Mistress: At What Price?. Anne Oliver
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He slammed the phone back on its cradle.
So they hadn’t wasted any time digging up the past, had they? Running both hands through his dishevelled hair, he peered through his upstairs window. The high security wall bordering his North Adelaide home kept intruders out.
Mariel. She was alone out there in her parents’ house.
Damn. He needed to get out there ASAP.
Mariel didn’t deserve to be dragged into the media circus his life had become since he’d been named Bachelor of the Year. His gut told him she was dealing with some heavy-duty stuff right now. Since he didn’t have her mobile number, he punched in the Davenports’ home number. It went through to the answering machine. Swearing a blue streak, he disconnected and headed for the bathroom.
Setting the showerhead to massage, he let the tepid water pummel his flesh while he cursed the day he’d allowed Justin to persuade him into what was rapidly becoming a cirque des femmes.
Teenage groupies who followed the Bachelor of the Year as if he were some kind of rock star rather than a respected businessman and charity patron. Babes from the magazine e-mailing him, contriving to bump into him outside his office, in the supermarket. He’d even had to give up training on his favourite running track along the River Torrens.
He was tired of the endless parade of women who’d manoeuvred their way into his life over the past few months, but he was Bachelor of the Year for another six months unless he made some kind of formal commitment with an eligible female, and that was never going to happen.
Unless…His thoughts turned to Mariel again as he poured on shampoo and lathered his hair. It didn’t have to be a formal commitment…A regular date might just take the pressure off. A classy woman at his side. And Mariel was accustomed to the press. She had style and elegance and intelligence. Maybe they could come to some arrangement…
But did he want to get involved—in any way—with the woman he’d never quite been able to get out of his system? He rinsed off his hair, reached for a towel. It was a moot point in any case. She’d never go for it.
Mariel woke to the musical warble of magpies outside her window. Pushing her hair off her face, she rose, reached for her robe. Last night’s clothes lay in an untidy heap beside the bed. Not the way to treat her latest designer dress, which had cost her more than some people made in a year.
The knowledge that it might well be her last indulgence had her picking it up and slotting it into the wardrobe, before padding to the window and staring out at the bushland beyond the property.
The sun already had its claws into the day, scoring the rapidly drying undergrowth for any hint of remnant moisture. Heat and light. She stretched her arms open in welcome after the hibernation beneath heavy, restrictive clothing the European winter necessitated.
She rummaged through her partially unpacked suitcase. Fifty quick laps up and down the pool was just what she needed. Since she couldn’t find her swimsuit, and she had the house to herself, she pulled out the first matching set of underwear she found: sapphire, with little cherries all over and a red satin trim.
At the edge of the pool she paused, then in a moment of madness decided skinny-dipping was the way to go and stripped off.
She plunged into the refreshing coolness and angled straight to the bottom, then up. As she sliced through its mirrored surface, she concentrated on the tang of chlorine, the pool’s aquamarine lining and the burn of her muscles as she headed for the far end with long, slow strokes.
The last time she’d been swimming had been during a photo shoot on the Riviera in August, but she’d been working, and her enjoyment had been marred by the hordes of beachgoers and photographers. This morning she had the pool to herself. Pure luxury.
She knew almost before she surfaced that her notion had been premature. A ripple of sensation, as if someone had run their knuckles down the length of her spine, was her first and only warning.
Dane stood near the edge of the pool, a folded newspaper under one arm. Unlike last night’s sinful black, today he was wearing white. Casual white shorts. White body-hugging T-shirt. Old. Worn. Soft. She imagined it against her fingers. Or her cheek. Her pulse tapped a wild, irregular rhythm. Unlike his top, his shorts were loose. They gave her a far too detailed and up-close view of tanned, hairy and very muscular legs. And, from her lowly position, more than enough exposed thigh…
She jerked her eyes to his. He’d slipped his sunglasses on top of his head and seemed to be rooted to the spot—
And then she remembered…Oh, God, she was stark staring naked.
She inhaled, gulping in a mouthful of chlorinated water, and managed, barely, to sputter, ‘What are you doing here?’ She glanced at her clothes and towel. Impossibly out of reach. Her cheeks filled with heat and the already irregular pulse picked up speed.
Stepping closer, to the very edge of the pool, he studied her with those piercing grey eyes. ‘Watching you. Do you need rescuing?’
‘No!’ Oh, God. Oh, no. She sank as low as she could, crossing her arms over her chest and struggling to stay afloat while every skin cell vibrated as if he was physically stroking her. The water was as clear as glass; no part of her was hidden from his powerful gaze. ‘How long have you been here? Never mind. Pass me my clothes.’
‘No need to panic; I’ve already seen you naked.’ His mouth quirked and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Lucky for her—or him—depending on one’s point of view, right now they were focused on her face. But for how long?
The heat in her cheeks rushed to every tingling part of her body. ‘Seven years old does not count. And I’m still traumatised by it.’
He picked up her underwear, held the items out over the water for her. Just a fraction too high, she knew—and he knew. She remained as she was.
‘Wasn’t my fault you forgot your towel and risked running bare-assed down the hallway.’
‘Whatever you say. Hurry up.’
‘Nice undies, by the way.’
She was acutely, devastatingly aware that he wasn’t looking at her undies. A shiver rippled through her. The water suddenly felt chilled against her overheated flesh.
Just when she thought he wasn’t going to play nice, he released them. They hit the water with a plop, floating on the surface just far enough away so that she had to uncross her arms and manoeuvre sideways a fraction. She snatched them to her with a murmured, ‘Thank you. Now, if you’ll be a gentleman and turn your back…’
‘Thing is, Mariel, I’m no gentleman.’
For a few seconds the air hummed. The tension between them crackled. She couldn’t reply, could only think that if she reached out she could wind her fingers around that calf and feel how hard that muscle really was. Then pull him closer and sink her teeth into that flesh. Fair punishment.
He took a step back, as if he’d anticipated such a move, then—finally—turned away. ‘Did you realise there’s a photographer a couple of hundred metres down the road?’ His casual comment was followed up with an equally casual, ‘They could have a long-range camera set up for all you know.’
Oh, hell. With shaking fingers she struggled to pull on the meagre covering—no easy feat underwater. ‘Maybe they’re just keen birdwatchers,’ she said hopefully. Half decent at last, she hauled herself out of the water.
At the sound, he turned to her once more. ‘You should be more aware of security when you’re on your own. I could have been any stranger.’ She snatched up her towel and blotted water from her face, bemoaning the fact that her complexion was winter-lily pale without its make-up mask.
‘But you weren’t. And you remembered the gate’s security code—clever you.’
‘Have you seen this morning’s paper?’ He tossed it on the little glass table between two loungers.
‘No.’