Mistresses: Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds. Sandra Marton
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that a sensuous woman would do—inviting a man to share her feminine appreciation of her own body.
He watched, his face softening with a return of his former amusement, but this time it was laced with a measure of wry respect.
‘Why don’t you join me?’ he murmured, intrigued by the hint of shy excitement in her slinky self-absorption.
‘Thank you, I will…’ she purred, caught up in her performance, her eyes glowing with smug triumph as she sank onto the empty cushions beside him. The couch was long enough to take his full length—and wide enough for an orgy, she thought, nervously.
‘I meant in a drink,’ he explained, toasting her with his glass.
‘Oh…’ Her sultry look dissolved. ‘I did have a vodka and tonic around here somewhere…’ She frowned vaguely about.
‘Forget it. Just go ahead and help yourself to another,’ Adam advised with the careless ease of a man who never had to worry about a budget—for alcohol or anything else. Lounging at his ease, he obviously expected her to play hostess while Pierre was occupied in the kitchen.
She thought she had probably infused enough alcohol into her system as it was, but a drink would give her some occupation for her nervous hands.
She stood up, ultra-conscious of her lack of grace as her narrow heels tilted awkwardly into the thick pile of the carpet and almost tipped her sideways into his lap. ‘Shall I freshen yours, too?’ she asked, to distract him from her clumsiness.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, swirling the contents of his glass. ‘You pour a mean Scotch.’
Regan shrugged with her hands. ‘My father was a big whisky-drinker—’ She bit her lip as she turned away, annoyed at her slip. She knew the cheap rot-gut that had killed her father by the time she was ten had little in common with the smooth, expensive, aromatic spirit that Adam savoured.
‘And your husband? What about him?’
Her body stiffened as she swung back to face his grating accusation.
‘My what?’
He caught at her left hand, lifting it to the light so that they both could see the faint band of pale skin on her ring finger. He immediately let it drop, as if contaminated by her touch.
‘Are you married?’ he demanded harshly.
She hesitated. Just what kind of man was she dealing with? ‘What if I said yes?’
The light grey eyes hardened to cold steel. ‘Then I’d politely show you the door. And Derek would cease to be part of my acquaintance. He knows my opinion on the subject: I don’t sleep with other men’s wives. And I despise cheating and deception—No-one gets a second chance to breach my trust. So if you are married tell me now, before this goes any further, because I make a very bad enemy…’
Regan was stunned by the ruthless force behind his pronouncement. He possessed the will, the wealth and the power to protect his personal honour, and wouldn’t hesitate to use those weapons to threaten and punish anyone who sought to compromise it in pursuit of their own interests.
‘I’m not married,’ she declared huskily, her curiosity more than satisfied.
Unfortunately, his suspicion was too sharp to be easily blunted by the belated admission.
‘But you were,’ he rapped out. ‘Divorced?’
If she hadn’t been so naive for so long she might have been able to say yes with dignity. As things stood, there was little honour in being Michael’s widow.
She shook her head and looked down, disturbed to find herself twisting the non-existent ring on her finger.
‘Widowed. Mi—my husband was killed in a car crash.’
There was a brief, splintering silence.
‘I’m sorry.’
Her chin jerked up at the deep gentleness of his tone, her cheeks stinging as if he had reached out and slapped her. The cold steel had gone from his eyes, to be replaced by a smoky speculation that made her angry heart burn. She didn’t want tenderness, dammit! All she wanted from him was one night of simple, uncomplicated lust.
‘Don’t be.’
His eyes narrowed at the clipped command.
‘Like that, was it?’ he mused, still with that threatening undertone of softness.
She raked her fingers through her hair, and flicked the ends over her shoulder in a gesture half-nervous, halfdefiant. ‘You can’t begin to imagine what it was like,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t bother.’
‘How long ago did it happen?’
She tossed him a frustrated look. She could guess what he was thinking—he was wondering whether she was acting out some psychological trauma associated with her marriage.
With a vengeance!
Her eyes flashed. ‘Long enough.’
Eight months. Long enough for her to have found out why Michael had insisted on handling all their joint finances. He had spent their savings, run up credit card debts, mortgaged the house and taken out loans for which, as his next of kin and inheritor of his estate, she was liable. The absence of a will had compounded the legal problems, and only after months of trying to straighten out the chaotic financial tangle her lawyer had informed her that there was little left to inherit.
And two weeks ago she had finally discovered why.
Two weeks ago she had received a tearful visit from Michael’s long-term—mistress, the earthy, voluptuous Cindy…and his three-and-a-half-year-old son.
Her last remaining shred of respect for Michael had vanished as she had been forced to face the degrading truth that for the entire duration of their marriage her husband had been living an expensive double life. One that she, all unknowingly, had helped finance!
Well, tonight she would have her revenge.
Tonight she wasn’t going to be the sweet, understanding little woman, bravely swallowing her pride and doing what was expected of her.
Tonight she was going to be the ruthless user, the unrepentant sinner…
Chapter Four
‘SO YOU don’t miss having a husband?’
Like a hole in the head, Regan wanted to snap. Instead, she channelled her anger into another emotion.
‘I miss…certain things about being married…’ She tossed Adam a suggestive smile and swung back over to the bar. Conscious of his eyes levelled on her back, she relaxed her shoulders and moved with an exaggerated sway of her hips, the way she had seen Lisa move on the catwalk.
Drink in hand, she strolled back with that same, slinky roll and crossed her legs as she sat down, letting her skirt ride up above her knees as far as it liked.
‘Would you like me to do that for you?’ she offered, as he eased a hand across the back of his neck, digging his fingers into the tense muscle.
‘You do massage?’
‘I’m not a qualified masseur or anything,’ she said innocently, ‘but I’m sure I could give you a rub that would ease some of your tension.’
‘I think having your hands on my body is more likely to increase rather than decrease my tension,’ he said, with the faint smile that turned her insides to marshmallow.
She cleared her throat of a tiny obstruction. In the background she was vaguely aware of Pierre, moving to and fro from the kitchen to the table. ‘So…what sort of things do you normally do to unwind after a hard day at the office?’ she asked.
From his bland expression she knew he was going to tease her again.