The Mistress Contract

‘I told you, I don’t like hospitals,’ he said easily as he settled back in the leather seat. ‘Besides, I’m sure Madge would feel more comfortable with another woman around.’

‘I thought you had a date for tonight? I’m sure Miss de Menthe would be pleased to accompany you.’ She hadn’t meant to say it but it had just sort of popped out on its own.

‘Caroline is not the sort of woman you take to the hospital to visit your aged secretary,’ he said drily.

No, she’d just bet she wasn’t! Sephy thought nastily. No doubt he had something else entirely in mind for the voluptuous model.

‘But of course if you have other plans…’

She stared at him, her mind racing. If she stayed at home she would have to go to the party, and that would mean a night of further embarrassment with Jerry, because one thing was for sure—he’d made up his mind he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Which would have been nice and flattering if she’d even the slightest inkling of ever fancying him. As it was…

‘When are you thinking of going?’ she asked carefully, her voice low.

‘Now seems as good a time as any.’ And then he smiled slowly, a fascinatingly breath-stopping smile, as he added, ‘Does that mean you are considering taking pity on me?’

Sephy stood as though glued to the hot pavement and swallowed twice before she managed to say, ‘I’ll have to go and change first. I’ll be about five minutes?’

‘Fine.’ He glanced over her shoulder. ‘The guy who isn’t the boyfriend looks like he wants a word with you,’ he drawled laconically before the sapphire gaze homed in again on her warm face.

‘Yes, right…’ She was backing away as she spoke, suddenly overwhelmed by what she had agreed to.

She must be mad, she told herself silently as she walked back to Jerry, who was waiting in the doorway of his shop, his pleasant, attractive face straight and his brown eyes fixed on her face. If it was a choice of an evening fending off Jerry as kindly as she could or choosing to spend an hour or so in Conrad Quentin’s company there was no contest! The amiable puppy had it every time. But it was too late now.

‘You told me your boss was small and fat and had eight grandchildren,’ Jerry accused her as she reached his side.

‘He is and he does,’ Sephy said weakly. ‘That’s the owner of the business, Mr Quentin, and I’m standing in for his secretary for a while. There…there’s an emergency and I’ve got to go with him.’ She was terribly conscious of the parked car behind them.

‘Now?’ Jerry made no effort to lower his voice.

‘I’m afraid so.’ She nodded firmly and inserted the key in the lock as she added, ‘So it looks like the party is off for me, Jerry. Make my apologies to Maisie, would you? Tell her I’ll see her at the weekend. For a coffee or something.’

‘How long do you think you will be?’ He was nothing if not hopeful, his voice holding a pleading note which increased her guilt.

‘Ages,’ she answered briskly as the door swung wide. ‘Bye, Jerry.’ This was definitely a case of being cruel to be kind.

She ran quickly up the stairs to the flat, but once inside in the small neat hall she stopped still, staring at her reflection in the charming antique mirror her mother had bought her for a housewarming present.

Anxious honey-brown eyes stared back at her, and it was their expression she answered as she said, ‘You might well be worried! As though working with him isn’t bad enough you have to agree to go with him tonight.’ He obviously wouldn’t have dreamt asking the beautiful Caroline to do anything so mundane, but Sephy Vincent? Well, she was just part of the office machine, there to serve and obey. She grimaced at her reflection irritably.

What had he said? Oh, yes—Caroline de Menthe was not the sort of woman you took to a hospital to visit your secretary. She—clearly—was. Which said it all, really.

The soft liquid eyes narrowed and hardened and her mouth became tight. Okay, so she wasn’t an oil painting and she never would be, and she could do with losing a few pounds too, but no one had ever suggested she walk round with a paper bag over her head! And Jerry fancied her.

The last thought brought her back to earth with a bump. What was she doing feeling sorry for herself? she asked the dark-haired girl in the mirror with something akin to amazement in her face now. This wasn’t like her. But then she hadn’t felt like herself all afternoon if it came to it. It was him, Conrad Quentin. He was…disturbing. And he was also waiting outside, she reminded herself sharply, diving through to the bedroom in the same instant.

She threw off her crumpled work clothes and grabbed a pretty knee-length flowered skirt she had bought the week before, teaming it with a little white top and matching waist-length cardigan. She didn’t have time to shower, she decided feverishly, but she quickly bundled her hair in a high knot on top of her head, teasing her fringe and several tendrils loose, and then applied a touch of eyeshadow and a layer of mascara to widen her eyes.

The whole procedure had taken no more than five minutes and she was out in the street again in six, to find him lying back indolently in the seat with his eyes shut and his hands behind his head as he listened to Frank Sinatra singing about doing it his way.

Very appropriate, she thought a trifle caustically. If only half the stories about Conrad Quentin were true he certainly lived his life by that principle.

His eyes opened as she reached the car and he straightened, glancing at his watch as he murmured, ‘When you say five minutes you really mean five minutes, don’t you?’ before leaning across and opening the passenger door for her to slide in.

‘You find that surprising?’ she asked unevenly as the closeness of him registered and all her senses went into hyperdrive.

‘For a woman to say what she means?’ He half turned in his seat, the brilliant blue gaze raking her hot face. ‘More of a minor miracle,’ he drawled cynically, one black eyebrow quirking mockingly as he started the engine.

Sephy would have liked to come back with a sharp, clever retort, but the truth of the matter was that she was floundering. She’d never ridden in a Mercedes before for a start, and the big beautiful car was truly gorgeous, but it was the man at the wheel who was really taking her breath away.

The office—with plenty of air space, not to mention desks, chairs and all the other paraphernalia—was one thing; the close confines of the car were quite another. They emphasised his dominating masculinity a hundredfold, and underlined the dark, dangerous quality of his attractiveness enough to have her sitting as rigid as a piece of wood.

She tried telling herself she was stupid and pathetic and ridiculous, but with the faint smell of his aftershave teasing her senses and his body warmth all about her it didn’t do any good. This was Conrad Quentin—Conrad Quentin—and she still couldn’t quite believe the whole afternoon had happened, or that she was actually sitting here with him like this.

She felt a momentary thrill that she didn’t understand and that was entirely inappropriate in the circumstances, and reminded herself—sharply now—that she had to keep her wits about her after the episode of the keys if he wasn’t going to think she was utterly dense. She was a useful office item as far as he was concerned—like the fax or the computer—and he expected cool, efficient service.

He was a very exacting employer, and it was well known that he suffered fools badly—in fact he didn’t suffer them at all! And that was fair enough, she told herself silently, when you considered he paid top salaries with manifold perks like private health insurance and so on.

He was the original work hard and play hard business tycoon, and until today she had never so much as exchanged more than half a dozen words with him, so it wasn’t surprising she was feeling a bit…tense. Well, more than a bit, she admitted ruefully.

And then, as though he had read her mind, she was conscious of the hard profile turning her way for an instant before he said softly, ‘Relax, Seraphina. I’m not going to eat you.’

Her head shot round, but he was looking straight ahead at the road again and the imperturbable face was expressionless.

It took her a second or two, but then she was able to say, her voice verging on the icy, ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Quentin,’ even as she knew her face was burning with hot colour.

‘The suggestion that you accompany me to the hospital was purely spontaneous,’ he said mildly, without looking at her again. ‘I’m not about to leap on you and have my wicked way, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘Nothing is worrying me,’ she bit back immediately, horrified beyond measure, ‘and I wouldn’t dream of thinking you intended…that you would even think of—’ She stopped abruptly, aware that she was about to burst into flames, and took a deep breath before she said, ‘I’m quite sure you are not that sort of man, Mr Quentin.’

There was a moment of blank silence, when Sephy felt the temperature drop about thirty degrees, and then he said, his dark voice silky-soft, ‘I do like women, Miss Vincent.’

This was getting worse! ‘I know you do,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course I know that; everyone does. I just meant—’ She wasn’t improving matters, she realised suddenly, as she risked a sidelong glance at the cold rugged face.

‘Please, do continue.’ It was curt and clipped. “‘Everyone” takes an interest in my love life, do they?’

Oh, blow it! He was the one prancing about with a different woman each week! What did he expect for goodness’ sake? ‘I was just trying to say I know you like women, that’s all,’ Sephy said primly, her face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and disquiet.

‘Right. So my sexual persuasion is not in question.’ There was liquid ice in his deep voice. ‘That taken as read, why would it be so unlikely that I might have ulterior motives in asking you to spend the evening with me?’

The evening? They were going to visit poor Madge Watkins, that was all! Afterwards she would realise she could have answered in a host of ways to defuse what had become an electric moment: he was not the sort of man to mix business and pleasure would have been a good one; she was aware he was dating someone at the moment could have been another. What she did say, the words tumbling out of her mouth, was, ‘There has to be some sort of a spark between a man and a woman, doesn’t there? And I’m not your type.’

‘My type?’ If she had accused him of a gross obscenity he couldn’t have sounded more offended. There was another chilling pause, and then he said, ‘What, exactly, do you consider my “type”, Miss Vincent?’ as he viciously cut up a harmless, peaceable family saloon that had been sailing along minding its own business.

She couldn’t make it any worse. She might as well be honest, Sephy told herself silently as the two ‘Miss Vincents’ after all the ‘Seraphinas’ of the day registered like the kiss of death on her career. ‘Women like Miss de Menthe, I suppose,’ she said shakily.

‘Meaning?’ he queried testily.

He didn’t intend to make this easy. ‘Beautiful, successful, rich…’ Spoilt, selfish, bitchy…