His Mistress For A Week

A spark of defensiveness shone in her gaze. ‘What on earth gives you that idea?’

‘You keep picking at the stitching on your tote-bag strap.’

Her fingers stopped fidgeting as if they had been snapped frozen. ‘Anything else you’d like to criticise?’

‘I’m not criticising, I’m observing.’

She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

Alistair hoped to hell not, otherwise she would never get on that plane with him. ‘What am I thinking?’ Apart from how much I want to kiss that pert little mouth.

Bitterness was hard and bright in her gaze. ‘You think I’m a nut job.’

‘Because you brought a mug with you?’

She chin came up. ‘Go on. Say it. Say I’m an obsessive freak.’

‘We all have our quirks. No doubt you’ll find out some of mine over the next few days.’

Her eyes went wide in mock surprise. ‘What? Mr Perfect has a quirk or two? That I would like to see.’

What he would like to see was what she looked like in some of that lacy underwear he’d seen in her bag. And what she looked like out of it. Which was damned inconvenient because, of all the women in the world, this one was the last one he wanted to complicate his life with. Clementine Scott was trouble in big flashing neon letters.

And he’d better not forget it.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_029a7d8e-57dc-5103-b546-8a5f652d6963)

CLEM SLID HER passport towards the official and waited for it. It happened every time she travelled abroad. It didn’t matter if the official was male or female or young or old or middle-aged, their response was always the same: the raising of eyebrows as they read the names printed there, then the slant of the mouth, then their mocking gaze flicking up to meet hers. This time was no different. Oh, joy.

‘Moonbeam?’ the male official said. ‘Is that really your name?’

‘My middle name,’ Clem said through a clenched-teeth grimace.

The official stamped her passport with a chuckle. ‘Lucky you.’

Lucky me, indeed. Especially as Alistair was standing right beside her to witness every humiliating second. He looked down at her when they were waved through. ‘I take it you weren’t named after a grandparent or maiden aunt?’

‘I wish.’

‘You could have it changed by deed poll.’

‘I’ve considered it but my mother would never speak to me again if I did,’ Clem said. Which could be a good thing, come to think of it.

‘I thought I was unlucky with Enoch.’

Clem glanced at him. ‘Your middle name is Enoch?’

He gave her a rueful look. ‘There are hundreds if not thousands of Biblical names I would’ve preferred. But it was my mother’s grandfather’s name.’ His lips moved in the form of a shrug. ‘Family tradition and all that.’

‘Mmm, well, my mother wasn’t following any family tradition other than to get pregnant at fifteen, like her mother did,’ Clem said. ‘She conceived me under the light of the moon, apparently. She wanted a permanent reminder of that night. Apart from me, of course.’

She waited for him to laugh. To rub her embarrassment in, but he continued walking along the concourse to the departure gate with that same deadpan expression.

‘What’s your brother’s middle name?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Here’s the thing.’ Clem rolled her eyes. ‘He doesn’t have one because his father didn’t believe in them.’

His gaze flicked to hers. ‘A lucky escape, then?’

‘Unbelievably.’

* * *

Clem sat down in business class as if she did it every day of her life. No point showing Alistair how gauche and out of place she felt. This was one fish that could step out of her fishbowl...well, for a little while at least. She could do sophisticated. She could drink the champagne and eat the gorgeous little canapés like the best of them. She could lie back with her feet up and flick idly through the endless supply of glossy magazines as if she didn’t have a care in the world...or a wayward brother who was currently running amok on the French Riviera with her mortal enemy’s stepsister.

Three champagnes into the flight and Clem was feeling relaxed. Not sleepy relaxed, chatty relaxed. I’ve-forgotten-all-about-the-embarrassing-luggage-incident relaxed. It was one of the reasons she rarely drank—apart from the expense. She never knew how it was going to affect her. Sometimes it made her sleepy. Sometimes it made her talk too much. But this time it was having an effect she had never experienced before. Her body wanted...contact. Sensual contact. Male-to-female contact. She turned to look at Alistair, who was frowning over a document he was reading. ‘Where did you last go on holiday?’

He turned over a page without looking at her. ‘New York, but it was more work than leisure.’

The plane they were on was one of the smaller commercial ones so the seats were closer together than they would have been in a larger airbus. Her hand crept to where his arm was resting on the armrest, as if it was controlled by something other than her rational brain. She watched it in a state of mild fascination. What the heck was in that champagne? Could she really be reaching out to touch the dark hairs of his forearm showing from below the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt? Could she really be pressing close enough to feel the hard muscles of his arm against the soft swell of her breasts? Close enough to breathe in the scent of his body—that mix of cologne and clean, classy man that so bewitched her senses?

He glanced at her with an unreadable expression. ‘If you wanted the aisle seat instead of the window then why didn’t you say something earlier?’

Clem’s gaze went to his mouth as if pulled by a force outside of her control. The contours of his lips fascinated her. The top lip was thinner than the lower one, and the dark forest of stubble surrounding it made her want to trail her fingertips down that lean and tanned jaw to feel his roughness catch on her softness. She couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel to have those lips on hers. She could barely remember the last time she had been kissed. She had a feeling if Alistair’s determined mouth came down on hers she would never forget it. Ever. Ever. Ever. ‘Do you ever smile?’ she asked.

‘Occasionally.’

‘When was the last time?’

His gaze issued a warning. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

Clem blinked like a child feigning innocence while its hand was still stuck in the cookie jar. ‘You think I was going to kiss you?’

‘Either that or crawl inside my skin.’

‘I don’t even like you.’

His hooded gaze went to her mouth. ‘A bit of dislike never got in the way of good sex.’

Don’t think about him having sex. Just don’t. And certainly not with you. ‘And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Good sex, I mean.’

A hint of a smile ghosted his mouth. ‘How much champagne did you drink?’

Clearly too much. ‘That’s the thing, see?’ Clem sat back in her seat and picked up a popular women’s magazine, quickly flicking over the How to Have Multiple Orgasms article. She would be happy with one. ‘I would have to be really drunk to get it on with you.’ I have to be drunk to get it on with anyone.

‘It’s not going to happen.’

Why? All her self-doubts showed up like ants at a honey spill. Because I’m not skinny enough? Because you once saw me with pimples and puppy fat and can’t see me any other way? Of course he wouldn’t be interested in someone like her. Not with her background. Not with her couldn’t-take-her-anywhere-without-cringing mother looming large in her life. He would only choose a woman who would fit in with his high-class lifestyle. Clem didn’t have a snowflake’s chance in a heatwave. Not in hell. Not ever.