of baring her soul to him was scary, but she had to do it. Sue’s parents wouldn’t wait for her decision for ever.

She was shaking with nervous tension as she slipped down the corridor and into his room.

He’d fallen asleep with the bedside light on. The coward in her recognised it as a reprieve and she felt herself begin to relax, her breath coming more easily. She knew she should walk out and leave him to his healing sleep, but couldn’t make herself.

She padded over to the bed, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet, only now realising that the in-depth discussion she’d intended they have should have demanded at least the sobriety of a robe to cover the too voluptuous curves which were barely hidden by her short, thin cotton nightie.

But the night was hot and she hadn’t been thinking straight, her mind rehearsing what she had to say to him over and over again. In any case, it didn’t matter now. He was asleep and she wouldn’t wake him.

Very carefully, her heart in her mouth, she sat on the edge of the bed. He still looked feverish, sweat gleaming on his olive-toned skin, the sheet tangled around his hips. She could smell the whisky he’d dosed himself with and realised hopelessly that she had to be grateful for the virus, for the alcohol that had knocked him out.

He was so beautiful. He could have any woman he wanted. So how could she have been crazy enough to hope for one moment that he would want her?

The sudden film of tears made her eyes sting. She blinked them away and told herself to be grateful for having been saved from a huge humiliation.

If he’d been awake and she’d come out with all that stuff she would have embarrassed them both; she could see that very clearly now. His past friendship and kindnesses meant only one thing—that he was compassionate enough to care about the plain, over-plump teenager who was like a fish out of water in the opulence of Lytham Court, whose mother plainly showed she didn’t want her around.

So she would go to New York and make something of her life, but first she would give herself this quiet, secret time with the man she loved with an emotion so intense it made her heart feel heavy and sharp inside her. Just a few more minutes to say her silent goodbyes.

Tears shimmering on her lashes, she softly, oh, so softly, touched his naked shoulder. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him, but she needed to have the memory of how his skin felt beneath her loving fingers.

He was burning, feverish. She lifted her hand and laid the backs of her fingers against his brow, where strands of damp, dark hair tumbled onto his forehead, then feathered them gently over his jagged cheekbones, down to the corner of his mouth, and then, because she simply couldn’t stop herself, trailed her hand over the taut muscles of his arm, down to the loosely clenched long bones of his hand, completely absorbed in him.

And then, in the space of time it took to draw a breath, his eyes opened, his fingers tightened convulsively around hers, drawing her hand up until her palm was splayed against his wide chest and she could feel the rapid, heavy beats of his heart.

After that there was no time to explain what she was doing in his room as his mouth descended in a bone-melting kiss. No time to think as she drowned giddily in a vortex of passion, his passion and hers, the driven need taking them both by storm.