The big room was silent. Not even Luisa was stirring so early. Alex had taken a container of orange juice out of the refrigerator but when her gaze fell on a can of coffee, she knew that was what she really wanted. Still, she’d hesitated. The kitchen was the servants’ domain. Well, Luisa’s, now that her father was gone and Carl was, too, and she’d gotten rid of the maid and butler and chauffeur who’d made Thorpe House run. That the kitchen was off limits to Thorpes—and to Stuarts—wasn’t a rule, it was simply an understanding.
Alex stood there, looking at the coffee can. Suddenly she reached for it.
“It’s only coffee, Alex,” she muttered impatiently.
She read the instructions with great concentration, then spent a few minutes searching for the filters. Minutes later, the coffee was gurgling merrily into its glass carafe in the pot on the granite counter.
“Understanding” number one broken, she’d thought, almost giddily. Why not number two? There really wasn’t any reason to go back upstairs and dress. Luisa was still in her rooms. She was alone here. And surely somewhere on the West Coast of the United States, another woman was about to violate the laws of civilized behavior and have her breakfast in her nightgown.
Laughter bubbled up in her throat at the silly thought. Still smiling, she padded into the dining room, to set a place for herself at the enormous black walnut table. Just then, a finger of buttery-yellow sunlight had streamed through one of the arched windows.
“To hell with it,” Alex had said to the dining room, and she’d marched back into the kitchen, made herself toast, poured juice, put a cup and the pot of freshly brewed coffee on a tray and carried it out to the tiled patio, to one of the glass tables that had never held anything but cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Her father had thought eating out of doors was a lower-class convention. Her husband had thought it uncomfortable, and she didn’t even want to think what either would have said about her sitting here, in her nightgown at six something in the morning, eating a breakfast she’d prepared with her own hands.
Orange juice had never tasted sweeter, or toast more crunchy. And the coffee, when she took a first, tentative sip, was rich and delicious on her tongue.
She held the cup in two hands, letting its warmth seep into her blood, and smiled. It was foolish to feel so good about such a little series of events, but she felt good about them, anyway, as if she were taking the first steps toward reclaiming her own life.
Alex’s smile slipped.
She had to stop thinking about last night, that was all. What she’d done, what she might have done, with a stranger, in a doorway—a doorway—if she hadn’t come to her senses, didn’t matter. She had come to her senses; that was what mattered. Wasn’t it?
“Good morning, señora.”
Coffee sloshed over the rim of Alex’s cup. “Luisa,” she said, and forced a smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I invaded your kitchen.”
Luisa minded. Alex could see it in the look that flashed over her face just before she covered it with a polite smile.
“Certainly not, Señora Stuart. But if the señora was hungry, she should have awakened me.”
“There was no need. And, Luisa? I know I’ve mentioned this before…Would you please stop addressing me that way?”
“Señora?”
“I am Ms. Thorpe, Luisa. Or Ms. Alex. Or just Alex, if you like. But I am not ‘Señora Stuart.’”
“Oh, of course.” Luisa flushed. “It’s just that it was your father’s preference. And your—and Mr. Carl’s.”
“Yes, well it’s not mine,” Alex said, struggling to sound pleasant.
“I’ll make it a point to remember. May I bring you anything else?”
“Nothing, thank you. I’ll call if I need you, Luisa.”
So much for “understanding” number four, Alex thought, as the patio door swung shut. Never surprise the servants. Well, she hadn’t surprised Luisa, she’d shocked her. The truth was, she’d shocked herself, too. What was wrong with her this morning? She was feeling contrary. Restless. As if what she needed to do was turn the world upside down.
Alex lifted her cup to her lips.
She’d come close enough to doing just that, last night.
But that craziness, whatever it had been, was over. And she wasn’t going to waste time thinking about it. It was just that she’d behaved so foolishly, setting herself up for one embarrassment after another from the moment she’d overheard those two harpies talking in the ladies’ lounge at L’Orangerie.
Whatever had possessed her, to hurry to Saks and buy the clothing she’d already dumped in the corner of her closet? The lace that masqueraded as underwear. The garnet dress. And…Alex blushed. And those—those come-and-get-me shoes? She groaned and put her hand to her forehead. All of that, and for what? To prove that she could turn a man on?
Color flooded her face.
How could she have planned something so sleazy? Bought a man. Let him—let him do things…
Oh, hell.
She shot to her feet and walked into the garden. It was her province. Neither her father nor Carl had understood why she’d want to get her hands dirty, tending her flowers, but they’d both tolerated it, even shared amused, masculine smiles over what they’d referred to as her hobby. But it was more than that, to Alex. There was something wonderfully restorative about trimming the impatiens or coaxing the roses to bloom. She loved the riot of colors, the crimsons and pinks and deep yellows. And the flowers’ perfumes were wonderful, better by far than any of the scents trapped in the expensive designer vials lined up on the vanity table in her bedroom.
The impatiens were a bit ragged. Alex bent down and began snapping their heads. The phlox needed tending, too….
She went still. Then she puffed out her breath and stood up.
Who was she kidding? She could prepare a dozen more breakfasts, tend her flowers until the sun was high in the sky, but she still wouldn’t get rid of the memories. Travis Baron was still lodged in her head, damn him. Those knowing eyes. That little smile. Was the humiliation of last night going to haunt her for the rest of her life?
Probably.
People had seen. Not what had happened in that doorway, thank goodness, but the rest of it—her outrageous bid, the way he’d held her when they danced, that kiss…
Oh, goodness, that kiss.
People had seen, and they’d talk. They’d laugh. They’d tease. And she’d have to laugh right along with them, smile and think of something suitably clever and outrageous to say so no one would have reason to imagine either the man or the kiss had meant anything to her, because they hadn’t.
“They didn’t,” Alex said. She sat down at the table and picked up her cup.
Those things he’d done to her. Cheap things. Awful things. She’d never have let him do them, if she’d been thinking straight. What women would? Well, some women, maybe. But she was not one of them. And if Carl—if any man—wanted to call a woman frigid because she wouldn’t lie and pretend sex was more than something—something men wanted that was vaguely unhygienic…well, that was the man’s problem. Not the woman’s.
No intelligent person could really believe that a woman who’d never cried out in a man’s arms was, somehow, less than she might be.
She had cried out, though. Last night, in Travis Baron’s arms, she’d cried out, she’d felt things, wanted things….
The cup shook in Alex’s hand. She put it down carefully. There was no sense in thinking about it. Hadn’t she wasted most of the night, doing exactly that? All the recriminations in the world wouldn’t change what had happened.
“Well,” she’d say, with a big smile, when people teased her, “it was for charity, after all.”
There’d surely be those who’d noticed the way she was dressed, that she’d never worn anything so—so obvious in her life, but no one in her circle would be indiscreet enough to comment.
Not to her face, anyway.
And she’d survive. Thorpeses always did.
People would forget, and so would she. Soon, she wouldn’t remember any of the details of the night. None of them. Not Travis Baron’s name, or his face, or the way he’d kissed her. Or the way that cruel-looking mouth had managed to take hers with such heart-stopping hunger. He’d be out of her head, out of her dreams…
Her dreams.
Alex folded her trembling hands in her lap. She had just remembered her dream. And, God, she wished she hadn’t.
She’d dreamed she was standing in the entry hall of Thorpe House…
Only it wasn’t Thorpe House. It was a castle, and she was alone in the hall, waiting for something. For someone. Her hair streamed over her shoulders. Her feet were bare. And her heart, beneath her plain white gown, beat so fast, so hard, she could feel it in her throat.
Suddenly, the massive doors of the castle burst open. A huge black charger filled the doorway. On its back was a knight in black armor. His hair was sun-gilded, his eyes emerald-green.
The Black Knight was Travis Baron, and he had come for her. He was heaven and earth, he was all the fires of hell, and in her dream, Alex had known, without question, that she’d be destroyed if she let him take her…
“Ms. Thorpe?”
Alex swung around.
“Luisa.” She gave a choked laugh. “You, ah, you startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I only came to see if you were done with your breakfast.” Luisa’s lips thinned. “I’ve cleaned up my kitchen but I’d like to tidy up out here, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Don’t worry about the patio, Luisa. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, no, señora. Ms. Thorpe. I could never allow you to—”
“Luisa,” Alex said brightly, “how’s that sister of yours in—was it Santa Barbara?”
“Why—why yes. She’s fine, thank you.”
“I’ll bet you don’t get to see her very often.” Alex cleared her throat. “Why don’t you take the station wagon and drive up for the weekend?”
The housekeeper stared as if Alex had lost her mind.
“The whole weekend, do you mean?”
“Yes. You could leave right now. Wouldn’t you like to do that?”
“Of course. But…”
“But?”
“But in all the years I worked for your father and then for your husband, I never—”
“You don’t work for them now,” Alex said sharply. She took a deep breath. “Luisa. Take the station wagon and go wherever you like. I’m giving you the weekend off.”
A while later, she heard the rumble of the front gates as Luisa drove through them. Alex rose and walked through the garden to the koi pond. Carl had added it, after her father’s death. She watched the fat, golden fish swimming back and forth, as they always did, back and forth in their elegant, beautiful, perfect prison…
What on earth was the matter with her this morning?
“Get a grip, Alex,” she muttered.
Moving quickly, she collected her breakfast dishes and entered the cool darkness of Thorpe House. The kitchen was pristine; even the coffeepot had been emptied, washed and dried. Alex did the same with her few dishes, then looked at the clock.
Could it really be only eight-thirty?
Well, that was fine. She could weed the garden. Carlos would probably scowl on Monday, when he saw she’d invaded his territory but this was her house, her kitchen, her life…
The door chimes rang. Alex froze, remembering her dream, and then she laughed. Black Knights didn’t ride up to the castle doors and politely ring the bell. Besides, no one could get through the gates without a key.
Luisa must have forgotten something.
She hurried through the entry hall, the stones cold against her bare feet. She smoothed down the skirt of her long white nightgown, undid the bolt and opened the door.
“Luisa,” she said, smiling, “what did you…”
Oh! Alex slammed the door shut and fell back against it. It wasn’t her sour-faced housekeeper who stood on the steps, it was Travis Baron.
Bang!
“Alex?” The door jolted under the blow of his fist. “Alex, open this door!”
Alex stumbled away from the door, her eyes fixed on it. How had he found her? He didn’t know where she lived. She’d never told him…
Bang! Bang!
“Open it, Alex, or so help me God, I’ll kick it in!”
A whimper broke from her throat. She thought of the dream, of the Black Knight, and she began to tremble.
“Go away,” she said, but the words came out a terrified whisper, lost under the sounds of Travis’s fists beating against the door and the answering thud-thud of her own heart.
The door shuddered. She’d never thrown the bolt. She was afraid to go back and do it, now. What if the door flew open while she was just behind it? He’d be able to catch her, catch her and—and—
She blanked the terrible thought from her mind. Run, she told herself, run quickly and hide…
But it was too late. The door burst open, and Travis stepped inside.
Alex stared at him, transfixed, not believing what she saw. He was dressed all in black. A black T-shirt fit snugly across his broad shoulders and chest. Faded black jeans clung to his narrow hips and long legs. Black boots, dusty with use, peeked from under the jeans.
He looked wild, and dangerous, and magnificently male. He was not a dream. He was flesh and blood, and he had come for her.
He had come for her.
Terror danced along her spine. Terror…and something else.
His eyes met hers. “Alex,” he said softly.
Be calm, she told herself. It was a dream, just a dream. Whatever else Travis Baron might be, he was a civilized man. And she was a civilized woman, who knew how to deal with uninvited guests.
Alex drew herself up. “You’re not welcome here, Mr. Baron.”
Travis laughed. He’d imagined a dozen scenarios on the way here but not one of them had featured Alexandra Thorpe in a virginal-looking nightgown, standing in the center of a room that looked as if it came straight out of the fifteenth century, facing him down as if he were nothing more than an unwelcome guest when she had to know what had brought him here.
Oh, yes, she knew. He could see it in the darkness of her eyes. In the leap of her pulse, just visible in the hollow of her throat. And in the tension that hummed between them, like electricity through a high-voltage line.
Travis smiled lazily and kicked the door shut. “Is that any way to welcome the man you’re supposed to spend the weekend with, Princess?”
Run, the voice inside her said again, run!
But she couldn’t. She knew better than to turn her back on a hungry beast, and that was what the man lounging against the door with such seeming carelessness reminded her of, not a Black Knight but a black jaguar, a hungry black jaguar on the prowl that would spring at her, devour her in a heartbeat, if she showed her fear.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Baron. I never had any intention of spending the weekend with you. Surely, you know that.”
“What did you intend to do with me, then, Princess?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It was—that was for charity.”
He laughed. “Charity, huh?” A smile, as cold and feral as any she’d ever seen, twisted across his mouth. “That’s a charming sentiment, Princess. But I’m not in a charitable frame of mind this morning.”
“Just—just stop right there, Mr. Baron.” Alex swallowed hard as he started slowly toward her. “I swear, if you come any closer, I’ll—”
“All that time,” he said roughly, “everything that we did, and you still won’t call me by my name.”
Alex’s throat constricted. She took a step back, then another and another. There was a heavy oak chair somewhere behind her; she put out a hand, felt for it and moved around it.
“Mr. Baron—”
Travis kicked the chair aside. Alex danced backward.
“Mr. Baron. I don’t know why you came here, sir, bu
t—”
“Don’t you?”
God, he was still coming! Still coming…
“Luisa! Luisa? Call the police.”
His smile was, she thought, almost gentle. “Luisa?”
“My housekeeper. Yes. Luisa! Dial 9-1-1. Tell them there’s an intruder. Tell them—”
“The lady driving the Volvo station wagon? The one who’s probably halfway to the valley by now? You ought to tell her to be more careful about locking that gate, Princess.”
“My—my chauffeur, then.” Alex’s voice quavered. “You don’t want me to call him. He’s—he’s big. Very big. He’s—he’s a former wrestler. And he’ll—”
“Call him, by all means. I used to wrassle steers. It’s what us cowboys do for fun.” Travis flashed a tight grin. “Call your chauffeur, if you’ve really got one.” His eyes turned from green to black as he closed the distance between them. “It won’t stop what’s going to happen, Alex.”
She took another step back. Her shoulders hit the tapestried wall.
“Travis,” she said breathlessly, while a honeyed sweetness spread through her.
“Say it again.”
Alex swallowed dryly. “Travis. Please…”
“You said that last night, too.”
“Said what?” He was inches away from her now, so close that she could feel the heat of his body, smell the mingled scents of sea and soap and, under it all, another smell, one that was wild and primitive and made her pulse quicken. “The only thing I remember saying last night was that I never wanted to see you ag—”
“You said, ‘please.’” Desire thickened his voice. “Please, you said, when we were in that doorway, when we were making love.”
“It wasn’t love! It was—”
“Sex.” He reached out and touched his hand to her cheek. His fingertips were rough and callused but his touch was gentle. She imagined herself turning her head, catching his fingers and sucking them into her mouth. The thought left her breathless. “That’s fine, Princess. I don’t believe in fairy tales that end with forever after.”
More Than a Mistress Page 6
