Mistress by Agreement

by Helen Brooks

  She had allowed him to kiss her. Was she mad? She had to be! What on earth was he thinking now? Did he imagine it was an invitation for more of the same? Over her dead body!

  She pushed the key into the lock, turned it, and then they were in her small square hall. ‘I’ll be fine now.’ She tried to straighten but he took no notice of her efforts to be free, even when she said, ‘Could you put me down, please?’

  ‘Sitting room?’ It was cool and unconcerned.

  ‘What?’ And then she collected herself, pointing to the first door off the hall as she said quickly, ‘In there, but really you don’t have to stay now. I know you have an appointment and it was good of you to bring me home.’

  ‘This is great.’ Once they were in the sitting room he glanced about him appreciatively, but Rosalie was in no mood to admire the décor, even if she had spent months decorating and furnishing her flat so it was exactly how she had imagined it on the morning she had first viewed it some years before.

  The sitting room was the largest room with big windows that ensured there was lots of natural light, and she had made the most of this with a colour scheme of soft yellows and buttery cream, and pine furniture. She pointed now to the huge pine sofa that took up most of the far wall, and which was brimming with scattered cushions in varying shades. ‘If you put me down there, I’ll be fine,’ she said again, making sure she kept her head bent so he couldn’t possibly think she was propositioning him.

  ‘I’m not going to leap on you, Rosalie.’

  He put her down as requested as he spoke, gently and with care, and for a ridiculous moment she felt a sense of loss as the close contact finished before his words shocked her into raising her head. ‘I know you aren’t,’ she lied vehemently. ‘But you have a dinner engagement.’

  ‘Did have,’ he drawled, watching her with narrowed eyes as he stepped back, crossing his arms. ‘When Kirk was sure something was broken I cancelled it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she protested shakily.

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps postponed is a better word. Does that make you feel better?’ He didn’t try to hide the mockery.

  ‘But I’m—’

  ‘Don’t say fine.’ He raised a hand, palm facing her. ‘I couldn’t stand it. Look, what sort of a guy do you think I am? You’re in pain and the least I can do is to make sure you have something to eat before you turn in. Okay? Where’s the kitchen?’

  This was crazy. Her lips were still tingling from the brief contact with his and she wanted to ask him why he had kissed her, but the fact that he had seemed to dismiss it as totally unimportant made it difficult. In fact, if it weren’t for the tingling she’d have wondered if she’d imagined it. But he had kissed her, and that wasn’t in the contract. No way, no how. But how did you throw a six-foot-plus-a-few-inches, hard, lean, muscled man out of your flat when you couldn’t even walk properly?

  Her heart was beating so hard it hurt, but she managed to keep her voice very matter-of-fact when she said, ‘I am more than capable of making myself a sandwich and after that lovely lunch I couldn’t eat anything more.’ That was a lie. She was amazed to find she was starving. Perhaps breaking a bone in your ankle was an appetite enhancer? Or perhaps it was all the nervous energy she expended around this man?

  ‘A sandwich?’ He eyed her reprovingly. ‘It’s—’ he consulted the magnificent gold watch on his wrist ‘—now nearly eight, and we ate at one. You need something more than a sandwich and so do I.’ It was a definite statement of fact, which brooked no reply.

  It seemed churlish to tell him he was perfectly welcome to leave and go for a meal somewhere—considering he’d just told her he’d cancelled his dinner engagement for her—but that was exactly what she felt like doing. Rosalie bit back the words, saying instead, ‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything in. I was going to shop tonight on my way home.’

  ‘Freezer food?’ he suggested easily.

  ‘Don’t have one.’ She tried to keep the triumph out of her voice. ‘Cooking for one doesn’t necessitate a freezer, besides which I prefer fresh produce.’ So goodbye, Mr Know It All.

  He smiled. ‘That’s okay, I was going to order some food in. Chinese, Indian, Italian, Thai?’

  Rosalie gave up. Her ankle was too sore and she was too tired to argue any more. ‘Chinese.’

  He beamed. ‘My favourite. Anything in particular you fancy?’

  ‘Surprise me,’ she said testily.

  ‘Nothing I’d like better.’ One dark eyebrow arched. ‘Got a menu handy anywhere?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ She wasn’t trying to be difficult, she genuinely hadn’t got a menu. ‘But there’s an excellent Chinese take-away on the corner of the next street.’

  He nodded, before walking across the room and switching on the TV, handing her the remote as he said, ‘Keys? I shall need to get back in.’

  She passed them over without a word, and when the front door clicked shut a few moments later exhaled a long breath of air. The day had taken on a life of its own; she had never felt so railroaded in all her born days. And she must look a mess.

  The last thought prompted her to pull herself upwards, and she found by hitching and hotching along the walls and furniture the short journey to the bathroom wasn’t too bad. She gazed at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her face was shiny and almost devoid of make-up, most of her mascara smudged under her eyes creating a faintly panda-style image. She groaned. Why on earth he wanted to stay and have dinner with her looking like this she didn’t know!

  She set to work feverishly, washing her face and then creaming it, before using just a touch of mascara on her lashes and careful foundation to take away her paleness. She brushed her hair until it curved in sleek wings against her cheeks, applied a few drops of her special French perfume, which cost an arm and a leg, and surveyed the results. Better, much better, but with her ankle throbbing like mad and her other leg protesting at the flamingo pose she’d had to adopt she really needed to sit down rather than get the plates ready.

  Nevertheless, she struggled into her small but wonderfully compact little kitchen, flopping on one of the two pine stools and sitting limply for a moment or two. Her trousers were absolutely ruined; the nurse had slit the right leg to above her knee, and they were covered in dried mud from her fall. She didn’t feel up to changing though, she decided as she fetched out plates, cutlery and wine-glasses.

  Ten minutes later she was ensconced at the small pine table in a corner of the sitting room, a gargantuan feast spread out before her and her wineglass full of orange juice—he was driving and she was on pain-killers that didn’t mix with alcohol, Kingsley had informed her on his return with the food.

  ‘Kingsley, this would feed a small army.’ Rosalie gazed at the mixed hors d’oeuvres, beef with black peppers, pork in Kung po, chicken with ginger and pineapple, fried rice, prawn crackers and several other dishes crammed onto the table.

  ‘I’m hungry.’ He grinned at her, and her nerves jerked.

  ‘Good, because I can’t eat a quarter of this, let alone half,’ she said evenly, refusing to relax her guard.

  She wouldn’t have believed how much food he could pack away if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, and when the table was practically clear he fetched her pain-killers without her asking him to, along with a glass of water. ‘Thanks.’ It was reluctant. She didn’t need looking after, especially not by Kingsley Ward. She was well able to look after herself. And she refused to consider how nice it had felt.

  He recognised the tone, but as she had the pallor of a ghost and was clearly bushed he let it go. ‘Want me to help you get ready for bed?’ he asked helpfully.

  Grey eyes met blue, and when she saw the gleam in his she was forced to smile, albeit grudgingly. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘Do you want a coffee before I go?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Tea? I know you English like your tea.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Just go, for goodness’ sake.
/>   ‘Cocoa? Bovril? Ovaltine?’ he offered.

  ‘Nothing.’ Not unless he wanted it thrown at him, that was.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I suspect I’ve outstayed my welcome,’ he said with lazy self-mockery. And then he bent down, taking her hand and turning it over in his before he put his lips to her pink palm in a caress that was as fleeting as the previous kiss. ‘Goodnight, Rosalie.’ He straightened, still holding her hand. ‘Sleep tight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ Tingles were radiating from the point of contact with his mouth, but she was immensely proud of herself that she hadn’t jerked away or shown any signs of the frantic thumping of her heart. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done today,’ she added carefully, remembering her manners.

  ‘It’s a speciality of mine, damsels in distress.’

  Her hand was her own again, and the return of it enabled her to smile fairly naturally before he turned and left the room. She heard the front door open, and then close with a click. She listened, her ears straining and her eyes narrowed.

  He had gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ROSALIE didn’t know what she had expected after the fiasco of her day with Kingsley Ward, but it wasn’t the ginormous basket of flowers that was delivered the next day with a card that simply said, ‘Heal fast, K’, followed by three weeks of no contact whatsoever.

  For a week or so after the accident she had been as jumpy as a cricket, and, with the flowers scenting out her flat and acting as a constant reminder of Kingsley, she’d actually preferred being at the office. But at home or in the office, every telephone call had her heart beating fit to burst and her nerves jangling.

  By the second week she had begun to wonder if she’d got all the signals wrong, and he wasn’t interested in her at all except in her professional capacity.

  By the third week she’d accepted her imagination had run away with itself, and he had just been acting out of kindness and concern. Kingsley was the type of man who would flirt mildly with any woman he was with, she told herself firmly on the Saturday morning as she dumped the wilting flowers in the bin. And the flowers had been a polite gesture of commiseration, nothing more. And as that was exactly what she wanted, it was all to the good, wasn’t it? Of course it was.

  Monday morning saw Mike calling for her in his top-of-the-range Jaguar as he’d done each morning since her accident. The crutches Jenny had obtained were fine for pottering about at work and home, but negotiating her way on crowded London pavements was a definite no-no. But it shouldn’t be long till she had the plaster off now, Rosalie comforted herself as she plumped down in the passenger seat. Kingsley’s doctor friend had sent her notes to her GP, and he in turn had arranged for any further treatment to be carried out at her local hospital. After a check-up the Friday before, they’d confirmed another two weeks and the plaster would be off. And it couldn’t be a day too soon, Rosalie thought grumpily as the itching under the plaster, which had made itself felt for days now, made her wriggle in her seat.

  ‘Something you might be interested in in this magazine.’ As Mike slid into the car after helping her into her seat he reached over to the back seat and then threw a glossy magazine into Rosalie’s lap. ‘Hannah noticed it.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Hannah, Mike’s wife, devoured periodicals ranging from gardening magazines right through to high fashion and everything in between. Mike had coined the word ‘magaholic’ with his wife in mind.

  ‘Page with the corner turned down,’ he said shortly before pulling out into the traffic.

  Ridiculous, really, really ridiculous, but she felt as though someone had just punched her in the stomach as she gazed down at Kingsley in morning dress with a voluptuous brunette draped all over him. Painfully aware of Mike’s studied nonchalance, she kept her face blank with tremendous effort, reading the short caption under each of the five photographs of the high society wedding in New York without commenting. It would appear he had been best man to a very old friend, a very rich old friend, and the brunette—who featured in each of the three photographs Kingsley was in—was the groom’s baby sister and chief bridesmaid.

  Rosalie got a measure of savage comfort from the fact that both the style and the colour of the bridesmaid’s dress—citric yellow—did nothing for the girl in question. But then she was lovely enough for it not to matter too much, and the last picture—coyly captioned ‘The best man taking his duties very seriously’—showed them wrapped in each other’s arms so closely Rosalie was surprised the girl hadn’t got in Kingsley’s suit with him.

  ‘Lovely dresses.’ She slung the magazine over her shoulder back onto the seat. ‘And Kingsley looked the part, didn’t he?’

  Mike darted her a quick glance before he said, ‘There’s talk that’s the girl who’s going to snare the ultimate bachelor.’

  ‘Really.’ It was cool. ‘Lucky old bridesmaid.’

  ‘Rosalie—’ Mike stopped abruptly. ‘Hell, I thought you should know,’ he said irritably.

  ‘Know?’ She turned to him, stitching a smile on her face. ‘Why on earth should I know, Mike? I shouldn’t think the wedding, if there is one, would interfere with the job we’re doing for him. Beyond that…’ She shrugged.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mike was clearly out of his depth and she would have felt sorry for him in any other circumstances. As it was, she wanted to hit him. But why shoot the messenger? she asked herself in the next instant. And what was she getting all hot under the collar about anyway? Kingsley Ward was nothing to her, absolutely nothing.

  She took a deep breath, turned to Mike and began to engage him in conversation about a couple of minor problems with Kingsley’s job, as though this were just another ride to work.

  The week went steadily down hill from that point, but finally it was Friday and the last few days of petty irritations, delays, broken promises—something builders excelled in—and general aggravation were over. She was spending the weekend with one of her aunts—her mother had had two sisters and, although Rosalie didn’t see a great deal of them and their families, they were always there if she needed them—who lived in Kingston upon Thames, and as her aunt was collecting her at the office she had taken a weekend bag to work with her that morning.

  She was deep into checking a list of figures and calculations at five o’clock when there was a knock at her door, and, Jenny having gone home early with a migraine, she called out, ‘Come in, Beth. I won’t be a sec.’ Her aunt was only ten years older than Rosalie, and their relationship had always been one of friends on an equal level rather than a traditional aunt/niece affair. One of best friends even though their lives were different.

  ‘I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but never Beth.’

  Her head shot up at the deep, amused voice from across the other side of the room. Her mouth dry, Rosalie said, ‘Hello, Kingsley.’ She was so glad she was sitting down.

  ‘Hello, Rosalie,’ he returned softly.

  He was leaning against the open door, looking more attractive than any man had the right to. The Armani suit was not in evidence today, but the more casual light charcoal trousers and open-necked cornflower-blue shirt were killers. Or rather the body inside them was.

  ‘I thought you were my aunt,’ she said stupidly.

  ‘But as you can see I am not.’

  ‘No.’ She sucked in a hidden breath, forcing a smile as she said, ‘What can I do for you at this late hour?’

  He strolled further into the room, his flagrant masculinity suddenly dwarfing the place, and to her horror he perched on the side of her desk as though he had the perfect right to sit wherever he liked. The ebony hair was even shorter than she remembered, the severity of the style emphasising his beautiful eyes with their almost feminine lashes. But of course he would have had it cut for the wedding, she thought testily. In order to look his best for…

  ‘Do you mind?’ She gestured at the papers covering the top of her desk. ‘You might disturb them.’

  He glanced at the papers and then
raised his eyes to her face, keeping them there as her colour rose. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Nothing is the matter,’ she said coolly. ‘I just don’t want things muddled up, that’s all.’

  He folded his arms over his chest. ‘I muddle you?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ And he knew it, darn him.

  ‘How’s the foot?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Much better.’ She belatedly remembered her manners and added, ‘Thank you for the flowers.’

  ‘Your aunt? Are you seeing her tonight? I was hoping we could do dinner.’ And he actually had the nerve to smile at her.

  She didn’t believe she was hearing this! He hadn’t even bothered to contact her for weeks and then he breezed in expecting her to be available? To just drop everything?

  ‘Sorry.’ Her eyes narrowed coldly. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Considering he had flown straight back across the Atlantic the moment the business deal he’d been setting up over the last weeks was in the bag. That, and Alexander’s circus of a wedding. ‘Are you free tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m away for the weekend.’ Funny, but it wasn’t as satisfying to turn him down as she had imagined during the last few days when she had let her mind dwell on such a remote possibility occurring. In fact it wasn’t satisfying at all.

  ‘The aunt,’ he said flatly. ‘Right?’

  She nodded. And then she did what she had promised herself she’d rather cut out her tongue than do, and said, ‘How did the wedding go?’ her voice as causal as she could make it.

  ‘The wedding?’ He showed his surprise but as far as she could determine there was no guilt in his eyes. The rat. ‘Did I mention it before I went?’

  He knew full well he hadn’t; neither had he seen fit to call attention to Little Miss Canary. Rosalie shook her head. ‘Mike’s wife takes a magazine which covered the event,’ she said pleasantly. ‘You’re famous, it seems.’