Stand-In Mistress

When she said nothing, his voice teasing, Steve urged, ‘Come on, Sis, give. Can’t you see we’re both dying of curiosity to know what you were doing out with Brad Lancing?’

Caught off balance, and unable to think of any satisfactory explanation, she admitted boldly, ‘I was having dinner with him.’

Steve whistled softly. ‘So you were lying about Trevor and the concert tickets?’

‘Not exactly. He did get some tickets, but I told him I couldn’t go.’

Frowning, Steve said, ‘I know the engagement isn’t official but this isn’t like you, Sis…’

Joanne groaned inwardly. Now, on top of everything else, Steve thought she was cheating on Trevor.

She wished, not for the first time, that, even at the risk of hurting his feelings, she had refused point-blank to wear Trevor’s ring until she had come to a firm decision.

When she said nothing, sounding baffled, Steve commented, ‘I didn’t even realise you knew Lancing.’

‘I only met him recently.’

‘Why did you…? No, don’t tell me, I can guess why you kept it a secret. You didn’t want to upset Milly when she’d developed this schoolgirl crush on the guy…’

So Steve had been aware of Milly’s infatuation, but, judging by his casual tone, he hadn’t appreciated what terrible consequences there might have been.

But, showing he had, he went on, ‘The trouble is, men like him aren’t to be trusted. If he’d turned on the heat things could have been difficult, to say the least.’

Then awkwardly, ‘I know it’s none of my business, Sis, but if you intend to go on seeing Lancing you will take care, won’t you?’

‘I’m almost twenty-five,’ she pointed out a shade tartly. ‘Old enough to know what I’m doing…’

That was a laugh.

‘And if it sets your mind at rest, I’m unlikely to be seeing him again. Tomorrow he’s going to Norway for six weeks on business.’

Briskly, she added, ‘Now I’m off to bed. Goodnight, you two.’

Escaping into her own room, she closed the door firmly behind her, and went through to the bathroom to strip off her clothes.

What a night! she thought wearily. The only thing she could hope was that she had managed to discomfit Brad Lancing as much as he had annoyed her.

Rather than falling for him, as Steve seemed to fear, she had found him hateful and despicable. The few hours spent in his company were some of the worst she had ever had to endure.

Remembering the unpleasant little scene in the car, the way he had run his hand up her thigh and, his voice smooth as satin, queried, ‘You did say “lots”?’ she shuddered. He had deliberately gone out of his way to frighten and humiliate her.

Joanne brushed out her long dark hair and pulled on a voluminous cotton nightie, before cleaning her teeth more vigorously than usual.

Then, climbing into bed, she switched off the light, closed her eyes, and endeavoured to put Brad Lancing right out of her mind.

After more than an hour she was still wide awake and, in spite of all her efforts, still thinking about him, repeatedly going over in her mind everything he had said and done.

Especially that last devastating kiss.

She could still recall the way his mouth had ruthlessly mastered hers; smell the subtle scent of his aftershave; taste the hint of liqueur and the freshness of his breath; feel the way every nerve in her body had tightened in response.

Just thinking about it was enough to stir her senses and, she was horrified to realise, make a core of liquid heat start to form in the pit of her stomach.

No! She tried hard to deny it. How could a man like that, a man she both loathed and despised, arouse a desire that a decent, upright man like Trevor had never been able to awaken?

It was unthinkable.

Disturbed and wholly dismayed, she tossed and turned restlessly, finally drifting into an uneasy doze around dawn.

Joanne was trawled from the depths by a persistent sound that it took her a moment or two to identify as the doorbell.

It was almost certainly the postman, who was tending to come early these days, and she didn’t want Steve to be disturbed. Working as hard as he did, he liked to sleep late at the weekend.

Stumbling groggily out of bed, she pulled on her dressing gown and, tying the belt around her slender waist, padded barefoot down the stairs.

All the time the bell kept ringing with a maddening persistence that grated on her nerves. So much noise, and he probably only wanted to deliver one of those aggravating packets that gave themselves importance by saying, ‘Please do not bend…’ and then contained just junk mail.

Having drawn back the bolts, she threw open the door, and burst out crossly, ‘Will you please stop ringing the bell? My brother’s still in bed and…’

The words died on her lips.

Brad Lancing was standing there wearing a well-cut suit and a matching shirt and tie. Freshly shaved, his thick, dark hair parted on the left and neatly brushed, his green eyes clear and sparkling with health, he looked dangerously attractive and virile.

Before she could slam the door in his face he took his finger off the bell-push, and strolled in as if he owned the place.

As, the wind taken completely out of her sails, Joanne stepped back, he closed the door behind him and stood gazing down at her, his six-foot frame easily dwarfing her.

Straight-faced, he studied her shiny nose, the dark, silky hair tumbling round her shoulders, her demure Victorian nightdress and gown, her slim bare feet, and commented, ‘Just up, I see.’

Infuriated by his obvious amusement, she demanded, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘It’s too early in the morning for guessing games,’ she informed him curtly, ‘so perhaps you wouldn’t mind just telling me what you want?’

His eyes glinted at her tone. ‘You.’

‘What?’ she said stupidly.

‘I’ll be setting off for Norway around lunch time today, and I need a secretary. As it’s the weekend and too late to make other arrangements, I’ve decided to accept your offer.’

‘Offer? What offer?’

‘Surely you remember offering, “If by any chance Milly can’t come, I might volunteer for the post myself”?’

‘I wasn’t serious.’ She took a step backwards and, a panicky edge to her voice, repeated, ‘Of course I wasn’t serious.’

His dark, winged brows drew together in a frown. ‘That’s a pity, because when I said I might hold you to it, I was.