To Claim His Mistress. Sara Craven
Читать онлайн книгу.
chilly now that darkness was here. Or was she just nervous?
Stagefright, she thought with a grimace, sitting back on her haunches and watching the flames flicker blue.
She took her case into the bedroom and extracted the new housecoat. It moulded her slenderness like a second skin, the skirts flaring into soft folds at her hips and falling open, mid-thigh, to reveal her slim legs. The unrelieved black emphasised the creaminess of her skin against the dipping neckline.
She studied her reflection in the long mirror, trying to see herself with his eyes.
It was undoubtedly seductive, she acknowledged restively, but was it rather too obvious—especially against this minimalist background? Well, only time would tell.
And it was time that Liam was here. She needed his reassurance—the flare of passion in his eyes—the hunger of his mouth.
There was no television, no stereo or radio in the living room. Nothing, not even a magazine, to alleviate the tension of this endless waiting.
She was beginning to wonder if he’d changed his mind—or even if he’d planned all this as a cruel joke to punish her for daring to damage his male pride—when she heard the outer door open and slam shut, and his footsteps on the stairs.
She’d intended to be stretched on the sofa, cool and casual, her smile offering a welcome that was his alone. Instead, she found herself jumping to her feet, her clenched fists buried in the folds of her gown to conceal the fact that they were trembling.
He came slowly into the room, moving almost wearily, the smoky eyes guarded as they surveyed her.
‘Good evening.’ His voice was quiet, courteous, but it did not sing with desire, and he didn’t come across to her as she’d hoped. ‘I apologise for my lateness.’
She swallowed. ‘It—it doesn’t matter. You’re here now,’ she returned uncertainly. She paused. ‘You look tired.’
‘I am,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But not too exhausted to pay you the attention you deserve in bed, if that’s what concerns you.’
‘It isn’t,’ she denied swiftly. ‘I simply thought you might like some coffee—or something to eat. I—I brought food.’ She tried a smile. ‘I make good scrambled eggs.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Liam drawled, his expression suddenly cynical. ‘But I didn’t come here for your domestic abilities, my sweet, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m not hungry.’ He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it over the arm of the sofa. ‘Frankly, I’ve had a bitch of a day, but a hot bath should improve my mood considerably.’
He walked towards the bedroom, loosening his tie as he went, then paused. ‘But you could bring me a drink,’ he added softly. ‘If you wanted. Shall we say in ten minutes?’
She nodded jerkily. ‘Of course. Straight whisky?’
His brows lifted in faint mockery. ‘You have a good memory.’
‘But then,’ she said, ‘I’ve had little to do but remember.’
‘And nor have I,’ he said, his gaze reassessing her. Lingering without softening. ‘And I haven’t forgotten a thing.’ His smile was tight. ‘So—ten minutes, then.’
She’d noticed a good single malt among the bottles on the sideboard. She poured a generous shot into one of the tumblers, and sat down to wait.
Thumb-twiddling, she thought, her mouth twisting, had never been her favourite form of exercise, although she supposed she could always make herself useful and put his jacket on a hanger.
My God, she told herself in self-derision. He’s been here five minutes, and I’m turning into his girlfriend.
She looked at the jacket again, more thoughtfully, then glanced towards the half-open door of the bedroom. There was no sign of movement, and the water running into the tub had stopped a few moments ago. By this time he would be in the bath.
And he knew so much about her, while her information about him was practically nil. She realised, of course, that he must be wealthy, but, oddly, that was the fact that interested her least.
There had to be clues in his pockets—his driving licence—his wallet. It wasn’t a very honest and upright thing to do, perhaps, but, after all, he’d wheedled her name and address out of the hotel. Quid pro quo, she told herself.
There was no driving licence, but his wallet was in his inside pocket. She withdrew it deftly and began to look through it, searching for credit cards, business cards—anything that would tell her about him.
Just his name, she placated the god of sneaks. And maybe what he does for a living. That’s all I want to know.
But she was to be disappointed. His wallet contained about a hundred pounds in cash, but no cards of any kind. Nothing that contained even a hint about his identity. Except, she realised, something that had become wedged in one of the small inner pockets. She retrieved it after a brief struggle, and saw it was a photograph, upside down.
His wife? she thought, staring down at it, reluctant to turn it over. His fiancée? His girlfriend? Whoever it was, he kept it well-hidden.
She would soon be running out of time, she thought, forcing herself to examine it. And if it was a woman she would only have herself to blame.
But it was a dog—a springer spaniel with an infectious grin—which looked back at her, and Cat cursed under her breath as she forced the snapshot back into its place and returned the wallet to his jacket.
Well, that was a total waste of time, she thought as she carried his Scotch into the bathroom, her skirts rustling around her.
Liam was lying back in the bath. His eyes were closed, but the almost haggard look she’d noticed earlier was beginning to fade.
She stood watching him for a moment, feeling her heart twist within her, then said quietly, ‘I’ve brought your drink.’
He stirred, stretching a little, then sat up. ‘Thank you.’ He took the tumbler from her hand and placed it on the small table beside the bath. He surveyed her meditatively. ‘Would you care to join me?’
She said, ‘Thank you, but I don’t drink whisky.’
‘And that,’ he said gently, ‘is not what I meant—as I’m sure you know,’ he added, his eyes glinting with amusement.
‘Well.’ A smile trembled on her lips in reply. ‘Perhaps so.’ And her hands went to the first tiny button on her bodice.
‘No.’ His voice was soft, but incisive. ‘Leave it on. I want you just as you are. Or have you forgotten?’
She halted, staring at him, then down at herself. ‘No, but my housecoat—it will be ruined.’
He leaned back, picking up the tumbler beside him and swallowing some of its contents. ‘But in a very good cause. Besides, it would never have had the same effect a second time,’ he added, his smile widening into a grin.
‘Well…’ Cat pretended to consider. ‘Probably not.’ She climbed sedately into the bath and settled herself at the opposite end, arranging her sodden skirts around her and trying not to laugh. ‘Your mood certainly has improved.’
‘And that’s not the only area of improvement, I promise,’ he said, his eyes dancing wickedly. He put down his glass and leaned forward, drawing her closer to him. He kissed her, his mouth moving on hers gently and sensuously, and her lips parted on a sigh to allow him deeper access. When he lifted his head at last they were both breathless, both trembling.
With infinite tenderness Liam’s hand smoothed the silky strands of hair back from her face, then travelled slowly down the line of her throat, and lower to the waiting row of buttons. He began to release them one by one, slowly and gently, his gaze intent.
Cat was very still, her breathing still ragged, her clouded