The Rich Man's Mistress

‘What does that mean?’ Miranda looked up from the computer and frowned.

‘It means, Your Highness, that our friendly blizzard might be going away.’ He sauntered over to the fire and removed his jumper. This time, he removed his tee shirt as well, which was soaked. He had his back to her, and Miranda watched, mesmerised, at the movement of muscle beneath skin as he bent slightly to warm his hands.

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said automatically, while her mind struggled to function.

‘Sorry.’ He half turned to her and grinned with wicked amusement.

‘You were telling me about the blizzard,’ she said hurriedly, relieved when he turned back to the fire.

‘Oh, yes. I think it’s clearing.’ He was wearing, for the first time, a pair of faded jeans and he began to fumble with the button.

‘What,’ she squeaked, ‘are you doing?’

‘Getting out of these clothes. Bloody tripped with the logs in my arms and fell flat on my face in the snow.’

‘Good thing you didn’t sprain that ankle of yours,’ she said, except the thread of tension in her voice didn’t quite turn her remark into the light-hearted quip she had hoped. How could she sound light-hearted when she was finding it difficult to breathe? It wasn’t physically possible.

‘I won’t embarrass you, will I?’ he asked, pausing to turn completely around and look at her.

His hand was hovering by the top button of his trousers, which had been undone so that the waistband of his jeans curled open, resting lightly on his lean lips and providing a tantalising glimpse of the flat, hard planes of his stomach down, slightly past, his navel.

‘I’d prefer to strip down here and leave these clothes to dry by the fire instead of dripping my way upstairs, but if it makes you feel uncomfortable…’

‘Not at all!’ Miranda trilled in a high-pitched voice. She made sure to look directly at his face although her racing pulse was all too aware of the rest of him; tanned, muscled and disturbingly intrusive. ‘I’m the uninvited guest, after all! You go ahead and do exactly as you please.’ She busied herself with the laptop computer, glaring at the framework of the room she was working on with her face pressed as close to the screen as it could get without the image becoming blurred in the process.

She could hear the rustle of clothes as he shifted out of his jeans and arranged them on the wooden contraption by the side of the fire, which was permanently on view and almost permanently draped with some item of outdoor clothing.

Couldn’t he move any faster? she wondered edgily.

She sneaked a quick look at his feet and quickly resumed her glaring inspection of the screen without focusing on it.

‘Your ankle seems almost healed,’ he said conversationally.

Miranda replied to the screen. ‘Yup.’

‘Which room are you concentrating on?’ he asked drily.

She said, clearing her throat, ‘The kitchen, I think.’

‘You think?’

‘It’s the kitchen!’ she snapped, furiously concentrating just in case he decided that a closer inspection of what she was doing was warranted. But he didn’t. He just laughed softly and headed upstairs. She found her wits again, breathing a long, shuddering sigh of relief when she knew that he was no longer around.

What did he mean that the blizzard was going? Miranda gently set aside the computer, which she was now utterly familiar and used whenever it was available, and walked slowly across to the window and peered out.

The snow was still falling, but he was right. Sky was visible, blue sky at that.

‘Unfortunately…’ came the familiar voice from behind her, and she swung around to look at him. His jeans had been replaced with a more presentable pair of trousers than he had worn over the previous few days although the tee shirt was still of the weathered barely-visible-motto variety ‘…the break in the weather doesn’t mean that you’ll be able to leave immediately. Sorry.’ He lifted his shoulders ruefully. ‘The only way out of here is still by ski and until your ankle can fully support the weight, you’re going to have to stay put.’

‘What about helicopter?’

‘What about it?’

‘My father could send a helicopter for me. In fact, he almost certainly will want to…’

She wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. The realisation hit her like a ton of bricks and left her confused and ready for an argument.

Luke gave one of those nonchalant shrugs of his that indicated closure on the subject, and she followed him into the kitchen. Walking was still uncomfortable, but she no longer had to support herself everywhere she went. She could just about manage to lumber along ungracefully but fairly efficiently.

‘Well?’ she pressed on behind him as he put the kettle on to boil. ‘What do you think?’

‘If you want to mention it to him when you call then by all means do so.’

‘I thought you would have been glad to see the back of me,’ Miranda continued nastily. ‘After all, you’ve told me often enough that I’m unwelcome.’

Luke turned around and perched on the edge of the counter, tapping the spoon in his hand softly against his chin. ‘A helicopter’s fine but I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that the snow is still falling fairly heavily and vision might be obscured? Or maybe it occurred to you, but your craving to be back in the swing of the fast lane in London conveniently overrode any guilt that you might be endangering other people’s lives in the process? Ah, no. I see that possibility hadn’t occurred to you at all. Now, why am I not surprised when you’re so used to getting what you want?’