Mistresses: Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds. Sandra Marton
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His deliberate hesitation and wry intonation suggested he knew she was lying, and she flushed with guilt.
‘I am Pierre.’ He smiled suddenly—a splitting grin which rendered him uglier than ever. He turned sideways, inviting her inside with a broad, sweeping gesture of his arm.
‘Unfortunately, Monsieur is running rather late this evening,’ he said, his accent rolling off his tongue in an unmistakably genuine purr. ‘He has rung to say that he is held up in a business meeting and asked me to deliver his apologies. He says that he will be home as soon as possible. Fortunately, he informs me, the dinner you are to attend does not begin until a fashionably late hour. In the meantime he suggests that you relax and enjoy a drink, and make free of the apartment while you are waiting. Monsieur has an excellent home entertainment centre…’
‘Monsieur?’ Regan repeated faintly, the blood pounding in her ears as she realised how close she had come to making a fresh idiot of herself.
The blind date that she had hijacked from Cleo wasn’t with a wizened old gnome old enough to be her grandfather!
Pierre wasn’t the man she was supposed to flirt with, flatter and seduce.
Regan’s hopes soared as the evening ahead regained its tantalising promise…the wicked allure of pleasures previously denied her by her husband’s secret indifference—the perfect revenge for years of his perfunctory lovemaking! Her smile of euphoric relief was so dazzlingly different from the strained rictus that Regan had worn since the door opened that Pierre blinked.
‘You’re the butler,’ she guessed happily as she floated past his bandy figure into the apartment, mentally scolding herself for jumping to hasty conclusions. If he couldn’t even spare the time to pick up his own women, a wealthy workaholic businessman would scarcely be likely to be answering doors!
‘I don’t believe I have a title, as such,’ said Pierre. ‘I merely assist Monsieur with his domestic arrangements.’ The self-effacing comment was belied by the ring of pride in his voice as he preceded her down a short flight of stairs which wrapped around the curving wall of glass bricks screening the entranceway from the main body of the apartment.
‘I bet you do the lion’s share,’ Regan murmured drily, her heels sinking into thick white carpet that she imagined would require meticulous care.
‘Mais, non. Monsieur does not own such a pet,’ Pierre said blandly. ‘Except when the survival of the species is at stake, he does not approve of wild beasts being held in captivity…’
Regan swallowed a grin. ‘Is that why he’s not married?’ she shot back, her flippancy cloaking her urgent need to assure herself that the little information she did have was at least correct on that one, all-important point.
Pierre’s eyebrows twitched in acknowledgment of her riposte. ‘Monsieur is the most intelligent and civilised of men,’ he observed primly as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to watch her join him, ‘although a certain degree of wildness is only to be expected of healthy males in their prime.’ The fugitive gleam of mischief in the old eyes glowed even brighter. ‘He certainly does not yet regard himself as being on the endangered species list…’
So…Unmarried. Healthy. Intelligent. Prime…with a dash of wildness thrown in for good measure. Regan lowered her lashes to hide her surge of terrified elation.
No wonder Cleo had been so furious about having to cry off!
She had come hammering on the door of the flat a scant hour earlier, stridently upset when she’d discovered that her cousin wasn’t home and Regan had no idea of her whereabouts.
‘There was a message on the answer-machine when I got back from work to say that she was going out to some party and wouldn’t be here for dinner,’ Regan had said, still annoyed that Lisa had conveniently forgotten that it was her turn to cook.
‘But she can’t be out! I was sure she’d be here—I need Lisa now!’ Cleo wailed. ‘It’s a matter of life and death!’ She barged inside with none of her usual grace. ‘What about Saleena?’ she demanded raggedly. ‘Is she here?’
Regan fell back, shaking her head. ‘Evening aerobics classes.’ Saleena worked part-time at the local gym to supplement her student loan while she studied for a degree in Sport and Recreation. Like Lisa, she was extremely pretty and always game for a laugh, although—being two years older and a great deal more intelligent—her behaviour and attitudes were thankfully more mature.
Cleo screamed, a low, heart-felt shriek of frustration.
‘Can I help?’ Regan sighed, too accustomed to Cleo’s histrionics to be truly concerned. Perhaps she had run out of nail polish for her synthetic talons. Dressed to the glittering hilt, and made up to model-girl perfection, she was obviously on her way somewhere trendy and expensive.
‘You!’ Cleo uttered an insulting laugh that ended in a muffled choke as her exquisite face turned suddenly from honey-gold tan to swamp-green and she dashed towards the bathroom, clutching her concave belly.
When she tottered out and collapsed on the couch in the lounge without bothering to artistically drape her limbs for the best visual effect, Regan knew that she was genuinely at the end of her tether.
It turned out that what Cleo had convinced herself was merely a lingering all-day hangover had developed into something debilitatingly nasty at both ends, and she was frantic to find a substitute for some hot date that an ex-boyfriend, Derek, had fixed her up with for that night.
‘I’ve been trying to call Derek to tell him I didn’t think I could make it, but he’s not answering his stupid phone,’ Cleo shrilled, ‘and I haven’t been able to find anyone to fill in for me, not this late on a Friday night…
‘I thought I might manage it if I took a few pills, and they seemed to work for a while, but now I feel even worse,’ Cleo groaned. ‘In the taxi I thought I was going to throw up, so I told the driver to drop me off here—I knew Lisa would help…’ She looked up at Regan through a tangle of red hair, her green eyes tearful with angry selfpity. ‘I’m supposed to be there in half an hour and I can’t simply not turn up, because I was supposed to escort this guy out to some fancy dinner—Oh, God!’
The mere suggestion of food prompted another mad scramble to reach the bathroom on time.
When she finally emerged on wobbly legs Regan offered to call a doctor, but Cleo was adamant that she didn’t need one. ‘I just want to lie down for a while,’ she said shakily, homing in on Lisa’s cluttered bedroom and crashing gratefully across the unmade bed. ‘I have to warn Derek,’ she moaned piteously. ‘His phone number’s on his card in my evening bag—I think I dropped it in the lounge—keep trying him for me, will you? And if you get through, tell him what’s happened.’
‘Why don’t you just phone your date yourself and tell him you’re ill?’ Regan asked, unable to understand her obsession. What did one broken date matter to a woman who hardly ever went out with the same man twice?
‘Because I don’t have his phone number, that’s why—only Derek’s card, with the address I’m supposed to go written on the back and the time I’m supposed to be there!’ Cleo croaked, rolling over onto her back. ‘Hell, Derek’ll kill me if I mess this one up for him—he said he could get some really good accounts from this guy.’ Her former boyfriend was in advertising, and staying on friendly terms with him had landed Cleo several plum modelling assignments. ‘But what in the hell am I supposed to do, for God’s sake?’ she said, panic turning to petulance. ‘It’s not my fault I got sick!’
She dragged her arm from across her bloodshot eyes and glared belligerently at Regan, who wisely held her tongue. In her opinion Cleo’s hectic, party-loving lifestyle involved too much alcohol and too little food, and Lisa’s puppyish admiration for her glamorous elder cousin was leading her down the same path.
Her silence appeared to mollify Cleo, who interpreted it as sympathetic