Missy was just about to take a shower when the buzzer rang again. With an exasperated oath, she wrapped a robe around herself and went to answer it. A platter of food was carried in and placed on the dining table, with a note card from Nate. She waited until the waiter had left and then ripped open the envelope, her heart racing. In confident, block capitals, Nate had written, then underlined three times, “EAT!”.
Missy rolled her eyes. She was hungry, though, she realised. She sat down at the table and lifted the stainless steel lid off one of the plates. It was a creamy mushroom spaghetti, and it smelled so good that she tucked in enthusiastically. When she’d eaten almost half, she thought of Nate, and took a photo of herself, fork in mouth, and texted it to him.
Nate’s reply was immediate. “Obedient, and sexy. Thanks for brightening my afternoon.”
The short text had likewise brightened Missy’s evening. He had been so reserved with her for weeks now, that she was beginning to believe she’d imagined the force of their attraction. Knowing that he found her sexy, even in the hotel bathrobe, made her feel all warm and gooey.
She didn’t text back, and ten minutes later, Nate wrote again.
“I want a photo of an empty plate.”
Missy smiled and shook her head. He was hopeless. “Control freak,” she replied.
“You need controlling.”
Missy rolled her eyes and didn’t dignify it with a response.
Determined to feel confident and beautiful, Missy dressed in an off-white knee length gown. It was very retro glam, and made her feel like an old-school film star. She styled her hair accordingly, following a video she’d seen on youtube for a bouffant sixties up-do. Given that it was the launch of a cosmetic product, Missy paid particular attention to her makeup. While ordinarily she didn’t wear a lot, she actually found it quite fun to apply the different products, once she got underway. Liquid eyeliner took her a few attempts, but in the end, she thought she was a bit of a tribute to Brigitte Bardot.
She smiled back at her reflection. She had bought a pair of bright pink pumps early on in their agreement and she slipped them on now. They matched the candy pink lipstick she wore, and added a bit of fun to the ensemble.
She looked like someone who belonged at an A-list party, she realised, as she left the apartment. It was strange. In her real life, she wore suits, and sensible flat shoes that let her move with speed and confidence. Someday, soon, she’d be going back to her real life. Once Robert was better, she could leave London. The thought filled her with dread and she frowned. She should be excited by the prospect, not miserable. She had known all along that this thing with Nate was just for the short term.
She tried to put those thoughts out of her head as she emerged from the hotel. It was freezing cold but not raining, and Selfridges was only a kilometre or so away. She enjoyed the walk, looking at all the distinctively West End buildings as she went. She knew the area had a rich and colourful history, particularly in the second war, when some of the grander homes had their attics converted into secret spy bolt holes. It was so mysterious, like a John Le Carre novel, and Missy’s overactive imagination delighted in wondering what those homes would have felt like.
When she arrived at Selfridges, it was surrounded by a mob of excited teenagers, and, on the other side of the red rope, there was a burgundy carpet and plethora of celebrities and journalists. She hadn’t really thought about this aspect of it. Pulling herself up to her full height and reminding herself that she looked as good as she possibly could, she repeated a mantra of confidence whilst she surreptitiously sought the entrance. A couple of burly security men stood to one end of the building and Missy approached them with an air of assumed confidence. She passed her ticket over and voila, just like that, they unclipped the rope to allow her access. As if she really did belong, after all! Immediately, cameras flashed. She supposed they just took pictures of everyone arriving or leaving, just in case they turned out to be of someone important. It panicked her, though with Robert having paid off the thugs on their tail, she surely didn’t need to be so worried anymore. It wasn’t like her picture would be published, and even if it was, how likely was it that one of those thick criminal idiots read the papers? Still, she walked as fast as was possible to the doors and stepped gratefully inside.
It was beautiful.
The whole floor had been made over for the evening; there were enormous banners of advertisements for the cosmetics brand through the ages. Some of Missy’s favourites were the very old-fashioned posters from the twenties and thirties. The wartime forties were also brilliant – women wearing bright lipstick posing beside warplanes. One depicted some women in a milk bar, all black and white but for their lipsticks, which were cherry red. “Give a man a reason to come home!” The slogan said. She smirked at the old-fashioned advertising. Women now would be rightly outraged at such blatant sexism.
She was slowly making her way through the building, admiring the advertising signs, avoiding as much as possible the very loud and teeming mass of guests that filled out the department store, when a hand on her elbow had her turning around.
Angelique.
“Miffy, isn’t it?” The actress said sweetly, air kissing both cheeks.
“Missy,” she corrected with a polite smile. “How are you, Angelique?”
Angelique threw her one of those quirky little smiles that had made her millions. “Quite wonderful. I must apologise for the other night.” She waved her hand and the twenty or so bangles she wore clinked noisily together. “Divorce. It’s always tough.” She shrugged it off and Missy wondered how many times she had, or intended to be, divorced. “How are you and my husband? Still an item?”
“Ex-husband,” Missy said automatically, then inwardly grimaced at her own rudeness. Knowing that Nate would expect her to play her part, she adopted a suitably far-away look in her eyes. “Still an item, yes.”
“Oh.” Angelique’s eyes registered surprise. “I must say, you didn’t seem like that kind of girl to me.”
“What kind of girl?” Warning bells were sounding in Missy’s brain. Nate had warned her about Angelique, and Missy forced herself to remember those warnings now.
“You know, to go in for open relationships. When I saw Nate the other night, he was being unmistakably intimate with Cressida Douglas. You know, that Scottish heiress. Id’ always thought he fancied her, actually. Used to drive me wild when we were married. They’re old family friends, so there was no chance of prying them apart, though I did my level best.” Angelique shuddered.
Missy tried to keep her voice level, to sound unconcerned, “Er, yes, he’s told me about her. I’m not at all jealous,” she lied. Inside, even her organs were turning a vibrant shade of green.
“Good for you, Missy. Why should you be jealous? If you’re okay with him seeing other women then it might even work out for you guys.” She cringed. “I never tolerated other women, you see, and Nate isn’t capable of monogamy. Some men just aren’t built for it. If I’d accepted that sooner...” She looked wistfully into the distance, obviously imagining what could have been if she’d been understanding of a cheating scum husband.
“And here he is!” Angelique flashed another of her brilliant smiles and waved a slender, toned arm in the air.
Nate’s expression was inscrutable when he joined them. Missy, mentally thrown off balance a little by Angelique’s revelations, couldn’t quite meet his eye. Her smile was tight. Angelique answered one of Missy’s questions then, by creeping on to her tiptoes and placing a kiss square on Nate’s lips. “Hello, husband number three. Quite the shebang you’ve organised,” she complimented, slipping a tanned arm through his elbow.
He patted her hand and then removed it from his elbow, but Missy felt even more desolate. No man on earth would be able to refuse this woman’s charms. Nate had said that he hated her, but wasn’t there a fine line between hate and love? And he’d loved her enough to marry her once, were those feelings really so dead and buried?
As far as pep-talks went, it was the most depressing she’d ever given herself, and that was saying something. As someone who was raised by abusive alcoholics, who’d undertaken a notoriously difficult degree, and had a brother with a gambling addiction, she should have been used to dragging herself up by the bootstraps, but this time, it just royally sucked.
She turned, expecting to see Nate when a hand gripped her hip, but was confronted instead by the dreadful, lascivious and disgusting little pig she’d met the same day she’d met Nate. The guy she’d spilled the water on who’d hit on her then got her fired. She’d love to spill water all over him again now, or maybe something stronger. Something really disgusting, like lemonade or coke, which would mat his thinning hair together and congeal in the folds of his chub.
“Take your hand off me,” she whispered stonily, staring at the pudgy fingers that dug into her flesh through the thin material of her dress.
“I thought you looked familiar. The waitress,” he remarked, his beastly fat tongue slipping wetly from his mouth to lick his thin, sun-pocked lip. She felt revolted by the gesture and by him, and looked away from the pitiable man.
“Yes, a waitress who lost her job, thanks to you,” she snapped, trying to step away but backing straight up into a wall of bodies.
“Don’t be like that. I couldn’t have my wife getting jealous,” he said conspiratorially and Missy stared at him as if he were deranged.
“Jealous of what?” She almost laughed it was so ridiculous.
“Of how attracted I am to you,” he said, pushing himself against her. The crowd was so thick that she couldn’t move away but she did try to push him. There were people everywhere, and the crowd guaranteed anonymity. Missy, by no means a shrinking violent, was flushed with the beginning of fear.
She’d never been so glad to see Nate in her life. He came from behind Randall and spun him around with a powerful arm on his shoulder. He put an arm around Missy protectively. Proprietarily. His eyes sought hers. “Are you okay?” She recognised the menacing tone beneath his softly voiced question.
She nodded, but her face displayed her fear. Nate hated men who preyed on vulnerable women, and he particularly hated anyone who made Missy look like that.
He spoke in a voice that was as cordial as possible in the circumstances. “Get the hell out of this party before I throw you out. I will do it, Randall, don’t bloody test me. You will be out on your ass if you give me the slightest reason.”
Randall seemed to weigh up his options, and threw one last look at Missy. “Would have thought you could do better than a tart like this, Anderson.” He said slimily, then raised his hands at the look on Nate’s face. “I’m going, I’m going. She’s not worth it.”
Missy watched his receding back with relief. “Thank you,” she said huskily, turning to face Nate. His face was etched with fury.
“What the hell are you playing at?” He demanded quietly, not caring that he was attracting attention.
“I couldn’t help it. He came up to me. I didn’t even know he’d be here,” she said, faintly accusing.
“Nor did I. But I meant with bloody Angelique. Need I remind you I’m paying you to protect me from women like that? You have no business leaving me and disappearing into the crowd.” Nate’s anger was bubbling just beneath the surface. He felt like he could rip the building apart stone by stone, such was the power of his rage.
“What?” She whispered, wiping a palm down her eyes.
He lowered his voice. “You’re working, Missy. I’m not paying you to wander around making other poor bastards want to get you in bed.”
Somehow, she managed to look up at him with a blank expression, and her voice was perfectly neutral. Only her eyes revealed her inner fury. “Do you remember, the first night we met, when you asked how someone my age could have such a low opinion of men? Well, Nate Anderson, you’ve just answered your own question.”
Nate felt like he’d been punched right in the stomach. He stared at her, feeling like the earth was shifting on its axis, and before he knew what was happening, he was kissing her. Uncaring who saw, who photographed them, he kissed her with all the pent up passion that flowed between them. She kissed him back, her hands raised to the nape of his neck and latched there, her fingers plunging through his dark hair, hungrily trying to pull him closer.
He felt the moan deep in her throat and deepened the kiss, wishing to heaven they were somewhere more private at that moment. He felt his dick harden instantly, and he pressed it against her, was rewarded by her shudder of desire.
He pulled away, his breath shallow, and stared at her hungrily.
It only took seconds for Missy to sober from the kiss, but it felt like days. Slowly, gradually, the heat receded from her body, leaving her cool, and she literally felt weak in the knees. She’d heard that expression before and never understood it, but now she did. She bit down on her lips, swollen by passion. “What was that?”
He looked to all the world as though they were discussing the weather. “You’re my girlfriend, remember?” Then, leaning forward so that he could whisper into her ear, “I’ve paid you a shitload of money for the service, remember. Try to keep up.”
He hated himself for hurting her; her face visibly deflated at his words, bringing the kiss they’d shared back to a business arrangement. But she had given him no choice, he reasoned. She’d made it plain and simple that she wasn’t someone who could separate sex from love. She didn’t want sex unless there was a future and he was certainly not prepared to go there.
The thought brought him crashing back to reality. He couldn’t go down this path with her. It was too risky. Their sexual relationship was explosive, dynamic. He’d never been with someone so perfectly designed for him. But he had to respect her feelings. She didn’t deserve to be used by him and then pushed aside when he tired of her. He’d never wanted to be with a woman for longer than a few weeks. That was his life. He was a confirmed bachelor. And even though he’d never met anyone like Missy before, he had no reason to suppose things would end differently between them. Eventually, he’d get bored of her, too.
He shook his head, to evaporate the fog of need that had suffused his body. “Hold my hand, put a smile on your face, and remember that we’re supposed to be a happy couple,” he said coldly.
Missy swallowed, all pleasure that had been building at the prospect of the evening disappearing instantly.
As if the kiss had never happened, he was back to being as cold as ice. While they were with other people, he held her hand, or put an arm loosely around her waist, but only ever very briefly and always in a way that was totally devoid of any desire to really touch her.
It shouldn’t have bothered Missy. After all, as he had taken great pains to remind her, theirs was essentially a relationship of employer/employee. Had it not been for her dire financial situation, he would never have even thought to contact her after their one night stand. He certainly wouldn’t be pursuing her, and taking her to fancy cocktail parties with the top tier of London society.
The more Missy analysed it all, she realised that even his initial attempt to rekindle the sexual side of their dynamic had obviously boiled down to a case of availability. She was right there, under his nose, and obviously she was a convenient option. He was not a candidate for celibacy, obviously, and who better to slake his desire with than someone two doors down? She shivered at the practicality of
it. Worse though was the idea that he had moved on to someone who was more willing. Cressida. Was that who he was spending his evenings with?
No matter. Missy had been right to stay true to her personal ethics, no matter how much she was kicking herself for it now. Men like Nate were on another planet to girls like Missy. She’d always believe that only the deepest love and respect would draw her into a relationship. It hadn’t ever occurred to her that sex alone would be such an overwhelming temptation.
Once the hell of the cocktail party was at an end, and she was back in the gilded cage of sexual need, she bashed her pillow with fist, frustrated. It hurt to think that she could have been with Nate, now, feeling satisfied and exhausted after his very thorough lovemaking, rather than feeling wide awake and filled with need. But he wasn’t there. He’d walked her back to the hotel and then hailed a cab, not even bothering to accompany her in the lift.
Somewhere in the ghostly early hours of the morning, sleeping fitfully, Missy sat bolt upright in bed. She scrambled across and flicked on her bedside lamp. In her rush, it fell to the ground and broke, making a loud noise in the empty apartment. She scrambled out of bed and hit the main switch, not much caring about the broken ornament at that particular time. She walked as fast as she could to the lounge and rifled through her handbag, pulled out her diary. She flicked the pages frantically.
It wasn’t there.
The red ‘x’ that she faithfully marked her menstrual cycle with had not appeared. She hadn’t had a period. She was over three weeks late. She grabbed the back of the arm chair and sat down, feeling suddenly ill. The door being thrown open arrested her panic and she stared up as two security men came in.
“Pardon the interruption, ma’am. We heard a noise. Everything okay?”
Missy stared at them glumly. Everything okay. Ha! What a joke. She shook her head and then realised they were waiting for an answer.
The Tycoon's Virgin Mistress Page 6
