The Pregnant Mistress

Idly, his eyes traveled the length of her body.

These were different. They began just below her navel, clung to her hips and thighs before falling to her ankles. Her shoes were the same pale green and seemed to be made of nothing but straps and slender, delicately spiked heels.

Only a saint would not have imagined her wearing just the heels and, perhaps, a scrap or two of tantalizingly placed lace, and no one would ever propose him for canonization.

That he should instantly envision her that way had not surprised him. What did was the swift reaction of his body. It was so sophomoric, so unexpected, that he’d turned away from her, half in amusement, half in annoyance, concentrated on envisioning barren stretches of ice-choked tundra, and plunged into conversation with a woman who’d just called his name.

It didn’t help. He said yes, no, and maybe; smiled when it seemed a smile was appropriate, but his mind was on the auburn-haired woman. Why was she so removed? Music was playing, people were talking and laughing. Rafe’s party was a roaring success and yet she kept herself separate. She stood on the threshold of the terrace, as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to stay or leave, with a glass in her hand and an indefinable look on her face. Was it boredom? Polite indifference? Whatever it was, she would have drawn every man in the room except for the way she held herself.

Keep away, her posture said, I’m not interested.

Still, Demetrios couldn’t imagine she had come alone. Wasn’t there a man with her? Each time he looked at the terrace, he saw her still standing there, alone.

The only way to get answers to his questions was to go to her and ask them. That look of world-weariness didn’t put him off. On the contrary, it piqued his interest.

He waited for a lull in conversation, made an excuse and started towards her, but he didn’t get very far. He knew a number of people at this party. Voices called out to him. Hands—especially female hands—reached for his arm. There was no way to avoid saying hello and yes, he was fine and no, he would not be going to Gstaad or the Canaries…or, he’d almost said to the last woman who’d batted her lashes at him, or to anyplace he was likely to run into her.

They had enjoyed each other in the past, but the affair had been over for a long time.

The redhead on the terrace didn’t look like she’d cling to a man once the flame between them had died…but that was probably just wishful thinking. Experience had taught him that women were incapable of enjoying something for the moment without trying to build a life around it.

Still, it was pleasant to imagine such a possibility, the perfect woman, one who’d be as beautiful as a rare orchid and as self-sufficient as a desert cactus.

Unfortunately, such a creature had yet to be conceived. Women were either beautiful or sturdy. There was no way to blend the qualities and since he was most definitely a man who preferred beauty to durability, he’d suffered through his fair share of relationships that ended badly. More than his fair share, some might say.

Just once, Demetrios thought as the woman clinging to his arm chattered on, just once he’d like to meet a woman who knew her own mind, who would admit to desire with honesty and forsake the need for games…And then he felt a sudden tingling. He looked up, just quickly enough to see the redhead watching him with an intensity that made him want to push past the idiotic female babbling at him, shoulder through the crowd, take the redhead in his arms and carry her off.

Of course, he hadn’t done it. Civilized men didn’t do such things.

So he waited, ended the conversation and started towards her again, but the fates were against him. When Rafe called his name, what else could he do but respond? They’d been friends for years. Still, once they’d gone through the hellos and how have you beens, Demetrios decided to be blunt. You could do that, with a man.

“Rafe,” he said, with a little smile, “let’s catch up on old times later. Tomorrow, perhaps. How does that sound?”

Rafe grinned and clapped him on the back. “It sounds as if you have your eye on someone. Who is she?”

Demetrios grinned, too. “I don’t know her name yet. I’ve only seen her.”

“Well, point her out. What sort of friend would I be if I couldn’t help?”

“She’s right…” There, he started to say, but she wasn’t. He glimpsed a flash of green silk, nothing more. The mystery woman had faded into the darkness of the terrace. “She was right there. Never mind.” He smiled. “There are some things a man should do for himself.”

“And I’m sure you’ll succeed,” Rafe said, smiling back. “Nick says you used to put him to shame, in the old days.”

“I’m glad he admits it, but then, he’s an old married man now.”

“Happily married,” Rafe said, and cleared his throat. “As I am. And I’m sure you will be, too, when you find the right woman.”

Demetrios could almost hear his mental alarm start ringing. The expression on Rafe’s face had become serious. No, he thought, no. Surely a friend would not try to…

“So,” Rafe said, far too briskly, “have you met all my wife’s family?”

“Marriage has dulled your brain.” Demetrios grinned. “I’ve done business with Jonas, remember? At Espada, where I met his wife and sons. And, of course, I know Nick’s Amanda, and your beautiful Carin.”

“Then, uh, then the only one of the Barons you haven’t met is Sam.”

“Sam?” Demetrios frowned. “I don’t recall Jonas having a son named Sam.”

“No, no. Sam is short for Samantha.”

“Ah,” Demetrios said, as if he understood when, in fact, he hadn’t the slightest idea what his friend was talking about. “I knew the old man had a stepdaughter, but—”

“Sam isn’t Jonas’s daughter.” Rafe cleared his throat again. “Samantha isn’t actually a Baron. She is a Brewster. My wife’s youngest sister.”

“Ah,” Demetrios said again, and glanced towards the terrace. Was she still out there? She had to be. He had to meet her. In a room filled with beauty, hers had shone as brightly as the beacon that marked the anchorage of his private island in the Aegean. “Rafe, my friend—”

“Sam is here, somewhere. Why don’t you let me find her and introduce you?”

Hell. That was what this was all about. Rafael Alvares, who bred world-class horses and captained a Brazilian financial empire, had been given the role of matchmaker. It was pathetic, what happened to a man, once a woman put a ring through his nose.

“That sounds, uh, it sounds wonderful,” Demetrios said heartily. “But, ah, but I have to step out for a moment.” He patted the pocket where he kept his cell phone. “I have to, uh, to make a call to New York. And it’s so noisy in here…”

“You’ll like her. I know you will.”

“Yes. Well, I’m sure I would, but—”

“She’s your type of woman.”

“Really.” Demetrios raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutely. You might not think so, at first. Sam is a challenge.”

Meaning, she was bad-tempered.

“She’s hot-tempered, with a mind of her own.”

Meaning, no man had yet been found who could tolerate her. Demetrios had come to understand the language of those who wanted to end his happy bachelorhood. That the words should spew from the mouth of a friend didn’t make them any less deadly.

“She sounds…fascinating,” he said politely. “And I’m certain she is as beautiful as your wife.”

Rafe seemed to think about it. “No,” he said, after a minute, “I must admit, Sam doesn’t look anything like Carin. She doesn’t look like Amanda, either.”

Worse and worse. His old friend was trying to fix him up with an over-the-hill grouch who bore a man’s name and had none of the beauty of her sisters.

“Well,” Demetrios said, lying through his teeth, “she sounds delightful—but I have to make that call. And I see some people I know. Let me make the call, say hello, and then I’ll certainly get back to you so you can introduce me to your sister-in-law.”

Rafe sighed. “No, you won’t.”

“Don’t give me that look. I’m not trying to, ah, to avoid meeting this—this paragon. I simply—”