Mistress Of Deception

He parked in the street opposite the three-storey square building that housed her flat, watching and waiting for her to come home. What he would do if she showed up with Stevenson, or any of her other numerous admirers, God only knew. Would he be able to meekly drive on? Or would he find some way to spoil her night, as she had already spoiled his?

He’d vowed after the last argument they’d had not to have anything further to do with her, never to come here to see her again. But he’d vowed that the time before as well.

His teeth clenched down hard in his jaw, his stomach muscles tightening. Would he never rid himself of this gut-wrenching desire? It had been four years now. Four painful, soul-destroying years. He really could not allow it to go on. He would have to do something about it.

But he’d said that before, as well.

A light snapped on in her flat, sending a wave of near-nausea churning through his innards. He hadn’t seen her enter the building, anger at this crazy but uncontrollable desire having distracted him for a moment. Now, she’d slipped in without his knowing if she was alone or not.

He stared up at the square of light, his eyes darting left as he waited anxiously for her bedroom light to be switched on as well. That was a large window with gauzy curtains. If she had someone with her, he would soon know.

The light remained off.

After several tortuous minutes, he couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. With an agitated, jerky movement, he extracted the keys from the ignition, not bothering to put the steering lock on, only just remembering to lock the door before swinging it shut. It was only when the bitter winter air cut through him that he remembered his overcoat draped over the passenger seat.

‘Damn it!’ he swore, and, ramming his keys and hands into the trouser pockets of his black dinner suit, strode angrily across the dimly lit street and up to the locked security door. For a moment he hesitated, self-disgust urging him to turn right round and go home. But other forces were at work, forces far stronger than pride. He jabbed the buzzer on flat eight with his finger.

His heart began to thud, disgusting him further. Why did he let her do this to him? Why?

‘Yes?’ came the low, husky query that sent a shiver down his hunched spine.

‘It’s Alan,’ he said, despising himself.

‘Alan…’ she repeated as though trying to recall whom she might know called Alan.

He bit his tongue to stop himself from snapping at her. Male ego demanded he play her at her own game, keeping his cool, not allowing her any more triumph than was strictly necessary.

‘What do you want, Alan?’

To strangle you, he thought viciously. God, but she liked turning the screw.

‘For pity’s sake, Ebony, it’s bitter out here. Just let me in. Or aren’t you alone?’ he finished cuttingly.

There was a moment’s tense silence from the intercom before a buzzing sound indicated she had opened the door. Alan hated himself for the rush of relief, not to mention the rush of something else that immediately stampeded through his body. But already he was on that treadmill of excitement that she could generate without any conscious effort. He couldn’t look at her these days without wanting her so badly that it was a painful ache in his loins.

She met him at the door, still wearing that damned black dress. It was one of her contract conditions, that whenever she did a fashion parade she kept the clothes she modelled. The designers didn’t mind. The fabulous Ebony wearing their clothes in public was great advertising, and cheaper than most.

‘That dress looks even better up close,’ he said in a desire-thickened voice.

She eyed him coolly over the rim of a glass of white wine, sipping while those black eyes stripped his soul naked. ‘So you were there tonight,’ she remarked casually, and, turning, began walking across the tiled foyer and into the living-room. Alan was left to come in alone and close the door behind him, following her as she wandered, glass in hand, into her strikingly furnished flat.

Alan glanced around the lounge-room and marvelled at the effect she had achieved with just a few pieces of furniture. Had she deliberately chosen white as a foil for her colouring, or in cold mockery of what white usually represented? He wouldn’t put it past her. He wouldn’t put anything past her.

She kicked off her shoes and curled herself into one of the squashy white leather sofas that flanked the mock-fireplace. A gas fire was softly burning, highlighting the blue-black sheen on that gorgeous hair as well as sending a warm honey glow to her complexion. She must have washed off some of that stark white make-up, he thought as his hot gaze travelled down her body and up again. Her mouth was still red, though. Red and softly pouting.

Alan swallowed.

Once settled, she threw an indifferent glance at him over her shoulder. ‘Pour yourself some wine,’ she suggested, and waved a scarlet-nailed hand towards the kitchen. ‘The bottle’s in the fridge.’

‘No, thanks,’ he said stiffly, hating her for the way she always made him feel so darned awkward.

She said not a word while she drank the rest of her wine, placing the empty glass down on the marble coffee-table with a small, shuddering sigh. ‘Must you stand there like that with your hands in your pockets?’ she said. ‘You make me uncomfortable.’

His harsh laughter drew her eyes. ‘Do I indeed? That’s only fair, then.’

‘Fair?’ Those exquisitely shaped eyebrows lifted. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing,’ he muttered, and began walking slowly towards her. For a second he could have sworn he saw fear on her face. But just as swiftly, her expression changed to one of cool composure.

‘I have my final cheque ready to give you. I’ll get it.’ She was up and past him before he could do more than breathe her perfume. Still, as the exotic scent teased his nostrils, he felt his loins prickle in instant response. It angered him.

‘I did not come here for a cheque, Ebony. You know damned well I never wanted you to pay me back in the first place.’

Her smile was wry as she produced the cheque from a drawer. ‘Ah, yes, Alan, but what you want does not always have priority in my life.’

‘Meaning?’

Her eyes were like black coals, and just as hard. ‘Meaning I want you to take this cheque and get the hell out of my life. I don’t ever want to see you again. I’m going to be married.’

‘Married!’ Something exploded in Alan’s head. She couldn’t be getting married. He wouldn’t let her. She was his!

‘That’s right,’ she went on brusquely. ‘To Gary Stevenson. He asked me today. He wants me to go back to Paris with him, and I’m going to.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Then I suggest you do, Alan. It’s over between us. Over!’

‘Is it, by God? I don’t think so, Ebony. Not at all.’ Snatching the cheque out of her hands, he ripped it into shreds before pulling her into his arms and kissing her till both of them were gasping for breath.

When she spun out of his grasp he caught her and yanked her back against him, one hand pressing her stomach so that her buttocks were hard against his arousal, the other wrapped around her heaving breasts. ‘I won’t let you go,’ he rasped, his panting mouth against her ear. ‘You’re mine, Ebony. Mine!’

In a wild desperation, he started kissing her neck and stroking her braless breasts through the dress, the blood roaring through his veins as he felt the nipples harden beneath his hands. When he finally heard her groan, elation swept through him, steeling his sense of purpose, and his determination to win her total surrender one more time. Tomorrow did not figure largely in his mind. Nor the future. Not even her threatened marriage.

All he knew was that he had to have her naked beneath him, have her tremble as only she could tremble, have her take him to those places no other woman had ever taken him before.

‘Alan, no,’ she groaned again.

But it sounded like a yes to his impassioned ears. He had no mercy for her protests or her tears. He kept up the kissing and the touching till she gave one last shudder and whirled in his arms. Only then could he perhaps have seen the despair in her eyes, if he’d been capable of seeing anything beyond his own excruciating need. As it was, all he saw was that ripe red mouth, soft and swollen and seductive. He wanted to lose himself in that mouth, to have those pouting lips kiss him all over, to have them tease and torment his flesh till he could stand it no longer.

So that when she swept her arms up around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers in a kiss far more brutal than any she’d ever sought before, his only thoughts were of what awaited him behind her bedroom door.

‘I hate you,’ she choked out when he scooped her up into his arms and carried her into that bedroom.

His blue eyes glittered in the semi-darkness. ‘I love the way you hate, Ebony. Keep it up.’ And with that, he dropped her on the bed and started stripping off her clothes.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_5698b231-e83b-5550-802e-7a601cf4bdfc)

EBONY woke the next morning knowing that she finally hated Alan Carstairs.