Mistresses: Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds

by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo

  She felt herself blushing furiously. She didn’t want Oliver thinking this way about her, not now he was friendly with Melanie again. What was he trying to do, play one off against the other? And for what reason?

  ‘I thought you were working.’

  ‘I couldn’t concentrate.’

  Because he was thinking about Melanie? Wondering who it was she had gone off to see? But if she was planning to use her again in the other girl’s absence, then he was in for a big disappointment. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

  Except that her insides had already begun to sizzle at the mere thought of him touching her, of his hands sliding beneath the tabard and touching her breasts which had peaked beneath the thin silk.

  ‘Supper won’t be long,’ she said coolly, surprising herself by the steadiness of her voice. ‘If you want to go and pour yourself a drink and relax while you’re waiting…’

  ‘Good idea. G&T for you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She needed a clear head to get through the next hour or so; she had to be on her guard lest she weaken and let him slip through her defences the way he had yesterday.

  She was still puzzled as to why he had made love to her so wonderfully one minute and then virtually ignored her the next. Admittedly, they’d always been good in bed together; it had been a dream part of their marriage, perhaps the best part. Perhaps that was all they’d had—a sexual attraction which they’d mistaken for love. And perhaps he still was sexually attracted to her, and sometimes he fought it, sometimes he didn’t.

  Oliver returned bearing two tall crystal glasses chinking with ice and a slice of lemon. ‘I don’t like drinking alone.’

  She had to admit that the gin and tonic was both delicious and refreshing. The heat in the kitchen wasn’t entirely due to the cooker and she swallowed her drink more quickly than was wise, making her head feel fuzzy and her mind not quite as sharp as it had been a few minutes ago.

  ‘Another one?’ Oliver was only halfway through his.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Shall I open a bottle of wine to go with our meal?’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘What is this? Are you trying to get me drunk?’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ he said with a flicker of a smile. ‘I like my women to know what they’re doing.’

  My women! How many did he have? Were there others besides herself and Melanie? Or was it a figure of speech and she was overreacting? She guessed the latter—hoped it was the latter. ‘I prefer to be in control of myself as well,’ she said primly.

  ‘Except that you don’t always manage it.’

  He lifted a knowing brow and Anna’s cheeks flushed again. Did he have to remind her how easily she gave way to desire? But it was only with him, never anyone else—didn’t he know that? Tony hadn’t aroused her even half as much as Oliver did—as Oliver used to, she corrected herself quickly.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed, it’s one of the things I like most about you.’

  ‘Still?’ she asked, managing to inject a note of scepticism into her voice.

  ‘Some things never go away, Anna.’ There was a deep suggestiveness in his tone that had her looking at him quickly. But his face was impassive. ‘Like the smell of burning. It takes ages for it to—’

  With a shriek Anna turned to the grill and pulled out the charred remains of the chicken. How could she have let him distract her to this extent?

  ‘It’s your fault,’ she exclaimed crossly. ‘Why couldn’t you have kept out of the way?’

  ‘You look delightful when you’re angry.’

  She groaned inwardly wishing he wouldn’t play up to her like this.

  ‘You won’t think I’m delightful if I throw it all over you,’ she declared fiercely. ‘You’d best get out while I dispose of the mess.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me do it?’ He put down his glass and took a step towards her.

  But Anna didn’t want him interfering; she wanted him out. ‘No! Just go, will you?’ She was overreacting again but she couldn’t help it. He’d worked her up into such a state that if he came any nearer she would explode.

  But he did come nearer. And he tried to take the grillpan out of her hand, and when she resisted the two pieces of burnt chicken skidded to the floor.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she yelled, and to her dismay she burst into tears.

  Chapter Seven

  OLIVER was horrified to see Anna crying.

  He hated any woman to cry. It made him feel helpless. Should he console her or do as she’d asked and get out of the way? Sanity said he should go; instinct made him take the pan off her and pull her into his arms.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ he said soothingly. ‘We’ll eat out. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Where? The Riverside?’ she snapped.

  He winced as she drove home the mistake he’d made in taking Melanie there. It had been Melanie’s idea and he hadn’t been thinking straight. All he’d known was that he’d been tormented ever since he’d lost his head and made love to Anna.

  It had made him crave more, crave the life they’d once had, but his marriage had gone badly wrong. And so he’d grasped Melanie’s suggestion as the diversion he so badly needed.

  Melanie was devastated by Edward’s death—she’d loved her godfather dearly—and despite her faults Oliver felt he couldn’t completely abandon her at this critical time. But he hadn’t enjoyed himself and he had in fact been relieved when Melanie announced that she had somewhere else to go.

  When he got home and found Anna missing, he’d gone crazy. He’d been so looking forward to spending more time with her, even though he knew it would torture his soul.

  What he’d really wanted to do when she did return was sweep her up in his arms and kiss her senseless. But he knew that would solve nothing, so he’d conjured up his anger in order to distance himself from her—and had succeeded for a short time.

  But in his study, he’d been unable to concentrate. All he could see on the computer screen was Anna’s gorgeous face, those wonderfully alive eyes, that flamboyant hair, the wide, infinitely kissable mouth.

  It had forced him to find her and he’d stood in the kitchen doorway for a good couple of minutes before she spotted him. His fantasy of seeing her in the bright yellow tabard and nothing else almost had him pouncing on her and ripping her clothes off. Maybe if she hadn’t turned when she did he would have done.

  Even now, holding her, soothing her, there was nothing calm about the parts of him that she couldn’t see. He felt tortured by fire, by a need so intense it was painful. ‘We can go wherever you like.’ Bed, preferably.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Nor was he—except for love. Or was it lust? He hated that word and yet he knew deep down inside that it was lust that drove him, that had always driven him where Anna was concerned. He’d committed the cardinal crime of letting his heart rule his head when he’d asked her to marry him. Not even his heart. It was the bit between his legs that was the problem.

  His father had done the same thing with Rosemary. He’d been besotted by a pretty face and a nice pair of legs and look where that had got him. No wonder Edward had been appalled when he saw his son making exactly the same mistake.

  ‘You need to eat,’ he told Anna firmly. ‘You’ve lost weight; you can’t afford to lose any more.’ And still he held her, and still his damned male hormones played riot.

  ‘As if that matters to you.’ Anna finally tried to struggle free.

  But he needed to hold her, he needed to feel her exciting body against him. He needed to dream a little longer. ‘I care whether you’re looking after yourself,’ he said gruffly, forcing the words past a choking knot in his throat.

  ‘I can’t think why,’ she retorted.

  That hurt, her thinking that he didn’t care any longer. He supposed he deserved it, considering he’d walked out on her. It had been a bad move, but he’d needed time to think about what she’d done. Be
fore he’d reached any decisions, though, she’d upped and left—and he hadn’t a clue where she’d gone. The discovery had left him stunned.

  He’d wanted to look for her immediately but his father had persuaded him that to do so would create more problems in the future. ‘Women only ever want what they can get out of a man,’ Edward had said firmly. ‘They never change. They might promise you the earth, you might even think for a little while that they’ve changed, but it never lasts. They’re like leopards.’

  And so Oliver had bowed to his father’s wisdom. It hadn’t stopped him from ringing Dawn and persuading her to tell him where Anna was, and maybe if Melanie hadn’t revealed the same flaw in her nature then he might have gone after her, it had made him think twice and then three times and then four, and in the end he had convinced himself that he’d done the right thing.

  ‘If you don’t want to go out, Anna—’ he lifted her chin so that he could look into her face ‘—then at least let me do us something to eat.’ The tears were gone but her eyes were still pink-rimmed. Lord, how he wanted to bed her. ‘What were we having with the chicken?’ he asked, wondering how he managed to keep the longing out of his voice.

  ‘Salad,’ she answered thinly, ‘and potatoes.’

  ‘So how about I make us a potato omelette to go with the salad?’ he asked, deliberately cheerful. ‘You run along and freshen up, and I’ll sort everything out here.’

  He was afraid she’d refuse, that she’d race up to her bedroom and stay there for the rest of the evening. But finally she heaved a sigh and gave him a weak, tremulous smile. ‘OK.’

  When she came back down Anna had changed into a rust-coloured all-in-one trouser suit. It fastened with a zip down the front and he wondered if she knew how tempting that zip was.

  At first glance, the suit looked demure and safe with its high neck and short sleeves. It was probably the reason she’d worn it. But that zip! He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  Oliver imagined himself pulling it down and revealing slow inch by slow inch her delicately scented skin, skin so pale and soft and smooth that it excited him just to touch it. And the thought of exposing those perfectly rounded breasts which fit so beautifully into his palms caused an ache deep in his groin.

  He groaned—he couldn’t help himself—and Anna looked at him with a swift frown. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Everything! Don’t you know that? From somewhere, he managed to drag up a wry smile, and he patted his stomach. ‘Excuse me, I’m hungry.’ He wasn’t so sure she believed it was a grumble of hunger, though.

  ‘I thought we’d eat in here,’ he said. ‘Less trouble.’ And less chance of intimacy. There were no cosy seats to relax in afterwards, just two kitchen stools and a granite breakfast bar.

  But it was still a mistake. The seats didn’t have to be comfortable, there didn’t have to be candles and music—the very fact that he was sitting next to Anna was enough. They could have been anywhere, in an igloo in the frozen wastes of Siberia or in the most romantic of restaurants in the most romantic place in the world and it would have been the same.

  He should never have insisted they eat together. He should have gone out; he shouldn’t have come back. How was he going to get through the rest of the evening without giving way to the ferocious desire that was twisting him into knots?

  ‘Nice omelette,’ she said. ‘Your cooking skills have improved.’

  He knew she was referring to a disastrous meal he had cooked them early on in their marriage. It wasn’t that he was a bad cook—he’d always liked to cook for himself whenever Mrs G let him anywhere near the kitchen. But on that particular day—when he’d wanted so much to impress Anna—everything had gone wrong.

  From the overdone pheasant to the collapsed soufflé. Anna had gallantly eaten everything he’d put in front of her, but they’d ended up in fits of laughter. One thing had led to another, kisses had led to making love on the dining room floor, and it was yet another fantastic memory to add to his store. ‘That was a day I shall never forget,’ he admitted.

  Anna stilled for a fraction of a second.

  ‘I’ve never cooked soufflé again, or eaten pheasant,’ he admitted.

  ‘It wasn’t a complete disaster.’

  It was his turn to stop breathing.

  Was she referring to them making love?

  ‘I’d have probably ended up in tears if it had happened to me,’ she said, ‘whereas you simply laughed.’

  And was that all she remembered? ‘You laughed at me first,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Because you looked so stricken. I had to do something to lighten the moment.’

  ‘How about some of that laughter now?’ He hadn’t meant to say that; he didn’t want her to think that he intended the day to end the same as that other one had. ‘I mean, I’m sorry if I laid into you earlier. I seem to make a habit of ruining things.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said with a vague shrug and an even vaguer smile.

  ‘No, it’s not all right,’ he said, bouncing his palms off the worktop to give emphasis to his words. ‘I shouldn’t have yelled at you for going out. I’d not given a thought to the fact that you had no transport. I’m sorry, Anna.’

  ‘You’re forgiven,’ she said demurely. ‘Finish your omelette before it goes cold.’

  But he was the one who didn’t feel like eating now. Sitting so close that their elbows occasionally touched, so close that if he opened his legs just that little bit wider his thigh would brush hers, was doing dangerous things to him.

  With an effort, he turned the conversation to everyday subjects, and they both managed to finish their meal. ‘Would you like another gin?’ he asked as he put down his knife and fork.

  Anna shook her head. ‘I’d prefer a coffee.’

  ‘You’re not turning teetotal on me?’

  ‘You know I don’t drink much.’

  ‘But another one won’t hurt. Come on, Anna. Let’s relax at the end of a wearing day.’

  ‘It hasn’t been wearing for me,’ she said. ‘In fact, it was quite relaxing until…’

  She’d come home and he’d given her a third degree. He felt suitably chastised. ‘In that case, you make your coffee while I mix my drink.’ He left the kitchen gasping for air. It was stupid, he knew. This was the woman he was going to divorce. What right had she to make him feel like this?

  That’s right, lay the blame on Anna, accused his conscience. She hasn’t done anything; it’s all in your mind. A mind which was as filled with confusion as the endless wires in a telephone junction box.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Anna had stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, spooned instant coffee into a china mug, filled the kettle, and was waiting for it to boil.

  ‘You didn’t have to clear away,’ he said.

  ‘We couldn’t leave it for Mrs Green.’

  ‘I would have done it later.’

  Her eyes flashed in exasperation. ‘Will you stop fussing, Oliver? It’s done now.’ She turned to the kettle and poured water over the coffee, added milk, stirred it, and then looked back at him.

  Even those simplest actions fascinated him, made him realise what he was giving up. And all of a sudden he didn’t know whether he could.

  ‘I think I might take it up to my room,’ said Anna.

  ‘No, Anna, don’t.’ And without even stopping to think what message his actions would convey he reached out and took her into his arms.

  Chapter Eight

  ANNA had the distinct feeling that if she didn’t push Oliver away she was going to regret it.

  He’d been on edge all evening, right from the moment he’d consoled her for dropping the stupid chicken. She hadn’t been married to him for six months for nothing. She knew perfectly well how aroused he was, how much he wanted to make love to her.

  The heat from him as they’d sat eating dinner had been tremendous. If they’d touched, he would have set her on fire. In fact, on the few occasions when his arm accidentally brushe
d hers, it had taken all her self-control not to move away. She’d almost expected to see her skin sear and shrivel.

  ‘I think we should make ourselves comfortable in the sitting room,’ he said, his voice a low warning growl that should have had her running for safety, but instead she allowed him to lead her from the kitchen.

  Once in the other room, however, Anna quickly twisted away from him and dropped into one of the deep, plump armchairs. She saw from his frown that this wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind, but he said nothing, taking the matching, facing chair instead.

  A fatal mistake, Anna realised at once. Oliver had always professed that he enjoyed watching her more than any other pastime. She too had once enjoyed being the object of his desire, had liked the feelings he aroused in her simply by looking at her. He could undress her with his eyes, make love to her with his eyes. It was a form of foreplay that she’d never experienced with anyone else, and doubted she ever would again.

  Even now she could feel a stirring deep in her womb and deliberately she kept her eyes averted. But Oliver never took his eyes off her. Those wonderful tawny-gold eyes that had been her downfall in the very beginning.

  Her coffee was growing cold but she didn’t want to move for fear their eyes might meet and he would discover that she was as aroused as he, that she wanted to make love as much as he did. What a fateful night this was turning out to be.

  ‘Drink your coffee.’

  It was as though he had read her thoughts. She glanced across at him before she reached for it. Fatal. She couldn’t drag her eyes away. They locked into his with all the force of a magnet on steel.

  ‘Come here,’ he whispered.

  Anna swallowed and moistened her mouth, and her eyes darkened. ‘What for?’

  ‘As if you need to ask,’ he growled.

  The magnet pulled and Anna followed, her steps slow and resisting, but her eyes never leaving his. She was going to drown in them, she knew, and yet slavishly she went to her doom.

  When she reached him he gave a groan and pulled her on to his lap. ‘You’re a witch, do you know that? An irresistible witch. You make me do things I hadn’t planned to do; you make me break my own rules.’