One Night Mistress...Convenient Wife

by Anne McAllister

  She wondered what he’d be like with children of his own. And the vision of Christo with little green-eyed boys and dark-haired girls pierced so sharply that she had to catch her breath.

  “Don’t,” she said sharply.

  Christo, just straightening up to take Derek into the conference room, looked around at her. “Did you say something?”

  “No—” her cheeks were burning “—I just—no. Never mind. Made a mistake.” She waved in the general direction of the letter she was supposed to be typing. “Just…muttering.”

  He gave her an odd look, then shrugged. “What are you doing tonight?”

  Her gaze jerked up. Her heart kicked over. “What?”

  “I’ve got the shelves ready. Can I come up and put them in?”

  “Oh.” Deflated and annoyed at feeling deflated, she shrugged. “Sure. Of course.”

  He knocked. And knocked again.

  She didn’t answer the door.

  It was just past seven. He didn’t know what time she’d left the office because he’d been on a conference call between five and six. When he’d finished, though, and come out of his office, she was already gone.

  Her car was in the garage. So she should be home. Though, he supposed, she could have walked up to the shops on Manhattan Avenue.

  Or she might be on a date.

  He knocked again. Louder. “Natalie!”

  No answer. He hadn’t seen anyone come and pick her up. But then, he hadn’t spent the last hour watching her door, had he? He had better things to do. Besides, she’d told him he could come tonight.

  But she hadn’t said she’d be here, he reminded himself.

  Well, fine. She knew he had a key. He’d let himself in. He went back home and got it, then when one last knock got no reply, he opened the door and went in.

  The apartment might be Laura’s, but it had Natalie’s mark on it now. That was her laundry folded in neat piles on the kitchen table. Her colorful T-shirts and scoop-necked tops, her shorts and capris, her skimpy equally colorful underwear.

  He didn’t need to be thinking about Natalie’s underwear. He still remembered the pink camisole top she’d worn the night he’d found her in his bed. Still—

  He shoved the memory away and began hauling in the shelves. Herbie, ever curious, followed him, wove between his feet, tripping him and meowing at the same time.

  “Didn’t she feed you?” Christo asked him.

  But he could see that Herbie still had a bit of food in his bowl. She’d obviously been home. And then he saw her open day planner by the coffeemaker. In Natalie’s handwriting, it said, Scott 6:30.

  So—his jaw tightened—a date, after all.

  No matter. He could work faster without her interference. He had plenty of interference with Herbie before the cat got bored and decided Christo wasn’t going to provide any food. Then Herbie curled up beside Natalie’s CDs on the cabinet under the window, and Christo began putting the bookcases together.

  He liked working with his hands, liked the feel of the wood beneath his fingers, liked fitting things together and making something useful. Doing that was a good counterpoint to the thinking he had to do for his legal work. Often as he worked, his mind did the same, exploring possibilities, considering options, framing and reframing arguments, asking himself questions.

  Like, who the hell was Scott?

  He put on the wood glue and fitted the back to the side.

  And why hadn’t she ever mentioned him?

  He was meticulous with his work, drilling and gluing and countersinking the screws. It was the sort of work that usually settled his mind. All he could think right now was he could have used another pair of hands.

  It was past nine when Natalie finally appeared. “Oh,” she said when she pushed open the door and found him kneeling in the living room as he put the blind screws into the back of the first bookcase. “You’re still here.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said sharply. “Give me a hand here. Unless you’re worried about getting your clothes dirty.”

  She wasn’t wearing the gray skirt and blazer with the black blouse she’d worn to the office. Not dressing for success tonight, then. She had on a casual flowered skirt in a sort of batik print with a rust-colored top that brought out the red in her hair. Probably the way Scott preferred it.

  She hesitated. “I will. But let me change,” she said. “I only have so many work clothes.”

  Christo’s eyes widened. “Work?”

  “I went to dinner with a new client tonight.”

  Scott at six-thirty was a client? “Dressed like that?”

  She blinked in surprise, then realized what he expected to see in the way of work clothes. “I’m not a lawyer,” she reminded him.

  His teeth set. He studied her clothing. “And that’s what wives wear?”

  She shrugged. “More or less. Less tailored than lawyers. More casual and approachable, but still businesslike.”

  “Just,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Get changed and come give me a hand here.”

  It should have been easier with the two of them working. It wasn’t.

  The second pair of hands was helpful. But the way they bumped into each other was not.

  Nor was the faceful of her hair he seemed to get every time he moved close. Damn it, Natalie! But he didn’t say it. Just breathed it in. Breathed the scent of her—and felt that plaguing desire grow.

  It made him want to do more than brush an arm against her. It made him want to reach out and pull her into his arms.

  She shifted to get a better grip on the bookcase as they were moving it and her breasts brushed against his arm.

  His breath hissed between his teeth. “Damn it. I said move.” He grunted.

  “I am.”

  “Not that way!” She turned and he got her hair in his face again. “Are you trying to drive me nuts?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. She looked at him, confused. “Drive you nuts?”

  His jaw worked. “All that shifting, twisting, turning—”

  “I was trying to help! You said to move.”

  “To move. Not rub against me!”

  Her mouth formed an astonished O. Then it twitched shut and he saw a sudden twinkle in her eye. “Am I threatening your virtue, Mr. Savas?” she asked mockingly. Then she added more seriously, “I didn’t think I could.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Think again.”

  Natalie blinked. “You’re kidding.” She sounded genuinely surprised.

  He supposed he should be glad, happy that she hadn’t noticed. But all he could do was glare at her. “What? You think I’m immune?”

  “You certainly were last time!”

  “The hell I was!”

  She stared at him, shocked. “You sent me away.”

  “You were a kid!”

  “I was twenty-two!”

  “Too young for me. Too innocent,” he added pointedly. “And you worked with me.”

  “Not when I came here. I had finished at Ross and Hoy earlier that week. I know the rules. I know about impropriety.”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about impropriety,” he told her flatly. “And if I had taken you up on your offer, that wouldn’t have been the end of it. Would it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You would have wanted to get married.”

  “Married?” There was a hectic flush on her cheeks.

  “You would have.” He flung the accusation at her. It was no secret. She’d been that kind of girl. “If I’d slept with you—had sex with you—” he made it as blunt as he could “—you wouldn’t have been willing just to walk away, would you?”

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn’t need to say them. He already knew.

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’d have wanted a relationship. You and me. Happily ever after. Married.” He spat the word at her,
daring her to dispute it.

  Natalie ran her tongue over her lips, still silent, her eyes spearing him.

  He gritted his teeth. “You wouldn’t have wanted a one-night fling, Natalie. You’d have wanted it all.”

  “Yes, I would have,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Christo felt instantly justified. “It’s foolishness. It creates false expectations. It does more harm than good.”

  “Does it?” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Damn it, yes, it does! Look at your parents! Look at mine. You don’t know them,” he said, “but take it from me, they were a disaster together.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t want her sorrow. Or her pity. Or anything else. The only thing he wanted, heaven help him, was her.

  He shook his head, turned away. And damned if she didn’t put a hand on his arm. He jerked away. “Don’t.”

  But she persisted, wrapped her fingers around his forearm, nails digging lightly into his flesh as she tugged him around to make him look at her. “Christo.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  It was that single quiet insistent word that undermined his resolve. He turned toward her, anguished. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re going to be sorry.”

  Mutely she shook her head, looking up at him, eyes brimming with emotion. “I appreciate what you did three years ago.” She offered him a ghost of a smile. “Now that I know why you did it. But I’m not the girl I was then. You don’t have to protect me anymore, Christo.”

  His jaw tightened. “Right. So you’re going to protect yourself?” He didn’t see how.

  She shrugged. “I’m a big girl. I’m a grown-up. I was grown up then, but foolish perhaps. Maybe I still am,” she acknowledged. “But that’s my problem, not yours.” Her hand slid up his arm, touched his cheek.

  And damn it, he couldn’t help turning his face so that his lips touched her palm. He shut his eyes and took a desperate breath. He felt as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff, the slightest movement capable of blowing him right over.

  “Christo.” Her voice was soft, close enough that he could feel the words on his skin. Then closer still. Her lips traced his jawline.

  Christo had as much willpower as the next man. More than most, probably. But there were limits. He’d met his.

  And he couldn’t fight it any longer. His arms wrapped around her. His own lips sought her mouth, took it in a desperate move, one his body had been wanting to make for days. One his mind could no longer resist.

  Maybe he’d have had a burst of sanity—if she’d panicked, if she’d shown the slightest resistance, if she hadn’t slid her arms around him and held him tight, if he hadn’t felt her heart thunder in rhythm with his own, if her mouth hadn’t been as eager as his.

  But she was as eager as he was. And as they kissed, as his hands roamed her back, he wondered how he had resisted temptation so long.

  The feel of her hands on him was sweet torture. Fingers slipped under his shirt and walked up his spine. He arched his back and felt the exquisite pressure of his erection pressing against her belly.

  Natalie felt it, too. Had to. Had to know how much he wanted her.

  “Nat.” His voice was low and thick with his need for her. Saying her name was as much of a warning as he was capable of. That and stillness. One last moment of gripping her upper arms, holding her motionless. He felt a shudder run through him—the last of his willpower gone.

  Her lips touched his. “Love me, Christo.”

  It wasn’t love. He wanted to say that to her, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Only the kisses came. Hungry desperate kisses. The taste of her was making him crazy. He steered her toward the sofa, needed to hold her, to lie with her.

  “Not here,” she whispered. And taking his hand, she led the way into the small guest room where she was staying. The bed was only a single size. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t need more.

  She had dropped the clothes she’d worn to her meeting on the bed when she’d changed. Now she scooped them off and put them on the chair. Then she turned back to him with a smile and drew him down with her, ran her hands up under his shirt, her fingers cool on his heated flesh.

  And Christo touched her with a reverence that surprised him. Sex was recreation. It was meeting physical needs. But holding Natalie in his arms didn’t feel like recreation. And sliding his hands up her sides and cupping her breasts in his hands didn’t feel like the same simple assuaging of physical needs.

  He was learning the joy of touching her. Watching her face to see the expressions that passed over it. As he lay down beside her and wrapped her in his arms, she moved closer so that their knees touched, their hips bumped, her lips grazed the line of his jaw and chin. Christo nuzzled her hair, breathing deeply now, allowing himself to relish the scent of it—of her.

  Minutes ago he’d resisted, fought off the desire it provoked, tried in vain to remain indifferent to her.

  But that was then. And now?

  Now he didn’t think. He didn’t analyze. He didn’t argue pro or con. He simply savored. And wanted more.

  He took it, too, because Natalie encouraged him. She made soft sounds that made his heart beat faster, made him want to hear more, feel more, taste more.

  He stroked her silken skin beneath her shirt. It was so smooth, so warm, it seemed to encourage the glide of his fingers. Then he shoved himself up to kneel beside her and draw her shirt up. He tugged it over her head, then bent to press his lips to her collarbone, and nibble his way down between her breasts. His hands framed her rib cage and he kissed his way down to her navel.

  “Christo!” Her eyes were dark and wide, her lips formed a soft O at his touch. And then she skimmed his shirt over his head as well and rose to kiss his chest and run her fingers over his pectoral muscles.

  It was a dance of fingers and lips. Touches and nibbles, light friction, gentle stroking. And every one stoked the fire building within.

  He dispensed with her bra then knelt between her knees and cupped her breasts in his palms. And she watched him, unblinking, her lower lip caught in her teeth, her breath coming in soft thready whispers.

  With his fingers he traced the aureoles around taut nipples, then bent his head and laved each one in turn, making her shiver and shift beneath him. And the look on her face made him as eager for her as she was for him.

  He pulled back and hooked his thumbs inside the waistband of her shorts when she lifted her hips, slid them down her legs and tossed them away. Only a scrap of pale-blue cotton and lace covered her now.

  “Christo.” She reached for his zip, and with fumbling fingers he yanked it down and shed his jeans, kicking them aside, then peeled off his boxers as well, sucking in his breath as the cool night air coming through the window hit his heated bare flesh.

  He would have bared her, too, then, but she reached out a hand and touched him lightly, stroked the length of him, made him clench his teeth and suck in a sharp breath. It hissed through his teeth and she said, “Are you all right?”

  “No. I’m going to lose it completely in half a second if you do that again. Don’t. Touch.”

  Her eyes widened as she jerked her hand away. “Ever?”

  He laughed, a strained laugh, one that revealed to him, if not to her, just how tenuous a grip he had on his control. “No. Just now. I want—I want to take it slow and that’s…not going to happen.”

  He skimmed the lacy panties down her legs and then slid trembling fingers back up the length of them, touched her, teased her, probed her gently.

  Now Natalie sucked in a breath, too. Her hips shifted. Her fingers clenched on the quilt that covered the bed. And Christo moved between her knees, stroking her now, parting her, finding her as ready for him as he was for her.

  Then she was grasping his hips and pulling him down to her, her need as naked as her body as she opened to him.

  Naked
bodies meant nothing more than pleasure. Naked emotions were something else again. But he couldn’t look away. She mesmerized him, made him ache with the need of her.

  He couldn’t turn back now. Couldn’t resist the pull to join his body to hers.

  He slid in, took her. Gave himself over to the need that surged within him, and tried to give Natalie the satisfaction that she was giving him.

  She was so hot, so tight. So right.

  He wanted the feeling to last forever. Wanted desperately to slow it down, hang onto it, to let it build and ease and build again, to make it grow as well inside her.

  But Natalie thwarted his best intentions with intentions of her own. She moved against him, rocked her hips, drew him deeper, arched her back and clenched around him.

  “Now,” she whispered, her fingers digging into his buttocks, her heels hard against the backs of his thighs. They moved together, eager and desperate until together they tipped over the edge into oblivion.

  Spent, shattered, Christo could barely lift his head. His heart thundered. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, to her lips, then pulled back enough to look down at her, to feel sanity returning, but what else he wasn’t sure.

  Natalie stared up at him, speechless, her gaze unreadable.

  And Christo felt a stab of anxiety. Of doubt. He stroked her cheek with still-trembling fingers. “Are you all right?”

  Because she didn’t look all right. She looked stunned.

  And then, like morning light, a smile dawned. Slowly at first, touching her lips, then suffusing her whole face. She loosed her hands that were locked around his back and brought them up to frame his face.

  “I don’t think all right really covers it,” she said. And then she raised up to press her lips to his.

  They loved again that night.

  Slow and easy the second time, as they let their touches linger, she and Christo learned each other’s bodies, each other’s needs, each other’s desires. But slow and easy was no less shattering than fast and desperate.