To Claim His Mistress. Sara Craven
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reached that point yet.
At other times she wondered if he was keeping her waiting deliberately, bringing her anticipation of their next encounter to a fever pitch. If so, his plan was working brilliantly, she told herself bitterly.
Even with only her memories of his lovemaking to sustain her she was in turmoil, her senses heightened almost to screaming point.
And now here it was, Friday evening, and she had the bottomless pit of the weekend gaping in front of her again. And how pathetic was that? Putting her life on hold, just in case she was summoned.
There were several other options available to her, of course, she thought, frowning. Her father and mother were still in London, after all, and it was time she saw something of them both. Or she could pay her aunt Susan a long overdue visit.
But when she rang the number it was Belinda who answered the phone. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said flatly. ‘Did you want something in particular?’
‘I thought your mother might like some company,’ Cat said. ‘I hadn’t realised you were back from your honeymoon.’
‘Well, you know now.’ Belinda hesitated. ‘And Tony’s spending the weekend here too. I gather he’s feeling a bit raw about you, so I don’t suggest you join us.’
Cat controlled herself with an effort. She said quietly, ‘Thanks for telling me,’ and rang off.
She had no better luck at the Savoy. ‘Miss Carlton is away for the weekend, madam. May we give her a message on her return?’
And the answer-machine was switched on at her father’s Kensington flat.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she said, remembering too late that he preferred her to call him David. ‘Just touching base. Call me some time.’
She changed into jeans and tee shirt, and began some determined flat-cleaning. She had just sunk down on the sofa, with a cup of coffee, to admire her shining domain, when there was a brisk knock on the door.
Cat started violently, spilling some of the coffee on to her newly vacuumed rug, then crossed the room, her heart thudding, and threw the door wide.
‘So there you are, my pet.’ Her father’s tone was breezy as he strode in. ‘I got your message.’ He kissed her on both cheeks, then held her at arms’ length to examine her critically.
‘Hmm—a little pale for midsummer. You look as if you could do with a break.’
‘Well, all holiday plans are on hold.’ Cat forced a smile, hating herself for feeling disappointed. ‘I—I’m too busy at work just now.’
‘But all alone on Friday evening?’ David Adamson clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘That won’t do, sweetheart.’
‘I’m fine.’ Cat looked past him, but there was no sign of Sharine. ‘Anyway, you seem to be on your own, too.’
‘Temporarily,’ her father returned airily. ‘I’m treating Sharine to a few days at a health farm.’
‘Oh.’ Cat digested this. ‘Is she feeling off-colour?’
‘We’ve been up in Scotland for the past week, and it rained every day. She was not impressed.’ There was a faint dryness in his tone. ‘Have you eaten?’ He handed her a bulging carrier bag. ‘I stopped off at the deli round the corner. There’s chicken Caesar salad, bread, cheese and a peach tart. Oh, and a bottle of Pouilly Fumé.’
‘Wonderful.’ Cat took the bag into the kitchen and began to unpack it. David followed her in, pouring himself a beaker of coffee and leaning against the sink.
‘So why were you in Scotland?’ she asked. ‘You surely haven’t taken up golf—or fishing?’
‘God forbid.’ David gave a smile of pure satisfaction. ‘I’ve been staying with Nevil Beverley and his wife. He’s just finishing his new play, and I’m to play the lead. That’s really why I returned from California.’ He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I’m going back into the theatre, and Oliver Ingham is directing me. He was staying with Nevil too, and we thrashed the whole thing out.’
Cat’s brows rose. ‘Really?’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you were totally dedicated to films.’
‘I was.’ Her father shrugged. ‘But it’s good to rethink—change directions occasionally.’
‘Yes,’ Cat said slowly. ‘I suppose it is.’ If it’s not too late, she thought, and bit back a sigh.
‘So, what’s the play about?’ she enquired, as they were eating. ‘I presume it’s a comedy?’
‘Shakespeare.’ David drank some wine. ‘He’s enjoying success as a playwright, and he’s fallen in love with Mary Fitton, who was one of Queen Elizabeth’s maids of honour, and possibly the Dark Lady of the sonnets as well. He has to go back to Stratford to tell his wife Anne Hathaway that their marriage is over.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘But she has other ideas, and he finds it harder to tear himself away than he thought. And then Mary Fitton comes to find him and take him back to London. And they fight for his heart and soul.’
‘Which Mary Fitton wins, presumably?’
‘Neither of them win.’ David smiled at her. ‘Because they both realise that his only real love is the theatre.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a wonderful script, full of poetry and emotion. I can’t wait to start rehearsals.’
Cat took some more salad. ‘So Sharine will be going back to America?’
‘On the contrary.’ David studiously avoided her gaze. ‘She’s going to play Mary Fitton.’
Cat put her fork down. ‘The Dark Lady?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Can she act?’
‘Of course,’ David said stiffly. ‘She has real talent. She read for Oliver and he was most impressed. She’ll wear a wig, naturally, but that’s no problem.’
‘None at all,’ Cat agreed drily. Just as long as you’re not planning to cast her as my stepmother as well, she thought, with an inward grimace. She paused. ‘And who’s playing Anne Hathaway?’
‘Not decided yet.’ David refilled their glasses. ‘Oliver has a few actresses in mind.’ He looked at her, frowning faintly. ‘So you’ll be seeing much more of me from now on.’ He hesitated. ‘The prospect doesn’t seem to have you jumping for joy.’
‘I’m very pleased,’ Cat said steadily. ‘I just have a lot of other things on my mind.’
David seemed in no hurry to leave. He clearly wanted to talk about the play, and Cat brewed more coffee and listened, wondering, as she did so, what her mother’s reaction would be to the news.
But I have enough problems of my own, she thought soberly, after he’d eventually gone. I can’t worry about two people who don’t even want to be in the same room with each other. And she sighed.
She was just finishing breakfast the next morning when she heard the doorbell. She went slowly to answer it, bracing herself for more disappointment.
It was the same courier standing outside, but this time he was holding a bouquet of flowers—pink, deeply scented roses and freesias. He handed her the card in its tiny envelope.
‘I’ve been told to wait for a reply, madam.’
The card said simply, ‘Tomorrow night—please?’
She buried her face in the flowers, inhaling their fragrance. Her voice was husky. ‘The message is—that—that will be fine.’
The door closed and she stood for a moment, her eyes closed. She thought, Tomorrow night. Then repeated it aloud, over and over again, her voice high with laughter as she danced round her living room, with Liam’s flowers held close against her breasts.
It