Mistresses: Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds. Sandra Marton
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of…she was betraying nothing that hadn’t already been proved utterly unworthy of her faith.
She was no longer a pathetic, self-deluded, gullible fool, hiding her head in the sand to avoid having to confront the crude realities of life.
And the reality was that up until now it had been Regan who was morally out of step with the modern world.
Plenty of women her age—ordinary, normal, welladjusted twenty-five-year-old women—wouldn’t see anything wrong with what she was going to do. Regan was unattached, independent and answerable only to herself. No one was going to be hurt by her actions tonight. It was about time she adopted an outlook more in tune with the rest of her generation—more open-minded and willing to experiment with what life had to offer.
To catch up with the sexual revolution!
Tonight she was going to prove that Regan Frances was a sophisticated, passionate, desirable woman—a sexual being who could treat the giving and taking of pleasure with the same casualness that men seemed to enjoy. Then, and only then, would she feel truly liberated from the travesty of her marriage, and the crushing humiliations of the past few weeks.
She came to a halt before the deep-set door, breathlessly aware that the definitive moment had arrived.
Just treat it as a date.
Reaching out to press the doorbell, Regan was dismayed to see the fine tremor in her hand that twice made her finger miss its target. In the shiny brass surround she saw a distorted view of her own face, all mouth and eyes. She licked her dry lips, adding extra gloss to the dark plum colour which Lisa proclaimed was the ultimate in sultry glamour, and steeled herself to take another stab at the button.
As she did so the thin white strip on the ring-finger of her left hand mocked her timidity, and another hot jolt of temper kicked the normally tender bow of her mouth into a vengeful curve.
Wouldn’t Michael be astonished to see his boring little sexless doormat of a wife now! she thought viciously, giving the silent bell a second defiant jab.
Except, of course, he couldn’t—because to her certain knowledge Michael Frances wasn’t gazing benevolently down from a blissful heaven of the soul; he was too busy burning in fiery hell!
On that deeply gratifying thought the door opened…and Regan’s heart dropped like a stone into her sexy shoes.
Chapter Two
INSTEAD of the virile, attractive, sexy sophisticate Regan had been praying for, a skinny, swarthy, wrinkled old man as bald as a billiard ball stood in the doorway.
Even though she was only five-foot-three, Regan towered over him in her slender heels, and not even his faultlessly cut black suit could disguise a shrunken frame and unmistakably bandy legs. As if to compensate for his shiny pate his salt-and-pepper eyebrows were luxuriantly bushy, springing upwards in fanning tufts which give him a permanently surprised expression.
He had to be sixty if he was a day!
Thunderstruck, Regan’s first impulse was to bolt, but she mastered the knee-jerk impulse and swallowed hard as the wizened gnome dipped his head to one side.
‘Bonsoir, mam’selle.’
A horrified giggle swelled in her throat. Was he really French, or did he think a suave foreign accent would make him more attractive to women?
Oh, God, it had never occurred to her that she might have to vamp a rich old fogey! On the contrary, Cleo had boasted that all the ‘social liaisons’ arranged by her ambitious ex-boyfriend were with perfectly agreeable single men who were simply too busy making gobs of money to sustain ongoing relationships with women. They preferred the nomaintenance alternative provided by Derek’s informal network of ‘friends’—attractive, sophisticated, obliging women, who could be relied upon to accept an invitation to a good night out without pouting about short notice and who cheerfully vanished when their attentions were no longer required to boost the male ego—or libido…
Knowing Cleo’s elastic standards, Regan should have realised that her idea of ‘perfectly agreeable’ covered an awful lot of ground. ‘Seriously rich’ was probably her main criteria of judgement.
The old man was still patiently awaiting a response to his greeting, and the puzzled enquiry in the shrewd blue eyes caused a faint flicker of hope in her breast. But a quick sideways glance at the number by the bell told Regan that she hadn’t made a mistake.
‘Uh—good evening,’ she ventured, pinning on a smile that quivered with effort around the edges as she realised that she didn’t even know his name!
To give herself time to think she ducked her head to fumble in her beaded evening bag for the card which had been thrust into her hand a scant hour earlier.
‘I know I’m a little late, but—uh—Derek sent me,’ she blurted, holding out the business card with the apartment’s address scribbled on the back.
A gnarled hand accepted the card, the startling eyebrows rumpling like woolly caterpillars as he frowningly studied it, then her.
‘But you are not who is expected,’ he said suspiciously, still standing squarely in the doorway, barring her entrance. His gaze roamed down over the shimmery black stockings encasing her slender calves, and back up to the hemline modestly skimming her knees and the regrettably slight cleavage exposed by the low-cut bodice. He shook his head, his thin lips pursed in what she instantly interpreted as disappointment. ‘You are not Mam’selle Cleo…’
Perversely, Regan was outraged by his rejection. Instead of gratefully seizing on the excuse to withdraw with her dignity still intact, she lifted her chin, her small, triangular face paling with anger, her wide-set violet eyes darkening to the colour of fresh bruises as she prepared to do battle for her wounded pride.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins, fresh fuel to the smouldering anger inside her. How dared he dismiss her with such effortless ease?
This time she was not going to meekly bow to male judgement of her feminine worth. Since Michael had died she had learned that he had cheated her out of a lot more than just money. No man was going to get away with making her feel like a failure—not ever again!
It suddenly became vital that she wrap this contemptible little weasel around her little finger.
So she wasn’t what he had expected—she wasn’t a tall, willowy, full-breasted redhead, with emerald eyes and legs that went on for ever. That didn’t mean she was any less of a woman!
‘Cleo couldn’t make it,’ she told him coolly. ‘She’s indisposed.’
That was putting it delicately! Not half an hour ago Lisa’s beauteous cousin had been sprawled on her hands and knees on a cold bathroom floor, her flawless complexion a putrid shade of green, her glamorous red hair dangling over the white china toilet bowl as she alternately retched and moaned, vile curses spewing from her pale lips as she vowed never to mix curry and cocktails again.
‘And so…this means Monsieur Derek asks for you to come in her place?’
Regan sucked in her cheeks, trying for that haughty, bored model look that she had seen Lisa practising endlessly in the mirror.
‘It was very much a last-minute kind of a thing—Cleo got sick and I was available,’ she said, adroitly avoiding an outright lie.
She hoped that he wasn’t going to suggest checking her story with Derek. But why should he bother? As Cleo had pointed out, there was nothing illegal involved, no need for fear on either side. Derek Clarke’s discreet little sideline, designed to ingratiate himself with potentially useful colleagues and clients, was successful precisely because it was so casual.
‘I see,’ he said slowly, relaxing his stance. ‘And you are…?’
‘Ev—’ She bit her lip. She had already decided that Regan was too distinctive a name, too easy to trace.