His Virgin Mistress. Anne Mather
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father’s presence in her suite.
Yet, what had he expected? she asked herself a little wildly. Why did he think Constantine had brought her here, if not to enjoy her company? Surely he didn’t think his father was too old to enjoy female companionship? And, most pertinently of all, what was he doing coming to her apartments uninvited? If anyone had any explaining to do, it was him.
‘DEMETRI?’
His father was obviously waiting for an explanation, but right now Demetri didn’t have one to give him. He was still stunned by the sight of his father’s hands on Joanna Manning’s hips. Brown hands, already showing the spots of age, were dark against the scarlet satin of her wrapper. A wrapper that he suspected was all she was wearing. Khristo, what had they been doing? Taking a shower together?
His imagination ran riot. He hadn’t realised her hair would be so long, but she had evidently washed it and now it tumbled pale and silky about her shoulders. The scarlet wrapper, too, was unknowingly provocative, drawing his attention to the slender shapeliness of her body, outlining her hips and the long, long length of her legs.
To his disgust, his body stirred. He could feel his arousal pushing against the hand he’d thrust into his trouser pocket, and he quickly withdrew it. Then, angry at the immaturity of his reaction, he tried to pull himself together. His father was waiting for a reply and he had no wish for the old man to guess he was in any way attracted to his—he sought for a suitably insulting description—his paramour.
‘I—good evening, Papa, Mrs Manning,’ he essayed politely. ‘I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction?’
His father’s brows drew together. ‘We have been here two days already, Demetri,’ he reminded his son shortly. His hands fell away from Joanna’s body. ‘I cannot believe that concern for our welfare is the reason you have chosen to invade our privacy at this time.’
It wasn’t, of course. But then, he hadn’t expected to encounter his father at all. It was Mrs Manning he had come to see. He had hoped—rather foolishly, he acknowledged now—that they might have a few moments of private conversation before his father interrupted them.
‘I—wanted to speak to you, Papa,’ he said, improvising swiftly. And perhaps it was just as well that his father was here after all, he conceded. His reaction to this woman had been totally unexpected, and it would have been horribly embarrassing if Constantine had not been there and she had noticed his discomfort. Theos! The back of his neck was sweating. What the hell was the matter with him?
‘And you surmised I would be here, with Joanna?’
His father was not a fool, and Demetri had to think fast to find an answer. ‘I—tried your apartments, but could get no reply,’ he muttered, hoping that Philip, his father’s manservant, wouldn’t contradict him. ‘But it doesn’t matter now. I can see you are—’ the words almost stuck in his throat ‘—occupied with other things. It can wait until tomorrow.’
‘I am sure it can.’ Constantine was clearly waiting for him to leave, and Demetri permitted himself only a brief glance at Joanna before striding out of the room.
In the hall outside, Demetri paused for a moment, breathing deeply and running decidedly unsteady hands through the thickness of his hair. He felt unnerved, shaken, and although he knew he should get the hell away from there, he was strangely reluctant to do so. It felt as if the image of the two of them together was emblazoned on his memory, and he knew it was going to take more than the slamming of a door to get it out of his head. And how sensible was that?
He glanced back over his shoulder, half-afraid that he was being observed, but the door was still firmly closed and no sounds were audible from within. His father and his mistress had evidently resumed whatever it was they had been doing before his arrival, and he didn’t need a crystal ball to guess what that was.
Na pari i oryi!
He swore silently, and then, gathering himself, strode back along the corridor to the galleried landing at the head of the stairs. He was going to have a great influence on his father’s behaviour if he started lusting after Mrs Manning himself, he thought contemptuously. When had he begun thinking with his sex instead of with his head?
The salon had been cleared in his absence. The huge reception room, which had earlier been thronged with the guests his sister had invited to welcome his father home, was now restored to its usual appearance. The furniture, which had mostly been moved aside during the reception, had now been gathered into small groupings, with tall crystal vases and porcelain urns spilling glossy blossoms onto every available surface. The scent of the flowers was pungent, dispelling the smells of tobacco and stale perfume. Someone had turned up the air-conditioning so that the room was decidedly chilly, but he wished it was earlier in the year so that he could fold back the long glass doors that opened onto the floodlit terrace. It would have been nice to allow the soft evening air to cool his overheated senses, but that wasn’t an option. At this time of the year there were too many insects flying about, and he didn’t wish to be bitten half to death.
‘Can I get you anything, sir?’
Demetri swung round to find a member of the household staff hovering behind him. He was tempted to order a bottle of Scotch and take himself off to the farthest corner of the estate and get thoroughly and disgustingly drunk. But he was not his father’s son for nothing, and Kastros did not make fools of themselves, particularly not in front of the servants.
‘Nothing, thanks,’ he responded now, waving the man away. Then he flung himself down into a cream velvet armchair and stared broodingly out of the windows.
Spiro found him there perhaps ten minutes later. The lamplit room was shadowy, and Demetri had chosen to sit in the darkest corner, but Spiro’s eyes were sharp. Like his employer, he, too, had changed for the evening, wearing a shirt and tie instead of the casual polo shirts he preferred.
‘I believe your sister and the other guests who are staying for dinner have gathered in the library,’ he said, advancing across the room. ‘What are you doing in here? Sulking?’
‘Watch your tongue,’ said Demetri shortly, and Spiro arched a wounded brow.
‘I gather you were sent away with your tail between your legs,’ he observed, ignoring the reproof. ‘What is the matter? Did she tell you she was playing for bigger stakes?’
‘Do not be stupid!’ Demetri placed his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. He glanced around. ‘Is there anything to drink in here?’
Spiro pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and swayed back on his heels, surveying the large room with a considering eye. ‘It does not look like it,’ he said. ‘Why do we not join your father’s guests? There is a bar in the library.’
‘Thank you, I know that,’ retorted Demetri, scowling. ‘Look, why do you not go and join the party? I am—not in the mood for company.’
‘Why not?’
‘Theos, Spiro, mind your own damn business!’ Demetri heaved a frustrated breath. ‘You are not my keeper, you know.’
Spiro shrugged his shoulders. ‘So you did lose out?’
‘No!’ Demetri stared at his friend with angry eyes. Then, when Spiro didn’t back down, he gave a resigned shake of his head. ‘All right. I did not even get to speak to her. No pain, no gain. Does that answer your question?’
‘Not really.’ Spiro waited. ‘Was she not in her own apartments?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Demetri was sardonic. ‘She was there. She just was not alone, that is all.’
Spiro’s mouth formed a pronounced circle. ‘Oh,’ he said drily. ‘Well, there is always tomorrow.’
‘Yeah.’ Demetri was ironic. ‘And tomorrow and