Mistress: At What Price?. Anne Oliver
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of her as if she wasn’t totally comfortable in her own skin. As if she wasn’t used to men looking at her.
She wasn’t used to this man looking at her.
His gaze drifted lazily down to her breasts, barely covered by her cherry-splashed blue bra, then lower, over the high-cut bikini briefs. ‘If you don’t watch out you’ll burn that tender European-climate-accustomed skin.’
Burn? Her skin already felt singed and raw and tingling. Her nipples, already pebbled from the cool water, contracted painfully.
She swiped the towel over her body one last time, then swung it around her neck, fisted her hands and lifted her chin. Their eyes connected across the stone pool surround. ‘So is it the society pages or the ghastly gossip column?’
‘Check it out for yourself. Page twenty-three.’
There was a shot of the two of them leaving the wedding, and a smaller one of Dane’s car parked in her parents’ driveway.
The mystery woman on Dane Huntington’s arm last night appears to be none other than Mariel Davenport, daughter of wealthy landowner Randolph Davenport, Europe’s latest modelling sensation. Ms Davenport flew in from Paris and, it seems, straight into the arms of her old friend and flame. Could this cosy reunion signal the end of Adelaide’s most popular Bachelor of the Year’s reign?
Bad. Bad. Bad. She didn’t bother with the small print underneath. She tried to laugh, but the sound came out parched. ‘Local gossip. You don’t pay any heed to that rubbish, do you?’
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