To Claim His Mistress. Sara Craven
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the evening.’
Cat felt her skin warming involuntarily under his gaze. She bit her lip, raising her own glass in turn with open reluctance. It was certainly not the toast of her choice, she thought broodingly.
She hadn’t planned to drink any alcohol, either, but had to concede that it was a wonderful wine, filling her senses with its cool, seductive fragrance.
Under other circumstances, she thought, with something approaching regret, this could indeed have been an evening to remember. As it was…
She lifted her chin. ‘Not just a risk-taker,’ she commented with faint derision chilling her voice. ‘But an optimist, too.’
‘Everyone is allowed to have their dreams.’ He was still watching her. ‘What do you dream about, Cat?’
‘Oh, I never remember,’ she said untruthfully. ‘Anyway, I think I’m too busy to dream.’
‘Really?’ His brows lifted. ‘So, what keeps you so occupied?’
Studiedly, she put down her glass. Gave him a brief, composed smile. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘No more personal details.’
‘Won’t that tend to make conversation tricky?’
‘Not my problem.’ She shrugged. ‘After all, I didn’t choose to be here tonight. Which means I reserve the right to protect my privacy. No other options available.’
‘But hardly the ideal way to start a relationship.’
‘We’re having dinner,’ she said. ‘Nothing more than that.’
He was leaning back in his chair, his face half hidden in the shadows beyond the candlelight. ‘To you, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But not to me. It will take a damned sight more than a meal to satisfy me tonight.’
She bit back a gasp. She said huskily, ‘How—dare you? Are you mad?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m a risk-taker—and an optimist. You said so yourself.’ She could hear the sensuous huskiness in his voice. Could feel the smoky intensity of his gaze on the roundness of her breasts under the clinging top as acutely as if he’d touched them naked, cupping the warm swell of them in his hands.
She felt suddenly breathless, the pounding of her heart like a trip-hammer, as she found herself imagining how his touch would be…
Oh, God, she thought, retreating from the brink. This cannot be happening. Pull yourself together.
Now, if ever, was the time to tell him with flinty emphasis that he’d finally overstepped the mark, pick up her bag and leave—even if it meant leaving the hotel a blank cheque for her bill.
Only, she realised, dismayed, the first course was arriving and their table was surrounded. Bread was being offered, butter pats placed within reach, and glasses were being topped up. An exit was no longer a simple option—if her legs would even carry her so far.
Instead, as if she’d been programmed, she found herself picking up her spoon and addressing her soup. Its cool, delicate flavour was just what she needed to ease the dryness in her throat. And maybe food would stop the trembling inside her—if anything could…
‘Good?’ Liam asked casually, host to guest rather than predator to prey, and she nodded jerkily.
‘Wonderful,’ she managed. ‘The food critics seem to be absolutely right.’
‘I’ll make sure I tell the chef.’
‘Yes, please do.’ Cat reached for the nearest glass, intending to drink some water, only to find she’d taken another gulp of wine.
But if she confined herself to one glassful only there’d be no real harm done, she assured herself hastily. Perhaps it would even calm her a little—help her to relax and endure the remainder of the meal.
Because that was what it was going to be—an endurance test. And she had to be the winner. There could be no other result.
So perhaps it was time she tried to recover a measure of control over the situation.
She took another deliberate sip of wine, then smiled at him with direct charm. ‘What a good idea this was,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘My God,’ he said mockingly. ‘And I thought you were all set to sprinkle hemlock on my salad.’
It was an effort, but Cat retained the smile. ‘On the contrary. I’m always excited to try out new restaurants.’
‘I was sure you would be,’ he said gravely. ‘Although eating in can be fun, too.’
‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘In the right company.’
His mouth slanted in wry acknowledgement. ‘Do you like cooking?’
‘That’s another personal detail,’ she said. ‘Therefore taboo.’
He considered this for a moment. ‘Don’t you find the maintenance of your defensive shield a little wearing?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then may I find it tedious on your behalf?’
The swift bubble of laughter escaped her before she knew it.
She tried to regain lost ground by glancing at her watch. ‘Well, tedium won’t last for much longer. I have to be on the road within the hour.’
His hand reached across the table and took hers, keeping it in a light clasp, his thumb stroking the slender bare fingers.
He said quietly, ‘Don’t go. Stay here tonight.’
In an instant the whole atmosphere had changed—become electric. Cat felt her throat tighten as she heard the deafening throb of her own blood. Felt the heat begin to build inside her.
She shook her head, not trusting her voice, her entire body awakening to his light, sensuous touch. It shocked her to know how much she’d wanted to say yes—to abandon herself to whatever the night might bring. She was bewildered and almost frightened by this strange turmoil in her senses.
She looked down almost wonderingly at the hand still holding hers, and stiffened slightly, a faint crease appearing between her brows. His fingers, she saw, were long and lean, and very strong for all their gentleness.
But, she realised, they were also smooth, and without calluses, and his nails were immaculately clean and neatly trimmed.
She said shakily, pulling her hand from his grasp, ‘You’re not a gardener at all, are you? Or any other kind of manual worker?’
His voice was quiet. ‘I never said I was.’
‘No, but you let me think so.’ Cat paused, vexed, as the waiters returned to clear the plates and serve the next course. She drank some wine, the stem of her glass gripped tensely, as she watched them bone the fish and place the fillets on to plates. A bowl of tossed green salad was set on the table, with a dish of tartar sauce, and a platter of tiny sauté potatoes was offered.
All of which gave her a chance to think—to regroup and regain her composure. But also prompted her to start wondering about him all over again.
She’d already noted, of course, that his change of clothes was expensive, but there were few other clues. He wore a watch on a plain black leather strap, and no rings, which could mean anything or nothing.
When they were alone again, and had begun to eat, she said, striving for lightness, ‘It seems I really must stop jumping to conclusions.’ She paused. ‘So, if you’re not the gardener, what’s your real connection with this place?’
Liam tutted reprovingly. ‘You’re breaking your own rule, sweetheart. The embargo on personal details works both ways.’
Cat stared expressionlessly down at her plate. Caught, she told herself, without humour, in my own trap. Why didn’t I see that coming?