Mistress Under Contract

by Natalie Anderson

  She found it near the top right-hand pocket of the pool table. She grabbed it, pausing as she saw he lay in the rectangle of light from the streetlights outside. Stretched out like some superb sex god—relaxed but ready for action.

  He’d slipped his boxers off while she’d retrieved the packet so she saw him utterly naked for the first time.

  She drew in another sharp breath. Thank God he’d had the towel around him at the pool the other day—if he’d been in swimwear designed to show off that bulge she’d have been hard pressed not to have pounced sooner. As it was she was about to do something stupid but it was far, far too late. Her brain was rendered inoperable. All she wanted was him. Her hands shook.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She glanced down again. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She couldn’t get the packet open, her fingers were so clumsy.

  All she wanted was for him to be inside her. Now, now, now. She wanted to explore him.

  He chuckled. ‘Let me do that.’

  He had it open in a second and rolled it on—she drank in every detail as he did so. Oh. Yes.

  He looked up at her. Reached a hand out to caress the side of her cheek and draw her close for another blistering kiss. How could he affect her like this? How could she have lost all defences just like that?

  He gently pushed her back, taking control, setting up their position. A good thing seeing how she’d seemed to have lost all capability. He kissed down the length of her again, his hands teased as her body trembled. She was at the point of losing it. She wound her arms around him, pulled at him to come back up her, to lie on her, to push that magnificent penis in where it belonged. Her breathing was audible—half moans, almost entreaties. Uncaring of how desperate she sounded, she called to him. There was no room for a cool, sarcastic veneer here. The only thing in her mind and body was want. He moved to answer her.

  She parted her legs, wriggled her hips, positioning them to cradle his. She nipped at his lips. ‘Don’t even think about stopping now.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, his mouth plundering hers once more. She stilled, waiting for the moment. He looked to her face, expression hot, as he read her soul in the moment they met.

  She cried out, her head tipping back, closing her eyes from his intensity—only able to cope with the feel of him, not the vision as well…not yet. That was too much, too overwhelming. Once, twice, he stroked and then it hit. The tornado of excitement he’d been brewing in her all evening—all week. Her legs and arms tautened, tensing hard enough to cause muscle-burn, and her fingers caught in his hair, pulling, twisting as unbearable pleasure wrenched through her.

  The screams were pure instinct, an animal response to the experience of utter joy.

  He paused while her body shook out the sensations. Twisting. Trembling.

  Finally she opened her eyes and took in his look of arrogant satisfaction. She felt the confidence in the way his arms encircled her. The sight of such masculine control brought her feminine fighter to the fore.

  He was enjoying himself, oh, yes. But that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted him to lose it. As she just had. And she wanted to be the one to make him. She gulped in a hit of oxygen and smiled. Then she worked her muscles. She saw his eyes widen. Worked them harder—her smile growing as she felt the hiss of air forced from his lungs. Lifting her head to twirl her tongue around his nipple, she took a tight butt cheek in each hand and pressed him closer. He wasn’t the only one who could satisfy.

  She felt his power surge as the game went up another level. Felt him rally to challenge right back and she blindly laughed—a low, husky laugh that he echoed. And then she kissed him, her mouth caressing every available inch of skin within her reach as she trailed her hands over him, gently at first, then not so gentle, and then with authority, sweeping down his back, demanding he keep time with the rhythm of her body.

  His hands cupped her bottom, holding her to him, tighter as he took charge again. She clasped him close. All thought gone. All reason vanished. Only indescribable feelings that finally focused into rapture when she heard his cry and felt his control break.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Objective feedback is always helpful

  SHE woke with a start. The chill of pre-dawn hit her together with confusion. For a split second she couldn’t think, couldn’t remember where she was, who she was with. All she sensed was the smell of stale beer and the stifling weight of someone on her. Terror-struck, she flinched and pushed in panic. Memories—old and new—rushed back.

  In the bar. Daniel. She was with Daniel. Real. Not the fuzzy stranger who invaded her sleep and gave her nightmares. She sucked in a deep breath and relaxed, safe. But then she realised she must have fallen asleep.

  At her movement he jerked his head up. ‘What?’ He blinked, looking into her eyes. For a moment the same confusion flashed across his face. Then he closed it down, shuttering his expression, and their eyes locked, neither giving anything away.

  For once she won the duel. He looked away, a small frown pleating his brow.

  She wriggled, wanting to escape the intimacy. He moved so she could sit up. She was amazed at her lapse. She never slept with a lover. Had sex, sure, but never allowed herself to lose consciousness—that was too intimate, too vulnerable. Lucy didn’t do vulnerability. She refused to put herself in the position of giving someone else control over her heart, mind or body.

  The scary thing was, she’d almost given Daniel exactly that. How much had she given away just now? Not just her body. Her heart was putting itself on a plate this very minute. She took it straight back to the fridge.

  ‘You’re getting cold?’ He clipped out the words as he moved away from her. ‘I’m sorry, I fell asleep.’

  She flinched. She wasn’t the only one going cold; he was as icy as the moment she’d first met him—remote, detached, disapproving. Her whole body hit sub-zero temperatures. She didn’t know why his emotional detachment bothered her. He’d said once only. She already knew he didn’t do commitment. Hell, she didn’t do commitment—not at this point in her life. So much for no regrets. He looked as if he was itching to get out of here. Definitely not wanting to talk about it. Well, she wasn’t going to do a cringesome cling-on act. She needed to save face and reestablish a protective layer. She’d never expected him to be so potent, so passionate. Time to back-pedal—fast. She hid behind the curtain of her hair. ‘Well, I guess we got that out of the way.’

  ‘Out of the way?’

  She flicked her hair back and bluffed indifference. ‘Yeah, scratched the itch. Quenched the curiosity.’

  ‘Curiosity?’

  ‘Mmm hmm.’ She swung her legs off the pool table. Oh, man, she was still wearing her boots.

  His hand caught her arm and he turned her to face him. ‘What exactly are you saying, Ms Delaney?’

  ‘I’m saying, Mr Graydon, that that was fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ He stared at her, but she couldn’t figure a thing from the lights reflected in his eyes.

  ‘Sure. It was OK. But we won’t be doing it again.’

  ‘We won’t.’

  She shook her head. ‘Too messy.’

  He glanced at the felt of the pool table. She followed suit and felt her cheeks fill with blood. Her wet and his sweat marked it. Hell. She’d have to hand in her notice immediately. Frustration flooded through her. She’d just done this job so well. For the first time she’d actually aced something. Now she’d stuffed it by sleeping with her Type A boss who’d just been waiting for her to trip up. Any other gig and she’d be on the road, not willing to put up with that kind of pressure.

  The frustration turned into fight. She was tired of starting over. She’d had her first taste of success and she wanted another. She wanted to show him three times over. Besides, she needed the cash.

  Even more reason to blow the whistle on this little interlude. She’d do it as coolly as she could and ignore the way she was quaking inside. Block o
ut that secretly she wanted more. No vulnerability allowed—not around Mr Ice.

  ‘Look, Daniel. I’m working for you. I was curious. It was nice but we’re done. Let’s go back to our business relationship, shall we? I’m sorry. Blame it on the heat of the night—the success of the relaunch went to my head.’

  His eyes didn’t leave her face the entire time she spoke. She curled her fingers into fists and tried to ignore his superb nudity.

  ‘And caused you to ravish me.’

  ‘Ravish you?’ He’d done the ravishing. She sure felt like she’d been ravished. He’d broken down defences she’d been sure were insurmountable. But he didn’t know that and, even if he did, if his current expression was anything to go by, he didn’t care.

  ‘I wasn’t the one who ripped the buttons off this shirt.’ His muscles flexed across his back as he bent to retrieve it.

  OK, so she’d been eager to get it started.

  ‘I wasn’t the one who couldn’t open the condom packet because of having the shakes so bad.’

  There was nothing she could say to that so she went for the silent, avoid-eye-contact approach.

  He stepped back towards her as she sat on the edge of the table. ‘I wasn’t the one screaming the house down.’

  Now that was below the belt. She looked away from the rippling muscles on show and swallowed back the desire. Let icy anger trickle in.

  ‘Come on. You were all over me.’

  Well, of course she was. He was a god. He had the body of an Olympian and the technique of a master. She’d been weak just by looking and conquered with the first kiss. She had to pull back now because he was never going to be reciprocating her kind of stupidity. Once only. No analysis.

  He took her silence in the way she intended. ‘Never again?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘We’ve satisfied your curiosity and once was enough?’

  She nodded.

  He took another step forward and ran his finger from her neck to her breast—and she couldn’t control the tremor. ‘How long has it been?’

  Oh, so he thought that was relevant? She refused to look at him. Maybe it was. Maybe that was why she felt so in danger of emotional investment. Honestly, she’d been without for so long even she could hardly remember.

  ‘That long, huh?’ A little laugh escaped him—whisker of humanity. That it was amusement at her expense made her mad. He ran his finger over her tightly shut lips, teasing them. ‘You know, you’re not so good with manners, Lucy. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to mind your “p”s and “q”s?’

  She threw him a vile look. His smile faded and the mask of indifference that took its place was much better than hers had been—probably because it was genuine.

  ‘So we haven’t broken through your male-bravado layer. Maybe we never will. Whatever.’

  He strolled from the pool table with casual ease. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ He collected his scattered clothing along the way.

  She stood up and stared after him. Deflated. Well, she’d done it. Had she been hoping for more of an argument from him? Or wanting him to say, ‘No, babe, that was fantastic, we’ve got to do it again’? At least offer some clue to his thoughts? He was shut up tighter than a twenty-year-old jar of pickled peppers. She watched as he pulled on his boxers, then felt irritated as a feeling of loss hit her when his body was hidden from her again.

  He pulled on the trousers but held his sodden shirt in his hand. ‘We’ll share a cab.’

  Panic surged as a new threat occurred to her. ‘No, that’s OK. I can walk.’

  ‘No. It’s late. You’re tired.’

  ‘It’s almost light out. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘No argument. Get your jacket.’ Now he was doing the gentleman act? Terrible timing.

  ‘No, Daniel, I’m fine.’

  ‘OK, I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘Daniel!’

  He didn’t listen. She hurried after him, stress giving her speed. She knew the job would be over the minute he saw her stuff there. He walked straight into the back room. Stopped. Saw her pack and violin case. Saw her sleeping bag on the two-seater sofa—unrolled with her sweatshirt rolled into a makeshift pillow at the head. He stared at it, then at her. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  She didn’t have any clothes on—save her cowgirl boots. She didn’t have a home to go to. She’d just slept with her boss and then rejected him. She was in such a mess. It was so typical. She could always count on her innate ability to stuff things up.

  ‘What’s your address, Lucy?’

  ‘Daniel, I—’

  ‘Street address. Now.’

  Would he give her a second to answer? Riled, she spat, ‘I’m not in a flat at the moment. I got to Wellington on Monday. I’ve been in a hostel but can’t stand sleeping in a room full of strangers. I struggle to sleep as it is.’

  ‘Insomnia?’

  She nodded. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Another thing we have in common.’ He might be acknowledging something they shared, but he sounded arctic.

  She smiled in empathy, hoping it would help her case.

  The glacier refused to melt. Not even a drop. ‘We should quit while we’re ahead.’

  OK, so the empathy bid failed. She turned back to bolshy. ‘I thought I’d crash here until I set up a flat.’

  ‘You thought wrong. You can’t sleep here.’

  ‘It’s only for a night or two, Daniel.’ Was he familiar with the concept of leeway?

  ‘This building is zoned commercial, not residential.’

  Clearly not. ‘Rules and regulations, huh, Daniel?’

  Green eyes met gold. His were flaming again—but not with hot lust. Now it was all cold anger. ‘You are not sleeping here, Lucy.’

  Fine. She marched into the room beside him and bent—starting to roll her sleeping bag.

  ‘Lucy.’

  If iron will could speak, it would sound like Daniel.

  ‘What?’ She snapped the question, while still stuffing her sleeping bag into its carrier.

  ‘Might I suggest you put some clothes on?’

  She stopped then, suddenly aware of how she must look to him standing behind her. Naked. Cowgirl boots. Bending over. ‘Sure.’

  She marched out of the room and back to the bar, pulling on her top and skirt—not bothering with either bra or panties. When she got back to the room, less than a minute later, he’d finished packing away her sleeping bag. Her violin case was at his feet and he carried her pack on one shoulder. He held her jacket out to her.

  ‘Come on.’

  She didn’t take it. ‘What do you mean come on?’

  ‘You’re coming home with me.’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  ‘Right home. Right now.’

  She stared at him. Stunned at his words.

  ‘I’m not kidding, Lucy. I have a perfectly good spare bedroom. It is almost six in the morning. I have a load of work to do later and I am not going to spend hours standing here arguing with you. You won’t have to sleep with strangers. And certainly not me, as you’ve made it clear you couldn’t think of anything worse. Let’s move on.’

  For once in her life Lucy was struck speechless. He was so cool about it. He wore that remote expression that had her wanting to leap up and do something drastic to get his attention again. Hot attention. But he’d come over all clinical.

  The warm air of the early morning contrasted sharply with the chilly silence in which they walked along the bay to his apartment. He’d insisted on carrying her pack. She’d insisted on carrying her violin. There was where the conversation ended.

  His apartment was as swanky as she’d expected. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows gave splendid harbour views. Stylish, minimalist, obviously designer-done, the whole place screamed suited bachelor—one who spent too many hours at work. He showed her to her room. Big bed, white spread. She walked away from it. ‘Thank you.’ She hoped to dismiss him immediately.

  His response was even cooler. ‘N
o problem. Stay as long as you like.’

  She thought about taking him up on that—a good six months? That would serve him right. But then she turned and saw him there in suit trousers and no shirt and desire rose again—together with the panic. ‘It’ll be a couple of nights tops.’

  He shrugged. ‘There’s an en suite through that door,’ and he left the room.

  She breathed out and went straight to the bathroom. It was a wet room—a large shower space and central drain. Multi shower jets pointed at her. It was too good to ignore.

  She stripped off, savoured the scent of Daniel on her skin and quickly turned the water on hot.

  Lucy didn’t sleep a wink but made a show of staying in her room until well after midday. She waited for the muffled sounds to disappear and then finally she ventured out. Opened her door to peek and listen again. Silence. She walked out and, following the hall, found the main living area, taking her time to actually notice the surroundings this time. Beautifully decorated—perfect paintwork, the furniture expensive and comfortable looking, but the whole place was so, so…boring was the only word for it. The entire apartment could be a display in a posh furniture store. She looked about for some element of personality. Something to tell her a little more about Daniel. But there was nothing. She figured that told her as much as anything.

  The colours were warm—chocolate blended with neutrals and greys. Totally tasteful. The kitchen showed no sign of life—no notice board with scrawled numbers, no pile of paperwork on the desk in the corner. Magnificently minimalist.

  Lucy liked maximalist. Colour and chaos and life.

  Even his bookcases were unnaturally neat—stacked with big hardback books that looked as if they’d take a lifetime to read. Then she found it. One solitary photograph framed in a dark wooden frame standing in place of some books in one of the bookcases lining the wall opposite the windows. She picked it up.

  Daniel in full legal regalia—wig and gown, standing next to an older man also in wig and gown. It had to be his father. Had to be. They had the same jaw, same nose, Daniel stood only an inch or two taller, the old and the new. The similarities were striking—except for the eyes. His father’s were brown—plain brown. But Daniel’s were that wild tawny colour, with those amber lights hinting at the warmth and passion and humour that he seemed so determined to hide. In the photo his expression was serious, veiled. All remote austerity again—just like this apartment. She frowned.