The Tycoon's Mistress. Sara Craven
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Robert finished his coffee and put down his cup.
‘My dear.’ His tone was sober. ‘I think you must accept that nothing is ever going to be the same again.’
He was right, Cressy thought as she stood on the steps an hour later, waving her aunt and uncle an approximation of a cheerful goodbye.
Everything had changed quite momentously. Beginning with herself.
She shook herself mentally as she went back into the house.
She had to forget about those days of golden, sunlit madness on Myros, and how near she too had come to making a disastrous mistake.
That urgent summons back to England, although devastating, had been in another way a lifeline, dragging her back to reality. Waking her from the dangerous seductive dream which had enthralled her and could have led her to total ruin.
A holiday romance—that was all it had been. As trivial and tawdry as these things always were, with a handsome Greek on one side and a bored tourist on the other. Just for a while she’d allowed herself to indulge a risky fantasy, and then real life had intervened, just in time, returning her to sanity.
For a moment she found herself wondering what would have happened if her uncle’s message had not been waiting at the hotel. If she’d actually called Draco’s bluff and gone back to Myros…
She stopped herself right there. Speculation of that kind was forbidden territory now. Myros, and all that had happened there, was in the past, where it belonged. A memory that one day, in years to come, she might take out, dust down and smile over.
The memory of desire and being desired…
But not now. And maybe not ever, she thought, straightening her shoulders.
Now she had to look to the immediate future, and its problems. She’d have an early night, and tomorrow she would start to sift through the wreckage, see if anything could be salvaged.
And tonight, she told herself with determination, she would sleep without dreaming.
But that was more easily said than done. Cressida’s night was restless. She woke several times, her body damp with perspiration, haunted by images that left no trace in her memory. Nothing that she could rationalise, and then dismiss.
Perhaps it was simply coming back to this house, where she’d been a stranger for so long, and finding herself in her old room again. The past playing tricks with her unconscious mind.
At least this room hadn’t undergone the high-priced makeover inflicted on the rest of the house.
Eloise had been determined to erase every trace of her predecessor, Cressy thought, more with sorrow than with anger. And no expense had been spared in the process—which could explain how James Fielding might have found himself strapped for cash and been tempted to recklessness.
Although, in fairness, this wasn’t the first time her father had sailed close to the wind. Only this time his instinct for disaster seemed to have deserted him.
But that, she thought, can happen to the best of us.
She pushed back the covers and got out of bed, wandering across to the window. Light was just beginning to stain the eastern sky, and the cool morning air made her shiver in her thin cotton nightgown and reach for a robe.
She’d never needed one in Greece, she thought. The nights had been too hot except in the hotel, which had had air-conditioning. Each evening the chambermaid had arranged her flimsy confection of silk and lace in a fan shape on the bed, with a rose on the bodice and a hand-made chocolate on the pillow.
Later, in the taverna on Myros, she’d slept naked, kicking away even the thin sheet to the foot of the bed, her body grateful for the faint breeze sighing from the Aegean sea through the open window.
Moving quietly, she went downstairs to the kitchen and made herself a pot of coffee which she carried to the study.
She’d brought in the computer and set it up the night before, and if she couldn’t sleep then she might as well start work. Begin to probe the real extent of the financial disaster facing her father.
Because it could be faced. She was convinced of that. James Fielding was a survivor. He would get over this heart attack, and the ensuing operation, and take up his life again. And somehow she had to salvage something from the wreckage—make sure there was something to give him hope.
She’d done some preliminary calculations of her own on the plane, partly to prevent herself thinking of other things, she realised, her mouth twisting, and had worked out how much she could afford to contribute. But the outlook was bleak. Even if she sold her London flat, and worked from this house, she’d struggle to pay the new mortgage.
Besides, she wasn’t sure whether she could endure to live under this roof again for any length of time. There were too many bad memories.
Cressida had been a teenager, still mourning her mother, when she had learned of her father’s decision to remarry. And her sense of shock, almost betrayal, had doubled when she’d discovered his choice of wife.
Looking back, she could see that she’d responded intolerantly to the newcomer, staring at her with resentful eyes.
Eloise had been a bit-part actress, her chief claim to fame as hostess on a second-rate TV quiz show. She was tall and full-breasted, her lips permanently set in a beguiling pout, her violet eyes wide, almost childlike.
Until she was crossed, Cressida thought wryly. And then they would narrow like a rattlesnake’s.
As they’d done when she first met her new stepdaughter. The hostility had not been one-sided by any means. Eloise had made it plain that she had little time for other women, and especially for a young girl just beginning to blossom out of gawkiness, although there was no way Cressy could ever have rivalled her voluptuous charms.
Chalk and cheese, Cressy thought with sadness. And I was just a nuisance, someone to be sidelined, if not totally ignored.
And even when, urged by her father, she’d tried a few awkward overtures, she’d found herself completely rebuffed. Eventually she had acquired a reputation for being ‘tricky’, if not downright difficult. And James Fielding, unable to see he was being manipulated, had made his displeasure known to his daughter, creating a rift that had widened slowly but surely over the years.
Cressida had soon realised she was no longer welcome in her own home. Even at Christmas Eloise had usually organised a ski-ing holiday for her husband and herself.
‘Darling,’ she’d said coaxingly when the first one was mooted. ‘Cressida doesn’t want to spend her vacations with a couple of old fogies. She has her own friends. Her own life.’ Her steely gaze had fixed her stepdaughter. ‘Isn’t that right?’
It had been easier to swallow her hurt and bewilderment and agree. She had had friends she could go to, and Uncle Robert and Aunt Barbara had always been there for her, their comfortable, untidy house a second home.
For a long time Cressida had convinced herself that the scales would eventually fall from her father’s eyes and that he’d see Eloise’s greed and self-absorption. But it had never happened. He’d been carried away by his passion for her—a passion that she had been careful to feed.
As for Eloise herself, Cressida was sure she’d looked at James Fielding and seen only a successful businessman, with a settled background and an attractive Georgian house not too far from London.
What she hadn’t understood was that James’s company had struggled to recover from the big recession of the eighties, or that James himself had faltered more than once as chairman, and was being encouraged to take early retirement.
Eloise had been too busy entertaining, enjoying weekend parties with amusing people, and being seen in all the right places.
Even after James’s actual retirement she’d seen no need to scale down their style of living or their expenditure.
Alec