The Mistress Contract

The grooves that splayed out from either side of his nose to his mouth deepened, as though she had actually voiced the last three words, but he remained silent, although it was a silence that vibrated with painful tension. Finally, he said coldly, ‘So, we’ve ascertained my type. What is your type, Seraphina?’

At least the Seraphina was back, although she didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, Sephy thought feverishly as she clasped her hands together so tightly the knuckles showed white. And her type? That was funny if he did but know it. In the age of the Pill and condoms being bought as casually as bunches of flowers, she must be the only girl in the whole of London whose sexual experience was minimal to say the least. But that was the last thing she could say to a man of the world like Conrad Quentin. He’d laugh his head off.

The thought brought the door in her mind behind which she kept the caustic memories of the past slightly ajar, and as the image of David intruded for a second her stomach turned over. And then she had slammed it shut again, her mouth tightening as she willed the humiliation and pain to die.

She forced herself to shrug easily and kept her voice light as she said, ‘I guess I’m not fussy on looks; dark or fair, tall or short, it doesn’t matter as long as the guy is a nice person.’

‘A nice person?’ he returned mockingly, with a lift of one dark eyebrow, his large capable hands firmly on the wheel as he executed a manoeuvre that Sephy knew wasn’t exactly legal, and which caused a medley of car horns to blare behind them as the Mercedes dived off into a side-street to avoid the traffic jam which had been ahead. ‘And how would you define a nice person?’

A man who could accept that one-night stands and casual sex weren’t obligatory on the first date? Someone who could understand that some women—or certainly this one at least—needed to be in love before they would allow full intimacy, and who was prepared to think with his head and hopefully his heart rather than that other vital organ some inches lower. Someone who cared about her just a little more than their own ego, who didn’t mind that she hadn’t got a perfect thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six figure, with fluffy blonde hair and big blue eyes, someone…someone from her dreams.

Sephy twisted in the seat, knowing she had to say something, and then managed, ‘A man who is kind and funny and gentle, I suppose,’ and then cringed inside as he snorted mockingly.

‘And that’s it?’ he asked scathingly. ‘You don’t want a man, Seraphina. Your average cocker spaniel would do just as well. And the lovelorn guy back at your flat, does he fit all the criteria?’ he added before she could react to the acidic sarcasm.

‘Jerry?’ she asked with a stiffness that should have warned him.

‘Is that his name?’ He couldn’t have sounded more derisory if she’d said Donald Duck. ‘Well, it’s clear Jerry’s got it bad, and he looked a fine, upstanding pillar of the establishment and impossibly kind and gentle, or am I wrong?’

She didn’t often get angry, but around this man she seemed to be little else, and now the words were on her tongue without her even having to think about them. ‘I wasn’t aware that my job description necessitated talking about my friends,’ she said with savage coldness, ‘but if it does you had better accept my resignation here and now, Mr Quentin.’

There was absolute silence for a screaming moment, but as Sephy glared at him the cool profile was magnificently indifferent. He’d make a fantastic poker player, she thought irrelevantly. No wonder he was so formidable in business.

‘The name’s Conrad.’

‘What?’ If he had taken all his clothes off and danced stark naked on the Mercedes’ beautiful leather seats she couldn’t have been more taken aback.

‘I said, the name is Conrad,’ he said evenly, without taking his eyes from the view beyond the car’s bonnet. ‘If we are going to be working together for some weeks I can’t be doing with Mr Quentin this and Mr Quentin that; it’s irritating in the extreme.’

She wanted—she did so want—to be able to match him for cool aplomb and control, but it was a lost cause, she acknowledged weakly as she sank back in her seat without saying another word. Game, set and match to him, the insensitive, cold-blooded, arrogant so-and-so.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY stopped on the way to buy flowers and chocolates for Madge—the flowers taking up the whole of the back seat of the car and the box of chocolates large enough to feed a hundred little old ladies for a week—and it was just after half past seven when the Mercedes nosed its way into the immaculate car park of the small, select private hospital on the outskirts of Harlow.

The dusky shadowed twilight carried the scent of the crisply cut lawns which surrounded the gracious building, and as Sephy nervously accompanied Conrad up the wide, horseshoe-shaped stone steps to the front door, her arms laden with flowers, the surrealness of it all was making her light-headed.

If anyone had told her that morning she would be spending part of the evening in the company of the exalted head of Quentin Dynamics she would have laughed in their face, but here she was. And here he was. All six foot plus of him.

She darted a glance from under her eyelashes at the tall, dark figure next to her and her heart gave a little jump. He exuded maleness. It was there in every line of the lean powerful body and hard chiselled face, and as her female hormones seemed horribly determined to react—with a life all of their own—to his own particular brand of virile masculinity it didn’t make for easy companionship.

Once they were inside the building the attractive, red-haired receptionist nearly fell over herself to escort them to Madge’s room, which—as Conrad had decreed—was the best in the place.

But Sephy didn’t notice the ankle-deep carpeting, exclusive and beautifully co-ordinated furnishings or the magnificent view from the large bay window over the lawns and trees surrounding the hospital. All her attention was taken up with the fragile, pathetic little figure huddled in the bed.

At a little over four foot ten Madge Watkins had always been tiny, but she seemed to have shrunk down to nothing since the day before and the effect was shocking.

Her grey hair looked limp and scanty, her skin was a pasty white colour, and the expression in her faded blue eyes stated quite clearly she was terrified. Sephy’s heart went out to her.

So, apparently, did Conrad’s.

The aggressive and ruthless tycoon of working hours and the mocking, contemptuous escort of the last forty-five minutes or so metamorphosed into someone Sephy didn’t recognise. He was quiet and tender with his elderly secretary, dumping the chocolates and the rest of the flowers he was carrying on a chair, before taking the shrivelled thin figure in his arms and holding her close for long moments without speaking.

Madge’s face was wet by the time he settled her back against her pillows, but then he sat by her side, talking soothingly and positively after he had drawn Sephy forward to make her greetings. After a while it dawned on Sephy that Conrad and his secretary had a very special relationship—more like mother and son than boss and employee. And it stunned her. Totally.

The receptionist brought them all tea and cakes at just after eight o’clock, and by the time they left, at ten to nine, Madge was smiling and conversing quite naturally, the look of stark dread gone from her eyes and her face animated.

‘You needn’t come again, lad.’

Once Madge had relaxed and understood Conrad had no intention of standing on ceremony in front of Sephy, she had referred to her brilliant boss as ‘lad’ a few times, and Sephy had realised that the special circumstances were allowing her to see the way they were normally when they were alone. Before this night she had never heard Madge give him anything but his full title, and even at the Christmas dances and such the elderly woman had always been extremely stiff and proper.

‘Of course I’m coming again, woman!’ His voice was rough but his face was something else as he glanced at the small figure in the bed, and Sephy was surprised at the jolt her heart gave.

‘No, really, lad. I know how you hate these places,’ Madge said earnestly.

And then she stopped speaking as Conrad laid his hand over her scrawny ones and said very softly, ‘I said I’ll be back, Madge. Now, then, no more of that. And you’re not rushing home to that empty house before you’re able to look after yourself either. You’re going to get better, the doctor’s assured me about that, but it’ll take time and you’ll have to be patient for once in your life.’

‘There’s the pot calling the kettle,’ Madge said weakly, her eyes swimming with tears again as his concern and love touched her.

It touched Sephy too, but in her case the overwhelming feeling was one of confusion and agitation and the knowledge that it had been a mistake—a big, big mistake—to come here with him like this. As the cold, ruthless, cynical potentate Conrad Quentin was someone she disliked, as the ladykiller and rake he was someone she despised, and as her temporary boss he was someone she respected, for his incredibly intelligent mind and the rapier-sharp acumen that was mind-blowing, at the same time as feeling an aversion for such cold, obsessional single-mindedness.

But tonight… How did she think about him tonight? she asked herself nervously as she watched him make his goodbyes to Madge. But, no, he was her boss—just her boss—and come tomorrow morning things would be back on a more formal footing and she would forget how she was feeling right now—she would; of course she would! She, of all people, knew that men like him—wildly attractive, charismatic brutes of men—were shallow and egocentric and could charm the birds out of the trees when they liked.

They had just reached the door when Madge’s voice, urgent and high, brought them turning to face her again. ‘Angus! I forgot about Angus. I can’t believe I could forget him. He’s had no dinner, Conrad.’

‘He could live on his fat for years, Madge, so don’t put on sackcloth and ashes,’ Conrad said drily, and in answer to Sephy’s enquiring face he added, ‘Madge’s cat,’ by way of explanation.

‘He’ll be wondering where I am—’

‘Don’t worry.’ Conrad cut short Madge’s tremulous voice, his own resigned. ‘I’ll pick him up on the way home and he can board with me for a while until you’re home again. Daniella loves cats, as you know—even Angus. She’ll look after him.’

Daniella? Who was Daniella? And then a prim voice in her head admonished, It’s nothing to do with you who Daniella is.

It was dark outside, the air a wonderful scented mixture of grass and woodsmoke and hot summer days after the sterile warmth of the hospital, and Sephy raised her head as she took several deep gulps of the intoxicating mixture.

‘Thanks, Sephy.’ His voice was unusually soft.

Surprised into looking at him, she became aware he was watching her closely from narrowed blue eyes, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and the brooding quality she had noticed about him more than once very evident.

‘Sephy?’ She stared at him, suddenly acutely shy without knowing why. ‘You said you didn’t intend to call me that.’

‘It seems the least I can do after you’ve helped me out so ungrudgingly this evening,’ he said with quiet sincerity.

It made her previous thoughts about him uncharitable, to say the least, and she could feel herself blushing as she said, ‘That’s all right; it killed two birds with one stone, actually.’

‘Yes?’ He glanced down enquiringly as they began to walk.

‘I’d been invited to a party that I didn’t want to go to but it would have been difficult to get out of it without a valid excuse,’ she explained quietly.