The Rich Man's Mistress

‘Lord Geoffrey Nash no less…’

‘You’ve heard of him, then?’

‘Is that what I said…?’ He gave a low, amused laugh which for some reason annoyed her.

‘Is there a phone here I could use?’

‘The land lines are all dead.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders and continued to look at her, though this time with speculation. ‘Thanks to this blizzard. And I don’t expect them to be up and running for some time yet. The weather forecasts weren’t too good for the next couple of weeks ahead.’

‘Next couple of weeks ahead?’ Where, she wondered, appalled, did that leave her?

‘Fortunately, I have a cellphone.’ He raised his eyebrows expressively and Miranda scowled at him.

‘May I borrow it? Please?’ she added when he made no effort to move. ‘I want to call my dad to let him know that I’m safe and to tell him to get in touch with Freddie and the rest of my friends who might be worried…’

‘Why, of course.’ He gave a mock bow which further set her teeth on edge, and produced a fist-sized cellular phone which he handed to her with a flourish.

Miranda rapidly tapped in her father’s direct office number and after a few seconds was connected to him, smiling as she listened to his frantic overreaction to her situation, which she played down as much as she possibly could. She and her father were members of the mutual adoration society. He doted on her and she adored him. Which was why she guiltily omitted to mention the cause of her predicament, namely an argument with Freddie, whom her father contemptuously referred to as a foolish fop with more money than brains.

‘And who is this man you’re staying with at the moment?’ he rasped down the end of the telephone and Miranda put her hand over the receiver to ask for a name.

‘Hand me the phone.’ He walked over to her and extended his hand and after a few seconds of internal debate, she let him have it, resenting the way he spoke in a low voice with his back to her, even having the nerve to head out of the sitting room so that all chance of eavesdropping was squashed.

What could he have to talk to her father about? For so long? She impatiently waited for him to return and, when he did, she snatched the phone off him to say goodbye to her father, then she rested the mobile on the table next to her.

‘What were you talking to Dad about?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘And what’s your name? Why couldn’t you just tell me?’

‘Fond of asking questions, aren’t you?’ He threw another log on the fire and turned to look at her. ‘I thought it wise to reassure your father that you weren’t going to come to any harm here. My name, by the way, is Luke Decroix.’

‘And how did you manage to reassure him?’ Miranda asked tartly. ‘Did you tell him what a nice, charming, inoffensive gentleman you are?’

‘Oh, I think he gathered that from my voice. I also told him that you would call him every day just to fill him in on how you were. The fact is, I’m stuck with you at least until this blizzard has eased off a bit…’

‘You’re stuck with me?’

‘That’s right.’ He gave her a long, measured look. ‘I mean, you arrive in a heap on my doorstep and, face it, there’s not much you’re going to be able to do for yourself for a few days, is there? Not with that ankle of yours?’

‘I don’t intend to let you take care of me, so you needn’t worry.’

‘Oh, is that right…? Well, you won’t be able to shovel snow and chop logs, will you?’

‘You know I can’t.’

‘What about cleaning…?’

Miranda looked around her—for the first time since she had arrived at the cabin. Downstairs comprised the sitting room, which was quite big with low bookshelves fronting the open fireplace and several battered chairs in addition to the sofa. Through one open door she could glimpse a kitchen and there were a couple of other rooms at the back as well. Wooden stairs led up to a galleried landing which overlooked the downstairs, and off the landing were several rooms, probably bedrooms.

‘You’ve never so much as lifted a duster, have you?’ he asked quietly and she flushed. ‘What about cooking? Can you cook?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You suppose so?’

‘I—I’ve never needed to cook. Ethel looks after Dad and me…’ Even to her own ears, her résumé sounded woefully inadequate, and she tossed her hair back and glared at him. ‘I guess I could try my hand at doing something in the kitchen. It can’t be that difficult…’

‘What do you do?’ Luke asked with mortifying curiosity.

‘I—I’m a trained interior designer, if you want to know.’ Except, she did precious little of that, she thought with a stab of guilt. Her father had funded her course and had even provided her with her first clients, but her enthusiasm had gradually waned; she realised that she had not done anything to further her career for years now. Socialising had left little time for the more serious business of working and, without the need to earn a living, she had found it easy to be diverted.

‘That must keep you busy. Does it?’

‘Have I asked you what you do?’ Miranda retorted hotly feeling defensive at the realisation that, if he knew the truth about her idle lifestyle, he wouldn’t be very impressed.

‘So it doesn’t keep you busy, I take it,’ he replied calmly.

‘I never said that!’

‘Oh, but your lack of answer tells me that you don’t spend your days earning a crust as an interior designer. Which leads me to conclude that you really do nothing with your life except…what…party? Have fun holidays wherever the in crowd happens to be? I know your type.’

‘It’s important to enjoy life,’ Miranda said for the sake of argument, even though she knew that she was on losing ground.

‘You’d better go and get changed.’ He stood next to her and then grasped her arm with his fingers, help that she reluctantly accepted. ‘You can borrow some of my clothes, even though they’re probably not quite up to your standard, and then I’ll cook us something to eat.’

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, out of good manners—though she was looking forward to putting on dry clothes. Whenever she tried to stand, even slightly, on her hurt foot, she could feel her whole body flinch in discomfort. The bandage had made it feel better, or at least had given her the illusion of thinking that it did, but who cared whether she could hop, skip and jump in the morning? She would still be stuck here in ferocious bad weather with this unbearable man who moved from hostility to contempt with the ease of a magician. Through the little panes of the window she could see the snow whipping around outside and she could hear it as well. The low howl of wind and the soft spitting of the snowdrops. It was a nightmare.

‘Don’t be too proud to ask for help,’ he threw in casually, as she clung to the banister and tried to heave herself up, and Miranda looked at him sourly. Blue eyes, a deeper more piercing shade than her own aquamarine-blue and infinitely more opaque, met hers. His eyebrows were dark, the same raven darkness of his hair. But, close to him like this, she noticed his eyelashes, which were thick and long and unexpectedly attractive.

‘If you wouldn’t mind…’ she said, looking away, and he obligingly swept her off her feet and carried her upstairs as though she weighed less than a feather. A huge wave of exhaustion swept over her and she had to fight to keep her eyes open.

It felt so comfortable being carried like this. She could feel the strength of his body against her, like steel. The hands supporting her were large and powerful, like the rest of him; and, unlike most of the men she socialised with, he smelt not of expensive aftershave but of something more masculine and tangy. Very rough and ready, she thought. He would be if he lived here and spent his life chopping logs and skiing.

‘There’s just the one bathroom,’ he said, pushing open the door with his foot and then settling her on the chair by the bath. ‘So make sure you leave it just as you found it. I don’t intend to have to clean up after you.’

Without bothering to give her a second glance, he began running the bath, testing the water with his hand, squatting by the side of the bath so that his shirt lifted slightly to reveal a slither of hard brown skin.

‘I’d better get you undressed.’ He turned towards her and she was propelled out of her lazy observation of him.

‘No, thank you!’

‘You mean you can do it all yourself? With that ankle of yours?’

‘I’m very grateful to have been rescued by you,’ Miranda said stiffly, ‘but if you lay a finger on me, I swear I’ll scream this place down.’

‘Oh, will you?’ He leaned over her, caging her in with his hands and making sure that there was no place for her to look but at his face. His features were blunt and overpoweringly masculine and she cringed back into the chair like a startled victim of a bird of prey. ‘And who do you think will hear you? But…’ as quickly as he had leaned over her, he stood back, straightening to his massive height, and looked at her with an insolent lack of respect ‘…far be it from me to invade your maidenly privacy. Just make sure you clean up after yourself. I don’t want to find any of this…’ without warning he lifted some strands of her hair between his fingers so that the long fine white-blonde hair trailed over his wrists ‘…clogging up my plug hole.’

It took one full hour for her to complete her bath. Struggling out of her layers of ski gear was a feat along the lines of running five marathons in a row. And then, when she finally decided that her body would shrivel from overexposure to bath water, she got out and was confronted with the further indignity of yelling for him from the top of the stairs with a towel wrapped around her and her hair hanging limply wet down her back.

‘I wonder if I might borrow those clothes you mentioned?’ she told him when he finally surfaced at the bottom of the stairs with a saucepan in his hand.